• 


i    I 


CAREY    AM  ®    HART, 


SPECIMENS 


OF 


THE  POETS  AND  POETKT 

- 


OF 

• 


GREECE   AND   EOME, 


BY  VARIOUS  TRANSLATORS. 


EDITED    BY    WILLIAM   PETER,  A.M., 

OF  CHRIST-CHURCH,  OXFORD. 


"II  n'y  a  pas  de  plus  eminent  service  a  rendre  ft  la  Litte"rature,  que  de  transporter  d'une  langue  a  1'autre 
les  chefs  d'oeuvre  de  I'esprit  humain.  II  existe  si  peu  de  productions  du  premier  rang ;  le  genie,  dans  quelque 
genre  qne  ce  soil,  est  un  ph^nomene  tellement  rare;  que  si  chaque  Nation  moderne  en  etoit  reduite  ft  ses 
propres  tresors,  elle  seroit  toujours  pauvre.  D'ailleurs,  la  circulation  des  id6es  est,  de  tous  les  genres  de 
commerce,  celui  dont  les  avantages  sont  les  plus  certains."— MAD.  DE  STAEL. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
CAREY    AND    HART 

1847. 


(MM* 

PHEUN 


ENTERED,  ACCORDING   TO  ACT   OF  CONGRESS,  IN  THE  TEAR   1846,  BT 

CAREY  AND  HART, 

THE  CLERK'S  OFFICE  OF  THE  DISTRICT  COURT  FOR  THE  EASTERN  DISTRICT 
OF  PENNSYLVANIA. 


STEREOTYPED  BY  JOS.  C.  0.  CHStSTMAN. 


T.  K.  AND  P.  G.  COLLINS,  PRINTERS. 


TO 


AT  WHOSE  SUGGESTION  THE  WORK  WAS  UNDERTAKEN, 

BY    WHOSE    ENCOURAGEMENT    IT    HAS    BEEN    CONTINUED, 

AND    WITH    WHOSE    AID    IT    IS    NOW    COMPLETED, 

(Eljesc   Selections, 

FROM    THE    POETS    OF    GREECE    AND    ROME, 

ARE,  WITH  SINCEREST  AFFECTION, 
INSCRIBED. 


776023 


PREFACE. 


"  THERE  are,"  says  a  late  accomplished  scholar,  in  his  introduction  to  the  study  of  the  classic 
poets,  "certain  peculiar  properties  characterizing  the  Greeks  and  Romans,  and  contradistinguishing 
them  from  the  present  natives  of  Europe,  which  must  be  known,  felt,  and  borne  in  mind,  by  those 
v/ho  would  study  the  classic  literature  aright.  The  most  essential  of  these  consist  in  the  facts,  that 
the  old  Greek  and  Roman  poets  were — I.  Pagans ; — II.  Southerns,  or  Inhabitants  of  the  South  of 
Europe; — III.  Ignorant  of  Chivalry. 

I.  The  spirit  of  the  old  Paganism  is  more  freely  diffused  in  the  poetry  than  in  any  other  part 
of  the  ancient  literature.     The  Fancy  and  the  Imagination,  the  two  chief  working  faculties  of  a 
poet,  are  the  most  susceptible  of  a  deep  impression  from  the  forms  and  influences  of  a  national 
mythology;  and  therefore  it  is,  that,  while  in  their  historians,  their  orators,  and  even  their  philoso- 
phers we  may,  for  the  most  part,  recognise  the  Greeks  and  Romans  for  our  own  contemporaries 
of  some  foreign  nation,  in  their  poets  we  must  be  conscious  of  a  tone  oftentimes  completely  alien 
to  the  moral  or  popular  associations  of  modern  days.     Not  detailing  the  chances  of  actua}  wars,  or 
(with  an  exception,  sometimes,  on  the  tragic  stage.)  the  intrigues  of  ambition,  which  in  all  ages 
must  be  nearly  the  same ;  not  aiming  to  persuade  an  audience  to  a  given  measure,  by  means 
identical  with  those  in  use  in  every  country;  not  speculating  clandestinely  on  the  probable  amount 
of  truth  in  metaphysical  or  religious  systems; — the  poet,  taking  his  stand,  as  he  did,  upon  the  sure 
ground  of  human  passion,  addressed  himself,  nevertheless,  to  the  common  hearts  of  his  own  coun- 
trymen of  every  rank  and  every  age.     His  object  was  to  please  and  to  captivate  the  minds  of  all, 
and,  when  he  taught,  his  lessons  were,  for  the  most  part,  conveyed  under  the  form  of  familiar  and 
favourite  fable.     The  morality  of  the  nation  was  his  morality,  the  popular  religion  in  general  was 
1  is  also.     With  him  the  eternal  dwellers  of  Olympus  spoke,  and  moved,  and  had  a  being;  with 
1  im  the  common  powers  or  functions  of  nature  were  impersonated;  an  old  and  awful  genius  lay 
shrouded  in  the  dark-crested  waves  of  the  Scamander,  and  flowers  and  sacrificial  wine  were 
thank-offerings  meet  for  the  secret  Naiad  of  Bandusia. 

II.  Intimately  connected  with  the  character  of  the  Religion  of  the  ancient  Classics,  is  the  fact 
of  their  being  natives  and  inhabitants  of  the  South  of  Europe.    Whether  Montesquieu  has  not  con- 
tended for  an  influence  on  the  laws  and  governments  of  men,  which  is  disproved  by  history  and 
e  xperience,  may  well  be  doubted ;  but  that  the  Greeks  and  Italians,  from  the  earliest  times  to  this 
hour  have  been,  as  nations,  distinguished  from  the  Northern  tribes  by  a  more  sensuous  conception 
of  the  Divinity,  and  by  a  craving  after  a  visible  and  tangible  representation  of  Him  on  earth,  is 
indisputable.     It  is  not  difficult  to  account  for  the  fact.     The  inhabitant*  of  those  sunny  lands, 
where  the  light  of  day  is  so  bountifully  spread  abroad,  was  naturally  a  worshipper  of  the  external 
face  of  nature ;  his  studies,  his  exercises,  his  amusements,  were  all  in  the  open  air,  and  he  prayed 
E.nd  sacrificed  in  the  face  of  heaven.     By  a  natural  impulse  of  gratitude  and  admiration,  which 
£.cted  in  the  absence  of  a  revealed  knowledge  of  the  true  God,  the  early  shepherd  or  herdsman 
would  fain  deify  the  fountains  and  rivers  which  purified   him,  the  winds  which  refreshed  him, 
the  sun  and  the  moon  which  lighted  him  ;  but  these  were  either  invisible  influences,  or  bodies  fre- 
quently or  always  out  of  his  reach,  and  oftentimes  withdrawn  from   his  .-ight.     He  therefore 
wanted  a  visible  and  tangible  Form,  which,  with  various  light  symbolically  represent 
them  all — which  he  could  believe  might  sympathize  with  humanity,  and  ti»  which  he  might  raise 
his  eyes  in  adoration  witboi.                  ient.  (  Where  could  he  find  such  a  Form  ?    His  own  was  the 
only  one.     He  laboured  to  shape  the  log  or  the  stone,  but  his  art  failed  him.     At  length,  in  course 
of  time,  Sculpture  rose  to  that  consummate  power,  that  marble  could  be  wrought  into  shapes  worthy, 
as  it  seemed,  of  that  Immortal  and  Beautiful,  of  which  they  WIT-  cither  the  symbols  or  the  images, 
accordingly  as  the  Imagination  of  the  spectator  was  more  or  less  purified  by  philosophy.     After 
this  epoch,  tht-  creations  of  the  art  were   multiplied,  somriim"-   rmbodying   the   alrea.lv  exi-ting 
notions  of  a  Divinity,  at  others  boldly  chiselling  a  new  figure  of  the  Sky,  or  the  Sea,  or  the  Wood, 
and    setting   it  nj>    lor    as    much    worship    as    admiration   or    superstition    would    reiuler    it.      The 
'•Simulacra  Deorum"  were  sacred  essentials  in  the  popular  and  actual  religion  of  the  nation.     No 
doubts  of  philosophy,  no  ridicule  of  satire,  availed  in  later  ages  to  weaken  that  co  ulness 
for  corporeal  exhibition  of  the  gods,  which  their  laws  saii.-ti.uied.  and  their  taste  made  delightful. 

*  In  illustration  of  the  argument,  see  those  glorious  lines  of  Wmfownrth's  Excursion,  Book  iv.,  commencing— 
"Upon  the  breast  of  new-created  earth, 
Man  walked,"  &c. 


PREFACE. 


This  incontrollable  tendency  to  what  has  been  called  in  one  word  Anthropomorphism,  or  a 
passion  for  representing  the  Infinite  and  the  Invisible  in  human  shape,  is  a  striking  feature  in  the 
works  of  the  Greek  and  Latin  Classic  Poets  and  of  those  of  modern  Italy ;  for  it  is  always  in  the 
Poetry  of  a  Nation  that  we  are  to  look  for  an  expression  of  the  genuine  feelings  and  opinions  of  the 
People,  as  they  exist  in  the  very  constitution  of  the  national  character.  In  almost  all  the  great 
poets  of  whom  we  are  speaking,  the  inability  to  spiritualize,  and  the  power  to  paint,  seem  in  equal 
proportions ;  and  though  it  be  true  that  on  the  given  plan  of  the  representations  of  the  regions  of 
the  dead  in  the  ^Eneid  and  the  Divine  Comedy — ^Eneas  in  the  first,  and  Dante  himself  in  the  last, 
being  supposed  eye-witnesses  therein — a  minuteness  of  detail  is  dramatically  proper,  and  consti- 
tutes that  verisimilitude,  which  is  so  charming;  yet  that  they,  and  especially  the  Christian  Dante, 
should  adopt  such  a  mode  of  describing  that  unknown  world  of  Shades,  and  having  adopted,  should 
execute,  it  with  such  a  depth  of  body  and  intensity  of  colour  throughout,  is  as  clearly  deducible 
from,  and  as  strongly  characteristic  of,  the  national  propension  to  materialism  of  a  certain  kind,  as 
the  very  different  conception  of  the  same  awful  subject  by  Milton  is  of  the  predominance  of  a  con- 
trary tendency  in  a  people  of  a  Northern  origin. 

III.  But  neither  the  spirit  of  old  Paganism  nor  that  strong  addiction  to  objects  of  sense,  of  which 
we  have  just  been  speaking,  so  strikingly  distinguishes  the  classic  writers  from  those  of  modern 
Europe,  as  their  conception  and  expression  of  the  passion  of  Love.  The  origin  and  growth  of  that 
gentle,  yet  almost  despotic,  empire  which  the  weaker  and  the  fairer  sex  at  present  exercise  over 
the  stronger,  in  every  civilized  country  of  the  world,  are,  for  the  greater  part,  the  work  of  Chris- 
tianity and  Chivalry.  The  converse  of  such  a  state  of  feeling  is  a  uniform  characteristic  of  the 
writings  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans,  though  in  different  degrees,  and  still  remains  so  of  the  man- 
ners of  all  those  nations  on  which  the  light  of  the  Gospel  has  not  yet  shone.  By  the  holy  religion 
of  Christ  polygamy  and  concubinage  were  forbidden,  and  marriage  became  indissoluble  and  more 
honourable;  by  it  women  were  declared  equal  objects  of  its  precepts  and  joint-heirs  of  its  promises, 
and  love  and  care  became  the  acknowledged  rights  of  a  Christian  wife  at  the  hands  of  her  hus- 
band. Beyond  this,  however,  it  did  not  immediately  operate.  Indeed,  what  with  an  increasing 
barbarism  of  manners  and  the  constant  pestilence  of  a  corrupt  and  corrupting  priesthood,  very 
much  of  that  mysterious  dignity,  which  the  history  as  well  as  the  spirit  of  the  Gospel  had  conferred 
on  women,  was  destroyed;  when,  in  consequence  of  an  event  among  the  most  singularly  wonder- 
ful in  the  annals  of  mankind,  it  revived  in  superadded  splendour,  never  thenceforth  to  be  obscured 
but  in  an  eclipse  of  Christian  civilization  itself.  That  event  was  the  first  Crusade.  Out  of  the 
habits  of  individual  combats  and  the  disorganized  state  of  society  consequent  upon  the  breaking 
up  of  those  vast  Oriental  armaments,  sprung  that  romantic  police,  known  by  the  name  of  Knight- 
errantry,  or,  more  generally,  of  Chivalry.  To  succour  the  distressed  and  to  defend  the  weak,  in 
all  cases,  was  the  bounden  duty  of  a  knight;  but  more  especially  was  he  sworn  to  relieve,  at  any 
hazard,  a  woman  from  difficulty,  and  to  protect  her  from  danger  or  insult,  at  the  expense  of  his 
life.  Hence,  and  from  the  ground  of  that  reverential  affection  to  women,  common  to  all  the  na- 
tions of  Northern  origin,  grew  up,  on  the  part  of  the  knight  and  subsequently  of  the  gentleman, 
who  is  his  successor,  that  respectful  courtesy,  that  dignified  submission  to  all  women  in  general, 
as  such,  which,  when  kindled  into  passion  for  some  one  in  particular,  becomes  the  sacred  and 
enlivening  flame,  by  which  every  faculty  of  the  mind  is  developed,  every  affection  of  the  heart 
purified,  and  which  alone  can  promise  happiness  on  earth,  by  a  satisfaction  of  an  instinctive  ap- 
petite in  the  light  and  under  the  sanction  of  a  spiritual  union.  So  pervading  has  the  combined 
action  of  Christianity  and  Chivalry  in  this  respect  been,  on  all  the  people  of  modern  Europe,  that 
there  is  scarcely  one  among  the  many  amatory  poets  who  have  lived  since  the  revival  of  letters,  in 
whose  writings  a  new  and  exalting  influence  is  not  distinctly,  though  too  often  unintentionally, 
perceptible.  There  are,  indeed,  various  degrees  of  this  refinement  and  tenderness  in  the  moderns, 
as  there  are  various  degrees  of  the  sensual  theory  of  the  ancients ;  but  enough  exists  of  either  kind 
in  each  respectively,  to  justify  us  in  distinguishing  the  love  of  Christendom  as  the  passion  of  af- 
fection,— the  love  of  Paganism  as  the  passion  of  appetite.* — 

For  the  numerous  Extracts  from  the  Greek  and  Latin  poets,  contained  in  this  Volume,  they 
will  be  found  of  various  orders  and  degrees  of  merit — Sunt  bona  sunt  qusedam  mediocria,  &c.,  &c. 
Where  indeed  the  Editor  had  a  choice,  as  in  the  cases  of  Homer,  Virgil,  and  other  Poets,  whose 
works,  in  any  considerable  proportion,  remain  to  us,  he  has,  for  the  most  part,  selected  those  pas- 
sages from  the  perusal  of  which  he  was  himself  wont  to  receive  the  greatest  pleasure.  But  with 
the  larger  number  of  ancient  authors  the  case  was  altogether  different,  and  he  had  either  to  pass 
them  by  unnoticed,  or  else  to  take  such  fragments  of  their  writings,  as  the  mold  of  time  or  deeper 
inroads  of  monkish  prudery  and  superstition  had  left  to  us. — The  editor  has  only  to  add  that,  from 
some  of  the  later  Latin  poets,  the  extracts  are  fewer  and  shorter  than  had  been  intended,  in  con- 
sequence of  the  limited  size  of  the  volume  and  the  accidental  insertion  of  more  than  their  just  pro- 
portion from  the  works  of  two  or  three  preceding  authors. 
PHILADELPHIA,  SEPTEMBER,  1846. 

*  See  H.  N.  Coleridge's  Introduction  to  the  Greek  Poets. 


TABLE  OF  COITEITS. 


FROM   THE   GREEK   POETS. 


Translators.    Page 

HOMER 1 

Contention  of  Achilles  and  Agamemnon  •  -Pope.  2 

Ulysses  and  Thersites Pope  apd  Sotheby. 

Helen  with  Priam  and  the  Elders ibid,  7 

Juno's  Coursers Pope.  8 

Minerva  arming  herself  for  battle Sotheby.  8 

The  Race  of  Man Pope.  9 

Glancus ibid.  9 

The  parting  of  Hector  and  Andromache ibid.  9 

Embassy  to  Achilles •  •  ibid.  10 

Hospitality  of  Achilles Sotheby.  10 

Achilles'  abhorrence  of  Falsehood Pope.  10 

Another  translation  of  the  same Sotheby.  10 

Phoenix's  endeavour  to  appease  Achilles  Cowper.  10 

Attack  on  the  Greeks— Auguries,  &c.  •  •  •  Sotheby.  1 1 

Sarpedon Pope.  1 1 

Deeds  of  Hector ibid.  12 

Neptune  hastening  to  the  relief  of  the  Greeks 

W.Peter.  12 

The  Girdle  of  Venus Sotheby.  12 

The  same  paraphrased  Pope.  12 

Achilles  at  the  head  of  the  entrenchment-  •  -ibid.  12 

The  Shield  of  Achilles Sotheby.  13 

Grecian  Army  going  forth  to  Battle-  •  •  Chapman.  14 

The  Battle  of  the  Gods Pope.  15 

Wrestling ibid.  15 

Priam  entreating  for  the  dead  body  of  Hector 

Cowper.  15 
Helen's  Lamentation  over  Hector 

Congreve  and  Pope.  15 

Similes  of  Bees  swarming Sotheby.  16 

Of  rolling  Billows   ibid.  16 

Of  a  Forest  on  fire ibid.  16 

Of  Cranes  and  Swans ffobbes.  16 

Another  of  the  same Pope.  16 

Of  Flies  round  a  milk-pail Sotheby.  16 

Of  a  Shepherd  gathering  his  flock ibid.  16 

Of  the  gathering  of  Clouds Pope.  16 

Of  succession  of  Waves ibid.  16 

Of  Torrents  rushing  down  the  Vales ibid.  17 

Of  the  Moon ibid.  17 

Another  translation  of  the  same Cowper.  17 

Another Sotheby.  17 

Of  Corn  falling  before  the  Reapers ibid.  17 

Of  an  Ass  in  a  Cornfield ibid.  17 

Of  Mountain-oaks ibid.  17 

Of  fallinir  Snows Cowper.  17 

Of  rollinf,'  Waves Chapman.  17 

Of  a  Courser  breakins  from  his^tall  ••Sotheby.  18 
Of  an  Equestrian  leaping  from  horse  to  horse 

Pope.  18 

Of  an  autumnal  Storm ibid.  18 

Of  an  uprooted  Olive-tree ibid.  18 

Of  Hesper  amid  the  host  of  Night ibid.  18 

Elysium ibid.  18 

Hermes  sent  to  the  Isle  of  Calypso ibid.  18 

Ulysses  pining  for  his  native  Ithaca Coicprr.  1 <) 

Ulysses' raft ibid.  19 

Shipwreck  of  Ulysses Pope.  19 

The  Garden  of  Alcinous  ibid.  20 

The  Bard ibid.  20 

Ulysses  in  the  cave  of  Polypheme ibid.  20 

Ulysses'  descent  into  Hell ibid.  24 

The  Dog  Argus ibid.  26 

Penelope  lamenting  the  absence  of  her  Husband 

Pope.  26 

The  Homeric  Hymns 26 

Hymn  to  Mercury Shelley.  26 

Hymn  to  Venus Congreve.  28 

Hymn  to  Ceres Hole.  29 


Translators. 

HESIOD 

Creation  of  Pandora Sir  C.  A.  Elton. 

Dispensations  of  Providence ibid. 

Winter ibid. 

Summer  Enjoyments Quarterly  Review. 

Honest  Poverty W.  Peter. 

Virtue  and  Vice,  Wisdom  and  Folly  Quur.  Rev. 

The  Battle  of  the  Giants ibid. 

Jupiter  and  Typhous ibid. 

From  the  Shield  of  Hercules Sir  C.  A.  Elton. 

Cerberus ibid. 

A  Battle-piece ibid. 


CALLINUS 

A  Fragment 


•H.  JV.  Coleridge. 


ARCHILOCHUS 

Equanimity H.  JV.  Coleridge. 

On  an  Eclipse  of  the  Sun Sir  C.  A.  Elton. 

Patience  under  Suffering J.  H .  Merivale. 

On  the  loss  of  his  Shield H.  JV.  Coleridge. 

A  pair  of  military  Portraits J.  H.  Merivale. 

The  Mind  of  Man ibid. 

The  Storm ibid. 

A  Fragment ibid. 

Life  and  Death ibid. 


36 


TTBTJBCfl 

Courage  and  Patriotism- 

ALCMAN  OR  ALCMvEON- 

Megalostrata 

A  Fragment 


37 

•  Hodgson.    37 


•  J.  H.  Merivale.    38 

•  Thos.  Campbell.    38 


STESICHORUS 38 

Voyage  of  the  Sun  •  •  •• J.  H.  Merivale.  38 

The  Sacrifice  of  Tyndarus H.  JV.  Coleridge.  39 

The  Procession J.  H.  Merivale.  39 

A  Fragment ibid.  39 

JESOP 39 

Death  the  Sovereign  Remedy Robert  Bland.  39 


SOLON  

"I  gave  the  People  Freedom"  H.  JV.  Coleridge. 

Justice J.  H.  Merivale. 

The  Constitution  of  Athens ibid. 

Remembrance  after  Death ibid. 

A  Fragment Langhorne. 


ALC^EUS 

The  Spoils  of  War 

Convivial 

The  Poor  Fisherman 

Convivial 

Poverty 

Convivial 

The  Constitution  of  a  State 


•  •  J.  H.  Merivale. 

ibid. 

W.  Hay. 

••J.  H.  Merivale. 

ibid. 

ibid. 

•  •  Sir  Wm.  Jones. 


Convivial J.  H.  Merivale. 

The  Storm ibid. 

SAPPHO 

Hymn  to  Venus Ambrose  Philip*. 

Another  translation  of  the  same  J.  H.  Merirale. 

To  the  Beloved Ambrose  Philips. 

The  Deserted  Wife Blackwood. 

On  a  Hi  loved  Companion Charles  Merivale. 

On  an  Illiterate  Woman Robert  Bland. 

62  vii        x 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS. 


Translators.    Page 

TIMOCLES 204 

A  Balm  for  our  Cares ••••— Cumberland.  204 

DIPHILUS 205 

Law  against  Spendthrifts ibid.  205 


APOLLODORUS  OF  GELA- 
Fragment  I 

Ill 

IV 

V 


205 

•ibid.  205 

•  ibid.  205 
•ibid.  206 

•  ibid.  206 
•ibid.  206 


CLEARCHUS  

On  Drunkenness 


206 

•J.  H.  Merivale.  206 


THEOPHILCJS 206 

On  Love Cumberland.  206 

NOSSIS 206 

In  praise  of  Love J.  H.  Merivale.  206 

On  an  Image  of  her  Daughter ibid.  207 

On  Rhinthon ibid.  207 

On  the  picture  of  Thymarete ibid.  207 

ANYTE 207 

On  the  Maid  Antibia W.  Hay.  207 

On  the  young  Phillida J.  H.  Merivale.  207 

On  a  Statue  of  Venus ibid.  207 

On  the  entrance  to  a  Cavern Anon.  207 

On  a  Dolphin  cast  ashore Hodgson.  207 

On  three  Virgins  of  Miletus J.  H.  Merivale.  207 

On  a  grove  of  Laurel Hodgson.  207 

Epitaph J.  H.  Merivale.  208 

On  a  Laurel  by  a  Fountain  side Hodgson.  208 

DIOTIMUS 208 

On  two  aged  Priestesses Charles  Merivale.  208 

On  a  Duenna J.  H.  Merivale.  208 

On  a  Flute  player Charles  Merivale.  208 

ASCLEPIADES  OF  S AMOS 208 

On  the  picture  of  Berenice J.  H.  Merivale.  208 

The  enjoyment  of  Love ibid.  208 

The  Virgin's  triumph ibid.  209 

The  power  of  Wine ibid.  209 

On  Hesiod Haygarth.  209 

SIMMIAS  OF  RHODES 209 

A  Fragment Charles  Merivale   209 

SOTADES 209 

Man's  Fate  on  Earth Cumberland.  209 


PHJEDIMUS  •-. 
Heroic  Love- 


210 

Charles  Merivale.  210 


THEOCRITUS 210 

Thyrsis  and  the  Goatherd Fawkes.  21 1 

-j-  Pharmaceutria ibid.  212 

f     Amaryllis Dryden.  215 

The  Cyclops J.  H.  Merivale.  216 

Hylas Fawkes.  217 

Character  of  Ptolemy ibid.  218 

The  Syracusan  Gossips • ibid.  218 

Liberality  to  Poets Polwhcle.  220 

Praises  of  Ptolemy Fawkes.  221 

Epithalamium  of  Helen  and  Menelaus-  •  Dryden.  222 

The  Boxers Chapman.  223 

The  Infant  Hercules • Anon.  224 

Hercules,  the  Lion-slayer Chapman.  225 

On  the  Statue  of  ^Esculapius Polwhele.  228 

Another  of  the  same • Fawkes   228 

A  Vow  to  Priapus Sir  C,  A.  Elton.  228 

Another  of  the  same Leigh  Hunt.  228 

On  Eusthenes  the  Physiognomist Fawkes.  228 

On  Anacreon Thos.  Moore.  228 

On  a  Friend  drowned  at  sea-  •  •  Charles  Merivale.  229 

Another  of  the  same Fawkes.  229 

On  Hipponax  the  Satirist J.  H.  Merivale.  229 

On  Eurymedon Blackwood.  239 

An  Offering  to  Pan Fawkes.  229 

To  the  Muses  and  Apollo ibid.  229 

Orthon's  Epitaph ibid.  229 

NICI AS 229 

The  Bee jtnon.  229 

The  Grasshopper jtnon.  229 

On  the  Tomb  of  an  Infant Charles  Merivale.  229 


Translators.    Page 

LEONIDAS 230 

Home Robert  Bland.  230 

The  Dying  Shepherd W.  Hay.  230 

Offering  to  the  Rural  Deities J.  H.  Merivale.  230 

To  the  same ibid.  230 

The  return  of  Spring  to  Sailors-  •  •  Robert  Bland.  230 

A  Mother  to  her  Son <• ibid.  230 

Pan  to  his  Worshippers J.  H.  Merivale.  231 

Inscription  on  the  banks  of  a  River-  •  •  R.  Bland.  231 

Inscription  on  a  Boat Charles  Merivale.  231 

On  a  Grasshopper W.  Hay.  231 

On  Homer Hodgson.  231 

On  a  Statue  of  Anacreon Charles  Merivale.  231 

On  an  aged  Fisherman W.  Hay.  231 

On  Himself J.  H.  Merivale.  231 

POSIDIPPUS 232 

A  picture  of  Human  Life W.  Peter.  232 

Metrodorus'  Parody  on  the  above ibid.  232 

On  the  Tomb  of  a  Shipwrecked  Mariner-  •  Anon.  232 
On  a  Child W.  Hay.  232 

ARATUS 232 

Proem  to  the  Phenomena Sir  C.  A.  Elton.  232 

Prognostics  of  Weather ibid.  233 

LYCOPHRON 233 

From  the  Cassandra ibid.  233 

HEGESIPPUS 234 

The  Right  hand  Road  to  Hades-  -J.  H.  Merivale.  234 
On  a  Shipwrecked  Person Hodgson.  234 

EUPHORION 234 

On  Tears J.  H.  Merivale.  234 

On  a  Corpse  washed  ashore ibid   234 

An  Offering  to  Apollo ibid.  234 

ANTAGORAS 235 

Cupid's  Genealogy Charles  Merivale    235 

The  two  Cynic  Philosophers J.  H.  Merivale.  235 

CALLIMACHUS 235 

On  the  Bath  of  Minerva Sir  C.  A.  Elton.  235 

On  a  Brother  and  Sister J.  H.  Merivale.  236 

The  Chase ibid.  236 

On  a  Good  Man W.  Peter.  236 

The  Death  of  Cleombrotus J.  H.  Merivale.  236 

The  Virgin's  Offering  to  Venus S.  Trevor.  237 

On  Heracleitus H.  JV.  Coleridge.  237 

NIC^NETUS  OF  SAMOS 237 

Precept  of  Cratinus Thos.  Moore.  237 

The  F6te  Champetre Charles  Merivale.  237 

DIOSCORIDES 237 

The  Persian  Slave  to  his  Master ibid.  237 

Spartan  Virtue J.  H.  Merivale.  238 

APOLLON1US  OF  RHODES 238 

The  Song  of  Orpheus Gilbert  West.  238 

Passion  of  Medea Sir  C.  A.  Elton.  239 

Deliberation  of  Medea ibid    239 

The  Magic  Trial ibid.  240 

Combat  between  Pollux  and  Amycus-  •  •  Fawkes.  243 

CLEANTHES 244 

Hymn  to  Jupiter Sir  C.  A.  Elton.  244 

RHI  ANUS 245 

On  Human  Folly ibid.  245 

A  Lover's  Wish ibid.  245 

DAMAGETES 245 

On  two  Theban  Brothers  slain  in  Thrace 

J.  H.  Merivale.  245 
On  a  Wife  dying  in  her  Husband's  absence  ibid.  245 

ALCJEUS  OF  MESSENE 246 

On  the  Expedition  of  Flaminius ibid.  246 

On  the  Macedonians  slain  at  Cynocephalae-  ibid.  246 

On  Hipponax  the  Satirist Robert  Bland.  246 

On  Homer Haygarth.  246 

BION 246 

Elegy  on  Adonis Sir  C.  A.  Elton.  246 

The  Teacher  taught Fawkes.  247 

Cupid  and  the  Fowler ibid.  248 

Shortness  of  Life J.  H.  Merivale.  248 

Friendship Fawkes.  248 


TABLE   OF    CONTENTS. 


xi 


BION.  Translators.     Page 

Hymn  to  the  Evening  Star J.  II.  Mericale.  248 

The  Lament  of  the  Cyclops ibid.  248 

The  Seasons Fairkr*.  248 

Fragments  land  II ibid   218 

THEODORIDES 249 

Oa  an  Ancient  Monument  of  Heraclitus 

J.  H.  Merivale.  249 

Epitaph  on  an  Usurer ibid.  249 

Maxim Anon.  249 

TYMN^EDS  249 

Spartan  Virtue J.  H.  Merivale.  249 

On  one  who  died  in  a  foreign  Country ibid.  249 

MOSCHUS 249 

The  Contrast Robert  Bland.  249 

Alpheus  and  Arethusa ibid.  250 

-  Europa Fawkes.  250 

\      Cupid  proclaimed - W.  Shepherd,  251 

'      Cupid  turned  Ploughman Prior.  251 

Lament  for  Bion • Chapman.  252 

A  Mother  lamenting  her  Children Fawkes.  253 

Capricious  Love Polwhele.  253 

POLYSTRATUS 253 

Destruction  of  Corinth J.  H.  Merivale.  253 

ANTIPATER  OF  SIDON 254 

On  a  Poplar J.  H.  Merivale.  254 

On  Wine Robert  Bland.  254 

Under  the  Rose J.  H.  Merivale    254 

On  a  Mother  and  Daughter Robert  Bland.  254 

Conjugal  Affection ibid.  254 

On  Erinna J.  H.  Merivale.  254 

On  the  destruction  of  Corinth Robert  Bland.  254 

On  Sappho Hodgson.  254 

On  Homer's  Birth-place J.  H.  Merivale.  254 

On  Orpheus Robert  Bland.  255 

On  Pindar J.  H.  Merivale.  255 

I  On  Anacreon Robert  Bland.  255 

The  same  paraphrased Thos.  Moore.  255 

II  On  Anacreon ibid.  255 

The  Cure  for  Misery Hodgson.  255 

The  Honest  Shepherd Prior.  255 

Against  Water-drinkers J.  H.  Merivale.  255 

The  Widow's  Offering ibid.  255 

MELEAGER 256 

Cupid  wounded B.  Keen.  256 

The  Tyrant  Love ibid.  256 

The  Kiss J.  H.  Merivale.  256 

The  Din  of  Love Thos.  Moore.  256 

Beauty  compared  with  Flowers CA.  JVortA.  256 

The  Gifts  of  the  Graces B.  Keen.  256 

The  Garland W.  Peter.  256 

The  Light  of  Love B.  Keen.  257 

Pan's  Lament  for  Daphnis ibid.  257 

On  a  tame  Hare W.  Peter.  257 

The  Victim J.  H.  Merivale.  257 

On  ^sigenes ibid.  257 

The  Morning  Star ibid.  257 

The  Gifts  of  the  Graces ibid.  257 

A  Kiss  within  the  Cup ibid.  257 

The  Sailor's  Return ibid.  257 

rupid's  Pedigree B.  Keen.  257 

The  ( 'aptivc J.  H.  Merivale.  257 

To  Bacchus ibid.  258 

The  Lover's  Message ibid.  258 

The  Vow Charles  Merivale.  258 

Love  proclaimed B.  Keen.  258 

Tin-  Sale  of  Cupid Thos.  Moore.  258 

To  the  Bee J.  if.  Merivale.  258 

To  his  Mistress  sleeping ibid.  258 

Love,  the  Tennis-player Sir  C.  A.  Elton.  258 

To  Zenophile  playing  on  the  Lyre H'.  /fin/.  ~2:>\\ 

The  Return  of  Spring Robert  BUunl.  "2',<t 

Epitaph  on  a  A'oung  Bride W.  Hay.  259 

Another  translation  of  the  same   J.  H.  Merivale.   259 

On  Charixenus ibid.  259 

Sons Thos.  Moore.  259 

Epitaph  on  Heliodora   J.  H.  Merivale.  259 

Another  Transition  of  the  same-  -Robert  Rlinul.  2^0 

The  Daughters  of  Lycambes J.  H.  Merivale.  260 

The  Lover'-  Mr-^age Robert  Bland.  2fiO 

The  Comparison H'.  xi,r/>herd.  260 

On  Meleager  of  Gadara J.  H.  Merivale    2<iO 

On  Niobe W.  Hay.  260 

Music  and  Beauty J.  H.  Merivale.  260 

To  the  Cicada Sir  C.  A.  Elton.  260 


Translators.    Page 

ARCHIAS 261 

On  a  Grasshopper W.  Hay.  261 

On  an  old  Race  Horse ibid.  261 

On  a  Shipwrecked  Mariner Wrangham.  261 

Life  and  Death Robert  Bland.  261 

PHILODEMUS 261 

Youthful  Beauty J.  H.  Merirale.  261 

Constancy ibid.  261 

[  A  freer  paraphrase  of  the  same-  •  •  •  Thos.  Moore.  262 
Invitation  to  the  Anniversary  of  Epicurus 

J.  H.  Merivale.  262 
On  a  Friend Hodgson.  262 

ZONAS  OF  SARDIS 262 

On  a  Shipwrecked  Mariner Robert  Bland.  262 

To  the  Bees W.  Hay.  262 

ANTIPATER  OF  THESSALONICA ••  263 

The  Separation J.  H.  Merivale.  263 

A  Wish ibid.  263 

Greek  Poetesses Edinburgh  Review.  263 

CRIN  AGORAS 263 

On  an  Image  of  Cupid  bound Fawkes.  263 

To  his  Mistress Thos.  Moore.  263 

The  Bridal  Offering Robert  Bland.  263 

On  the  death  of  a  Soldier  in  the  army  of  Germa- 
nicus J.  H.  Merivale.  263 

ANTIPHILUS 264 

On  an  ancient  Oak ibid.  264 

On  the  Picture  of  Medea ibid.  264 

Ona  Bee's  Nest CA.  Worth.  264 

LEONIDAS  OF  ALEXANDRIA 264 

On  the  picture  of  an  Infant  playing  near  a  pre- 
cipice  S.  Ropers.  264 

The  dying  Soldier  to  his  Friends-  J.  H.  Merivale.  264 

On  the  Venus  Anadyomene ibid.  264 

On  the  votive  Image  of  a  Lion ibid.  265 

PHILIP  OF  THESSALONICA 265 

On  a  Vine Robert  Bland.  265 

On  a  bronze  Statue  of  the  River  Eurotas 

J.  H.  Merivale.  265 

On  a  young  Maid  who  died  the  day  of  her  mar- 
riage   W.  Hay.  265 

PARMENIO  OF  MACEDON 265 

On  the  Defeat  of  Xerxes  at  Thermopylae 

J.  H.  Merivale.  265 


XENOCRITUS  OF  RHODES 

On  a  Daughter  drowned  at  Sea- 


Robert  Bland.  266 


MARCUS  ARGENTARIUS 266 

On  a  Son  drowned  at  Sea W.  Hay.  266 

The  Lean  Lovers Anon.  266 

The  Test  of  Love J.  H.  Merivale.  266 

JEMILIANU8  NIC.EUS 266 

On  the  picture  of  an  Infant  sucking  at  the  breast 
of  its  dying  Mother Tytler.  266 

TULLIFS  GEMINUS   267 

On  Themistocles J.  H.  Merivale   267 

ONESTUS 267 

The  Difficulty  and  Reward  of  Science  -R.  Bland.  267 
Helicon W.  Hay.  267 

LUC1AN 

To  a  worn-out  Belle ./.  //.  Merivale.  267 

The  Physician  and  his  Son W.  Hay.  267 

To  a  lofiff-lM'iirdcd  Coxcomb Anon.  2f>8 

Pleasure  and  Pain J.  B  Merimir.  268 

An  Enigma    W.  Hay.  268 

Epitaph  on  a  Child W.Peter.  268 


D1ONY8IU8     

To  his  Mistress- 
Hymn  to  Apollo 
The  Kiss 


PHILOSTRATUS 
To  Celia 


Thos.  Moore.  268 

n'.Jfny.  268 

.  Thos.  Moore.  268 


269 


Ben.  Jonson. 


STRATO    

Love  not  extinguished  by  Age- 


J.  II.  Merivale.  269 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


Translators.    Page 

RUFINUS 269 

Maiden  Reserve   Hodgson.  269 

The  Garland W.  Peter.  269 

Enjoyment  of  Love J.  H.  Merivale.  269 

Exhortation  to  Pleasure Hodgson.  270 

The  Warning Robert  Bland.  270 

The  Denial  of  Love J.  H.  Merivale.  270 

The  Cure  of  Disdain Robert  Bland.  270 

Enjoying  Life Fawkes.  •  270 

CARPHYLIDES 270 

On  a  «stppy  Old  Man Robert  Bland.  270 

LUCILLIUS 270 

The  Good  Physician ibid.  270 

Envy Hodgson.  270 

Fortune Robert  Bland.  270 

On  long  Noses ibid.  271 

False  Friendship ibid.  271 

Fear  of  Death ibid.  271 

GREGORY  OF  NAZIANZEN 271 

On  a  Youth  of  fair  promise Boyd.  271 

Another  on  the  same ibid.  271 

PALLADAS 271 

All  the  World's  a  Stage J.  H.  Merivale.  271 

Marriage The  Taller.  271 

On  the  Shortness  and  Evils  of  Life R.  Bland.  272 

On  the  same J.  H.  Merivale.  272 

On  the  same Robert  Bland.  272 

Spartan  Virtue J.H.  Merivale.  272 

Anacreontic Robert  Bland.  272 

The  Spirit  of  the  Age W.  Hay.  272 

On  a  celebrated  Actor J.  H.  Merivale.  272 

JULIAN,  PREFECT  OF  .EGYPT 272 

On  Democritus ibid.  272 

Love  and  Wine W.  Peter.  272 

On  a  Young  Bride Wrangham.  272 

Offering  of  Lais  to  Venus Ogle.  272 

MUS.EUS 273 

Hero  and  Leander Fawkes.  273 

AGATHI  AS 277 

Anchises  to  Venus J.  H.  Merivale.  277 

On  Death Robert  Bland.  277 

On  a  young  Bride W.  Peter.  277 

Maiden  Passion J.  H.  Merivale.  277 

The  Lover's  Device Robert  Bland.  277 

The  Torments  of  Love J.  H.  Merivale.  277 

Client  and  Lawyer ibid.  278 

The  Philosopher ibid.  278 

On  an  Image  of  Eustathius Wrangham.  278 

Love  and  Wine J.H.  Merivale.  278 

The  Revenge  of  Love Robert  Bland.  278 

The  Mother's  Offering J.H.  Merivale.  278 

MACEDONIUS 279 

The  Poet's  Offering Robert  Bland.  279 

Anacreontic J.  H.  Meriimle.  279 

Remembrance  and  Forgetfulness  •  -Robert  Bland.  279 

PAUL,  THE  SILENTIARY 279 

Why  does  she  so  long  delay  ? Thos.  Moore.  279 

To  weave  a  Garland ibid    279 

The  Victory  of  Venus J.H.  Merivale.  280 

Absence  insupportable ibid    280 

Ona  Daughter Robert  Bland.  280 

Garden  Scenery ibid.  280 

On  the  same ibid.  280 

Twin'st  thou Thos.  Moore.  280 

'    When  the  sad  Word ibid   280 

An  Epitaph w.  Hay.  281 

Offering  of  a  Deserted  Lover-  ...J.H.  Merivale.  281 

Love  not  extinguished  by  Age Robert  Bland.  281 

The  Drenched  Lover J.  H.  Merivale.  281 

The  Chain  of  Love ibid.  281 

The  Picture ibid.  281 


MARIANUS  SCITOLASTICUS 
Inscription  on  a  Bath 


Translators.    Page 

281 

Ogle.  281 

DEMOCHARE8 282 

On  the  Picture  of  Sappho Hodgson.  282 

UNCERTAIN  AUTHORS 282 

Hymn  of  Arion Charles  Merivale.  282 

Epitaph J.  H.  Merivale.  282 

On  a  Corpse  washed  ashore ibid.  282 

Ulysses  on  his  Return ibid.  282 

On  a  Statue  of  Niobe Robert  Bland.  282 

On  the  same W.  Peter.  282 

On  a  Shipwrecked  Person Hodgson.  283 

On  Erinna J.  H.  Merivale.  283 

Bis  dat,  qui  cito  dat Hodgson.  283 

Funeral  Honours J.  H.  Merivale.  283 

On  the  same Robert  Bland.  283 

On  a  Poor  Man  becoming  Rich Anon.  283 

On  Death Robert  Bland.  283 

On  a  Murdered  Corpse Hodgson.  283 

On  the  nine  Lyric  Poets J.  H.  Merivale.  283 

On  one  who  slew  his  Mother Hodgson,  2S3 

On  a  Happy  Old  Man ibid.  283 

On  a  Miserable  Old  Man  Robert  Bland.  283 

On  Friendship J.  H.  Merivale.  284 

On  an  Infant R.  Bland,  Jr.  284 

Another  on  the  same ibid.  284 

Inscription  on  a  figured  Gem Robert  Bland.  284 

The  Grasshopper's  Remonstrance W.  Peter.  284 

On  a  Grasshopper  in  a  Spider's  Web-  •  •  W.  Hay.  284 

To  a  Locust ibid.  284 

On  Menander W.  Shepherd.  284 

On  the  same Robert  Bland.  284 

On  the  Statue  of  the  same ibid.  284 

The  Gardener's  Offering ibid.  284 

Offering  to  Venus Wrangham.  285 

x/  Song  of  the  Crow Mitchell.  285 

Song  of  the  Swallow Anon.  285 

The  Rose Sir  C.  A.  Elton.  285 

Lais J.  H.  Merivale.  285 

On  Erinna w.  Hay.  286 

Inscription  on  a  Bath Robert  Bland.  286 

The  Olive  to  the  Vine ibid.  286 

Epitaph Thos.  Moore.  286 

The  same  paraphrased ibid.  286 

On  a  Friend J.  H.  Merivale.  286 

Loves  of  Sappho  and  Anacreon Thos.  Moore.  286 

Loves  of  Sappho  and  Alcfeus Edin.  Review.  286 

On  Sappho J.  H.  Merivale.  286 

Diogenes  to  Croesus Hodgson.  286 

Fragment J.  H.  Merivale.  286 

To  a  Friend ibid.  287 

Love Thos.  Moore.  287 

Life  and  Death Charles  Merivale.  287 

To  Rome J.H.  Merivale.  287 

Flowers  •  • Ch.  North.  287 

Reason Thos.  Moore.  287 

Foreknowledge W.  Peter.  287 

*The  Dead •  •  •  • w.  Hay.  287 

Death,  the  universal  lot Hoda-son.  287 

Fragment Ch.jforth.  287 

The  Lover's  Wish J.  H.  Merivale.  288 

Exclamation  of  Venus ibid.  288 

On  a  Statue  of  Envy w.  Hay.  288 

On  an  Infant ibid    288 

The  Invitation Thos.  Moore.  288 

The  Trysting  Tree w.  Hay.  288 

Under  a  winged  Cupid Fawkes.  288 

Pan's  Retreat ibid,  288 

On  a  Fountain  sacred  to  Pan W.  Haii    2S8 

On  a  Laurel J.  H.  Merivale.  288 

On  Erinna Wart  on.  2S8 

On  Ibycus \y  //„,,.  2^8 

Dialogue  between  a  Suitor  and  his  Mistr 

Maid J.H.  Merivale.  2S8 

Epitaph W.  Hay.  238 


J 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS. 


FROM  THE  ROMAN  POETS. 


Translators.    Page 

ENNIUS 291 

Telamon  on  the  Death  of  Aj;ix W.  Peter.  291 

Pyrrhus  to  the  Roman  Ambassadors Moir.  291 

Fil.ins Dunlop.  291 

A  Roman  Tribune Wilson    2<Jl 

Soothsayers   Dunlop.  291 

Are  there  Gods  ? ibid.  2«2 

The  Idl<>  Soldier ibid.  292 

The  calm  of  Evening W.  Peter.  292 

On  the  same  subject ibid.  292 

On  the  revival  of  Ilium  in  Rome Dunlop.  292 

The  character  of  a  Friend ibid.  292 

I'LAUTUS 292 

Amphitryon Bonnel  Thornton.  293  | 

The  Captives Richard  Warner.  309 

The  MIS.T B.  Thornton.  324 

Tin-  Shipwreck ibid.  338 

The  Twin  Brothers  B.  Thornton  and  R.  Warner.  357 

The  Treasure B.  Thornton.  374 

From  the  Merchant ibid.  391 

TERENCE 391 

The  Andrinn Colman.  391 

Glorious  uncertainty  of  the  Law ibid.  408 

How  to  avoid  Disappointment ibid.  408 

The  ills  of  Love ibid.  408 

A  Lover  taking  leave  of  his  Mistress ibid.  408 

The  Parasite ibid.  408 

Kind  Feeling  for  others ibid.  408 

The  Mind  is  its  own  place ibid.  408 

Profiting  by  the  Faults  of  others  ibid.  408 

Wives  and  Mistresses ibid.  408 

S inn m ii in  jus  summa  injuria ibid.  409 

Custom   ibid.  409 

Like  Parent  like  Child ibid.  409 

Women ibid.  409 

Iirnorance  of  approaching  Evil ibid.  409 

Quarrels  about  Trifle  s ibid.  409 

<  Miaracter  of  the  two  Brothers  in  the  Adelphi  ibid.  409 

Old  Men  Worldly-minded ibid.  410 

The  Unfortunate  too  apt  to  think  themselves 
neglected ibid.  410 

LUCRETIUS 410 

Address  to  Venus Dryden.  411 

The  Evils  of  Superstition Sir  C.  A.  Elton.  412 

Vernal  Showers Mason  Good.  412 

In  praise  of  Philosophy Dryden.  412 

Animals  and  their  Young Gilbert  Wakefield.  413 

Against  the  Fear  of  Death Dryden.  413 

Rustic  Deities  and  Superstitions-  •  -Mason  Good.  416 

Fruits  of  Illicit  Love ibid.  416 

The  new-born  Babe Dryden.  416 

Primeval  Life Mason  Good.  416 

Fil-'  and  true  Piety ibid.  417 

Origin  of  Music ibid.  417 

A  guilty  Conscience Hodgson.  417 

The  Plague  at  Athens Mason  Good.  417 

CATULLUS 419 

On  the  Death  of  Lesbia's  Sparrow 

/Am.  G.  Lamb.  420 

Upon  Mamurra ibid.  420 

To  Lesliia W.  Peter.  420 

A  Message  to  his  Mistress Thos.  Moore.  420 

To  the  Peninsula  of  Sirmin ••  -ibid-  421 

Hymeneal Sir  C  A.  Klton.  421 

To  Cicero Hon.  G.  Lamb.  421 

To  Lesbia Anon.  422 

On  the  approach  of  Spring W.  Peter.  422 

The  Comparison Sir  C.  A.  FMon.  422 

On  the  Death  of  Quintilia Hon.  G.  Lamb.  422 

Another  of  the  same Sir  C.  A.  Klton.  422 

II iti'-i  at  his  Brother's  Grave  Hodgson.  422 

A  Picture Sir  W.  Jones.  422 

Perfidy  of  Man Sir  C.  A  Klton.  422 

Atys Hon.  G.  l.amh    422 

Lesbia's  Disgrace ibid.  424 

To  Lesbia That.  Moore.  424 


Translators.    Page 

LABERIUS 425 

A  Prologue Weaves  anj  .lyton.  425 

VIRGIL ...-426 

TitvniB  and  Melibceus Dryden.  426 

Poflio ibid.  428 

Pharmaceutria ibid.  428 

Callus ibid.  430 

Invocation  of  the  Rural  Deities— Advice  to  Far- 
mers, etc Sotheby.  431 

A  Storm  in  Autumn ibid.  432 

Prognostics  of  Weather — Prodigies  that  followed 
the  death  of  Cesar— Horrors  of  Civil  War  ifcid.  432 

Praises  of  Italy ibid.  433 

Spring ibid.  434 

On  a  Country  Life ibid.  434 

Horses,  Chariot  Race,  etc ibid.  435 

On  Bees ibid.  439 

Orpheus  and  Eurydice ibid.  442 

Hector's  Ghost Dryden.  443 

The  Death  of  Priam ibid.  4 13 

Dido's  Passion  for  JEneas ibid.  444 

Visit  of  JEneas  to  the  Shades  below ibid.  448 

Juno  stirring  up  strife  between  the  Trojans 

and  Latians ibid.  455 

Camilla  brings  aid  to  Turnus ibid.  455 

The  Shield  of  ^Eneas ibid.  456 

Nisus  and  Euryalus ibid.  457 

Death  of  Pallas ibid.  460 

Death  of  Lausus ibid.  460 

History  and  Death  of  Camilla ibid.  461 

The  Death  of  Turnus ibid.  463 

HORACE 464 

Book  I 465 

Ode  III Dryden.  465 

Ode  V Milton.  465 

Ode  IX Dryden.  405 

Ode  XXII Hon.  W.Herbert.  465 

Ode  XXIV Francis.  466 

Ode  XXXV W.  Peter.  466 

Book  II 466 

Ode  III J.H.  Merivale.  466 

OdeX Cowper.  467 

Ode  XII Sir  Jeffrey  Gilbert.  467 

Ode  XIV Ralph  Bernal.  467 

Ode  XV J.Mitford.  468 

Book  III 468 

Ode  I Covley.  4ii." 

Ode  II Dean  Swift.  468 

Ode  VI Earl  of  Roscommon.  469 

Ode  IX    Atterbury.  4fi9 

Ode  XIII J.  War' 

Ode  XVI J.  Milford.  470 

Ode  XVIII J.  Warton.  470 

Ode  XXIX Dryden.  470 

Book  IV 471 

Ode  IV Lord  Lyttlelon.  471 

Ode  VII Dr.  Johnson.  472 

Ode  IX Fraud*.  472 

Epode Dryden.  47S 

Bookl 

From  Satire  I •  Cowley.  474 

From  Satire  III Francis.  474 

From  Satire  IV Francis.  475 

From  Satire  VI ibid.  475 

From  Satire  X ibid.  475 

Book  II 476 

From  Satire  I ibid.  476 

From  Satire  III ibid.  476 

From  Satire  VI ibid.  476 

From  Satire  VII ibid.  477 

Bookl 477 

From  Epistle  I ibid.  477 

From  Epistle  II Covley.  478 

From  Epistle  III Francis.  478 

From  Epistle  V ibid.  478 

From  Epistle  VI ibid.  478 

From  Epistle  VII ibid.  478 

From  Epistle  VIII ibid    478 

C 


TABLE  OF   CONTENTS. 


HORACE.  Translators.  Page 

From  Epistle  X Cowley.  478 

From  Epistle  XVI Francis.  479 

Book  II 479 

From  Epistles  I  and  II ' ibid.  479 

From  the  Art  of  Poetry ibid.  480 

TIBULLUS 482 

To  Delia Lord  Lyttleton.  483 

The  Golden  Age Grainger.  483 

War  and  Peace ibid.  483 

Nerera Robert  Bland.  484 

Sulpicia Grainger.  484 

On  Cerinthus ibid.  484 

To  Sulpicia Thos.  Moore.  484 

PROPERTIUS 485 

From  Book  II 485 

Elegy  I Gray.  485 

E\esy  IX Sir  C.  A.  Elton.  485 

From  Book  III 486 

Elegy  III Gray.  486 


Translators.    P 


Page 
.  511 


OVID 

From  inn  Metamorphoses  • 

Creation  of  the  World 

The  Golden  Age 

The  Silver  Age 

The  Brazen  Age 

The  Iron  Age 

The  Deluge- 


•Dryden. 

ibid. 

•  •  •  -.ibid. 

ibid. 

••••  ibid, 
•ibid. 


Transformation  of  Daphne  into  a  Laurel-  -ibid. 

lo  transformed  into  a  Cow ibid. 

'f~  Baucis  and  Philemon ibid. 

Pygmalion  and  his  Statue ibid. 

The  House  of  Sleep ibid. 

The  House  of  Fame ibid. 

Pythagorean  Philosophy ibid. 

Story  of  Lucretia Smedley. 

Dido  to  jEneas Dryden. 


487 


MANILIUS 500 

Connexion  of  the  Universe Sir  C.  A.  Elton.  500 

On  Fate ibid.  500 


SENECA 

From  the  Thyestes- 


501 

•  Andrew  Marvel.  501 


PERSIUS 501 

From  Satire  III Gifford.  501 

From  Satire  IV ibid.  502 

From  Satire  V ibid.  503 

LUCAN 504 

Ruin  occasioned  by  the  Civil  Wars Rowe.  504 

Pompey  and  Caesar ibid.  505 

The  Druids ibid.  506 

Caio  arid  Martia ibid.  506 

Meeting  between  the  Soldiers  of  the  two  Camps 

ibid.  507 

Cfesar  in  the  Tempest  ibid.  507 

Parting  of  Pompey  and  Cornelia ibid.  510 

Lament  over  the  lost  Liberties  of  Rome ibid.  511 


LUCAN. 

The  General  Conflagration  ..............  Rowe. 

Pothinus  instigating  Ptolemy  to  destroy  Pompey 

ibid.  511 
Cato's  Praises  of  Pompey  ..................  ibid.  511 

Cato  in  the  Deserts  of  Africa,  and  his  Address  to 
Labienus  ............  Rowe  and  Lord  Lyttleton.  512 

Alexander  the  Great  .....................  Rowe.  513 

SILIUS-ITALICUS  ................................  513 

Hannibal's  Passage  over  the  Alps 

Sir  C.  A.  Elton.  514 

STATIUS  .........................................  515 

From  the  Thebaid  ........................  Gray.  515 

To  Sleep  .............................  Hodgson.  515 

MARTIAL  .........................................  516 

To  Cato  ..............................  Spectator.  516 

To  Decianus  .............................  Hay.  516 

Arria  and  Paetus  .......................  Hoadley.  516 

To  Julius  .................................  Hay.  516 

Rufus  ................................  Spectator.  516 

ToCatulla  ......................  Hon.  G.  Lamb.  517 

On  An'.onius,  a  Good  Man  ............  W.  Peter.  517 

The  Parasite  ..........................  Hodgson.  517 

Generosity  to  Friends  .....................  Hay.  517 

To  Quinc.tilian  .........................  Cowley.  517 

To  Fronto  .................................  ibid.  517 

To  Maximus  ...............................  ibid.  517 

To  Julius  Martialis  ....................  Hodgson.  517 

To  Postumus  ...........................  Cowley.  518 

On  the  Mausoleum  of  Augustus   J.  H.  Merivale.  518 
To  Avitus  ..............................  Cowley.  518 

To  Julius  Martialis  ......................  Anon.  518 

An  Odd  Fellow  .......................  Spectator.  518 

JUVENAL  ........................................  518 

Domitian  and  the  Turbot    Gifford  and  Hodgson.  519 
Mortifications  of  the  Poor  ..................  ibid.  519 

The  Poet  ..................................  ibid.  519 

Ancestry  ...................................  ibid.  520 

The  approach  of  Age  ..................  Hodgson.  521 

Vanity  of  Human  Wishes  ..............  Gifford.  521 

Know  Thyself  .............................  ibid.  522 

Poet's  own  Domestic  Economy 

Wisdom  and  Experience 

Atheists  and  Sceptics 

Revenge 

Education  of  Children  .....................  -ibid.  525 

The  Origin  of  Civil  Society  .................  ibid.  526 

CLAUDIAN  .......................................  527 

The  Phoenix  ...................  Sir  C.  A.  Elton.  527 

The  Old  Man  of  Verona  ................  Cowley.  528 

AUSONIUS  .......................................  529 

Roses  ..........................  Sir  C.  A.  Elton.  529 

On  a  Shipwrecked  Friend  .......  J.  H.  Merivale.  529 

AVIENUS  .........................................  530 

The  Oak  and  the  Reed  .........  Sir  C.  A.  Elton.  530 

A  Quiet  Life  ...............................  ibid.  530 

Country  Retirement  ......  .  ................  ibid.  530 


ibid.  523 

ibid.  523 

ibid.  524 

ibid.  524 


PART  I. 

FKOM  THE   GREEK  POETS, 


15 


HOMER. 


FROM  THE  ILIAD  OF  HOMER. 
Book  L 

CONTENTION  OF  ACHILLES  AND   AGAMEMNON . 

IN  the  war  of  Troy,  the  Greeks  having  sacked  some  of 
th.'j  neighbouring  towns  and  taken  two  beautiful  cap- 
ti\>e,  Cbryse'is  r*i<*  lirisp'Ls  allotted  the  first,  to  Aga- 
memnon and  the  'ast  <o  Vehicles.  Chryses,  the  father 
o*1  r.hryse'fs,  and  a  priest  of  Apollo,  seeks  to  ransom  his 
daughter,  bu».  being  insolently  refused  by  Agamemnon, 
"entreats  for  venge'u>c«  icrur  hh  «>od,  who  inflicts  a 
pestilence  on  the  Greeks.  Achilles  calls  a  council  and 
encourages  Chalcas  to  declare  the  cause  of  it,  who 
attributes  it  to  Agamemnon's  treatment  of  Chryses. 
The  king  being  obliged  to  send  back  his  captive,  enters 
into  a  furious  contest  with  Achilles,  and  in  his  abso- 
lute authority  as  chief  commander  of  the  Greeks,  seizes 
on  Brise'is.  Achilles,  in  discontent,  withdraws  himself 
and  his  troops  from  the  Grecian  army,  and  complains 
to  his  mother  Thetis,  who  supplicates  Jupiter  to  ren- 
der Agamemnon  sensible  of  the  wrong  done  to  her  son 
by  giving  victory  to  the  Trojans. 

ACHILLES'  wrath,  to  Greece  the  direful  spring 
Of  woes  unnumber'd,  heavenly  goddess  sing! 
That  wrath  which  hurl'd  to  Pluto's  gloomy  reign 
The  souls  of  mighty  chiefs  untimely  slain ; 
Whose  limbs  unburied  on  the  naked  shore, 
Devouring  dogs  and  hungry  vultures  tore ; 
Since  great  Achilles  and  Atrides  strove. 
Such  was  the  sov'reign  doom,  and  such  the  will 
of  Jove ! 

Declare,  0  Muse !  in  what  ill-fated  hour 
Sprung   the   fierce    strife ;    from  what   offended 

power  ? 

Latona's  son  a  dire  contagion  spread, 
And  heap'd  the  camp  with  mountains  of  the 

dead ; 

The  king  of  men  his  reverend  priest  defied 
And  for  the  king's  offence  the  people  died. 

For  Chryses  sought  with  costly  gifts  to  gain 
His  captive  daughter  from  the  victor's  chain. 
Suppliant  the  venerable  father  stands, 
Apollo's  awful  ensigns  grace  his  hands : 
By  these  he  begs :  and  lowly  bending  down 
Extends  the  sceptre  and  the  laurel  crown. 
He  sued  to  all,  but  chief  implored  for  grace 
The  brother  kings  of  Atreus'  royal  race. 

Ye  kings  and  warriors !  may  your  vows  be 

crown'd 

And  Troy's  proud  walls  lie  level  with  the  ground. 
May  Jove  restore  you,  when  your  toils  are  o'er, 
Safe  to  the  pleasures  of  your  native  shore. 
But  oh !  relieve  a  wretched  parent's  pain 
And  give  Chrysei's  to  these  arms  again: 
If  mercy  fail,  yet  let  my  presents  move, 
And  dread  avenging  Phoebus,  son  of  Jove. 

The  Greeks  in  shouts  their  joint  assent  declare, 
The  priest  to  reverence,  and  release  the  fair. 
Not  so  Atrides :  he,  with  kingly  pride, 
Repuls'd  the  sacred  sire,  and  thus  replied : 

Hence,  on  thy  life,  and  fly  these  hostile  plains, 
Nor  ask, presumptuous, what  the  king  detains; 
Hence,  with  thy  laurel  crown,  and  golden  rod, 
Nor  trust  too  far  those  ensigns  of  thy  god. 
Mine  is  thy  daughter,  priest,  and  shall  remain ; 
And  prayers,  and  tears,  and  bribes,shall  plead  in 


Till  time  shall  rifle  every  youthful  grace, 
And  age  dismiss  her  from  my  cold  embrace, 
In  daily  labours  at  the  loom  employ'd, 
Or  doom'd  to  deck  the  bed  she  once  enjoy'd. 
Hence,  then,  to  Argos  shall  the  maid  retire, 
Far  from  her  native  soil  and  weeping  sire. 

The  trembling  priest  along  the  shore  return'd, 
And  in  the  anguish  of  a  father  mourn'd. 
Disconsolate,  not  daring  to  complain. 
Silent  he  wander'd  by  the  sounding  main, 
Till,  safe  at  distance,  to  his  god  he  prays, 
The  god  who  darts  around  the  world  his  rays — 

O  Srnintheus !  sprung  from  fair  Latona's  line, 
Thou  guardian  power  of  Cilia  the  divine, 
Thou  source  of  light  whom  Tenedos  adores, 
And  whose  bright  presence  gilds  thy  Chrysa's 

shores — 

If  e'er  with  wreaths  I  hung  thy  sacred  fane, 
Or  fed  the  flames  with  fat  of  oxen  slain, 
God  of  the  s.ilver  bow !  thy  shafts  employ, 
Avenge  thy  servant,  and  the  Greeks  destroy. 

Thus   Chryses  pray'd:   the   favouring  power 

attends, 

And  from  Olympus'  lofty  top  descends. 
Bent  was  his  bow  the  Grecian  hearts  to  wound  5 
Fierce,  as  he  mov'd,  his  silver  shafts  resound. 
Breathing  revenge,  a  sudden  night  he  spread, 
And  gloomy  darkness  roll'd  around  his  head. 
The  fleet  in  view,  he  twang'd  his  deadly  bow, 
And  hissing  fly  the  feather'd  fates  below. 
On  mules  and  dogs  th'  infection  first  began, 
And  last,  the  vengeful  arrows  fix'd  in  man. 
For  nine  long  nights,  through  all  the  dusky  air, 
The  Pyres,  thick  flaming,  shot  a  dismal  glare. 
But  ere  the  tenth  revolving  day  was  run 
Inspir'd  by  Juno,  Thetis'  godlike  son 
Conven'd  to  council  all  the  Grecian  train ; 
For  much  the  goddess  mourn'd  her  heroes  slain. 

The  assembly  seated,  rising  o'er  the  rest, 
Achilles  thus  the  king  of  men  address'd  : 

"Why  leave  we  not  the  fatal  Trojan  shore 
And  measure  back  the  seas  we  cross'd  before  ? 
The  plague  destroying  whom  the  sword  would 

spare, 

'Tis  time  to  save  the  few  remains  of  war. 
But  let  some  prophet  or  some  sacred  sage 
Explore  the  cause  of  great  Apollo's  rage ; 
Or  learn  the  wasteful  vengeance  to  remove 
By  mystic    dreams — for  dreams    descend    from 

Jove. 

If  broken  vows  this  heavy  curse  has  laid, 
Let  altars  smoke,  and  hecatombs  be  paid : 
So  heaven,  atoned,  shall  dying  Greece  restore, 
And  Phoebus  dart  his  bulling  shafts  no  more. 

He  said,  and  sat:  when  Chalcas  thus  replied: 
Chalcas  the  wise,  the  Grecian  priest  and  guide — 
That  sacred  seer,  whose  comprehensive  view 
The  past,  the  present,  and  the  future  knew : 
Uprising  slow,  the  venerable  sage 
Thus  spoke  the  prudence  and  the  fears  of  age  : 

Beloved  of  Jove,  Achilles  !  wouldst  thou  know 
Why  angry  Phoebus  bends  his  fated  bow  ? 
First  give  thy  faith,  and  plight  a  prince's  word 
Of  sure  protection  by  thy  power  and  sword. 
For  I  must  speak  what  wisdom  would  conceal, 
And  truths  invidious  to  the  great,  reveal. 


HOMER, 


Bold  is  the  task  when  subjects,  grown  too  wise, 
Instruct  a  monarch  where  his  error  lies ; 
For  though  we  deem  the  short-lived  fury  past, 
'Tis  sure  the  mighty  will  revenge  at  last. 

To  whom  Pelides :  From  thy  utmost  soul 
Speak  what  thou  know'st,  and  speak  without 

control : 

E'en  by  that  god  I  swear,  who  rules  the  day, 
To  whom  thy  hands  the  vows  of  Greece  convey, 
And  whose  blest  oracles  thy  lips  declare ; 
Long  as  Achilles  breathes  the  vital  air, 
No  daring  Greek  of  all  the  numerous  band 
Against  his  priest  shall  lift  an  impious  hand ; 
Not  e'en  the  chief  by  whom  our  hosts  are  led, 
The  king  of  kings,  shall  touch  that  sacred  head. 

Encourag'd  thus,  the  blameless  man  replies : 
Nor  vows  unpaid,  nor  slighted  sacrifice, 
But  he,  our  chief,  provok'd  the  raging  pest ; 
Apollo's  vengeance  for  his  injur'd  priest. 
Nor  will  the  god's  awaken'd  fury  cease, 
But  plagues  shall  spread,  and  funeral  fires  in- 
crease, 

Till  the  great  king,  without  a  ransom  paid, 
To  her  own^hrysa  send  the  black-eyed  maid. 
Perhaps,  with  added  sacrifice  and  prayer, 
The  priest  may  pardon,  and  the  god  may  spare. 

The  prophet  spoke,  when  with  a  gloomy  frown, 
The  monarch  started  from  his  shining  throne : 
Black  choler  fill'd  his  breast  that  burn'd  with  ire, 
And  from  his  eye-balls  flash'd  the  living  fire. 
Augur  accurst !  denouncing  mischief  still ; 
Prophet  of  plagues,  for  ever  boding  ill! 
Still  must  that  tongue  some  wounding  message 

bring, 

And  still  thy  priestly  pride  provoke  thy  king  ? 
For  this  are  Phoebus'  oracles  explored, 
To  teach  the  Greeks  to  murmur  at  their  lord  ? 
For  this  with  falsehoods  is  my  honour  stain'd, 
Is  heaven  offended,  and  a  priest  profaned ; 
Because  my  prize,  my  beauteous  maid,  I  hold, 
And  heavenly  charms  prefer  to  proffer'd  gold  ? 
A  maid  unmatch'd  in  manners  as  in  face, 
Skill'd  in  each  art  and  crown'd  with  every  grace. 
Not  half  so  dear  were  Clytemnestra's  charms, 
When  first  her  blooming  beauties  blest  my  arms. 
Yet  if  the  gods  demand  her,  let  her  sail ; 
Our  cares  are  only  for  the  public  weal : 
Let  me  be  deem'd  the  hateful  cause  of  all, 
And  suffer,  rather  than  my  people  fall. 
/The  prize,  the  beauteous  prize,  I  will  resign, 
So  dearly  valued,  and  so  justly  mine. 
But  since  for  common  good  I  yield  the  fair, 
My  private  loss  let  grateful  Greece  repair ; 
Nor  unrewarded  let  your  prince  complain, 
That  ho  alone  has  fought  and  bled  in  vain. 

Insatiate  king!  (Achilles  thus  replies) 
Fond  of  the  po\\-'r.  but  fonder  of  the  prize  ! 
Would'st  thou  the  Greeks  their  lawful  prey  should 

yield. 

The  due  reward  of  many  a  well-fought  field? 
The  spoils  of  cities  ra/.'d  and  warriors  slain, 
We  .-hare  with  justice,  as  with  toil  we  gain  : 
But  to  resume  whatever  thy  avarice  craves 
(That  trick  of  tyrants)  may  be  borne  by  slaves. 
Yet  if  our  chief  for  plunder  only  fight, 
The  spoils  of  Ilion  shall  thy  loss  requite, 


Whene'er  by  Jove's  decree  our  conquering  powers 
Shall  humble  to  the  dust  her  lofty  towers. 

Then  thus  the  king.     Shall  I  my  prize  resign 
With  tame  consent,  and  thou  possess'd  of  thine  ? 
Great  as  thou  art,  and  like  a  god  in  fight, 
Think  not  to  rob  me  of  a  soldier's  right. 
At  thy  demand  shall  I  restore  the  maid  1 
First  let  the  just  equivalent  be  paid — 
Such  as  a  king  might  ask ;  and  let  it  be 
A  treasure  worthy  her,  and  worthy  me. 
Or  grant  me  this,  or  with  a  monarch's  claim 
This  hand  shall  seize  some  other  captive  dame. 
The  mighty  Ajax  shall  his  prize  resign, 
Ulysses'  spoils,  or  e'en  thy  own  be  mine. 
The  man  who  suffers, loudly  may  complain; 
And  rage  he  may,  but  he  shall  rage  in  vain. 
But  this,  when  time  requires — It  now  remains 
We  launch  a  bark  to  plough  the  watery  plains, 
And  waft  the  sacrifice  to  Chrysa's  shores, 
With  chosen  pilots,  and  with  labouring  oars. 
Soon  shall  the  fair  the  sable  ship  ascend, 
And  some  deputed  prince  the  charge  attend. 
This  Greta's  king,  or  Ajax  shall  fulfil, 
Or  wise  Ulysses  see  perform'd  our  will ; 
Or,  if  our  royal  pleasure  shall  ordain, 
Achilles'  self  conduct  her  o'er  the  main: 
Let  fierce  Achilles,  dreadful  in  his  rage, 
The  god  propitiate,  and  the  pest  assuage. 

At  this,  Pelides,  frowning  stern,  replied : 
0  tyrant,  arm'd  with  insolence  and  pride ! 
Inglorious  slave  to  interest,  ever  join'd 
With  fraud,  unworthy  of  a  royal  mind ! 
What  generous  Greek,  obedient  to  thy  word, 
Shall  form  an  ambush,  or  shall  lift  the  sword  ? 
What  cause  have  I  to  war  at  thy  decree  ? 
The  distant  Trojans  never  injur'd  me : 
To  Phthia's  realms  no  hostile  troops  they  led ; 
Safe  in  her  vales  my  warlike  coursers  fed : 
Far  hence  remov'd,  the  hoarse  resounding  main, 
And  walls  of  rocks,  secure  my  native  reign, 
Whose  fruitful  soil  luxuriant  harvests  grace, 
Rich  in  her  fruits,  and  in  her  martial  race. 
Hither  we  sail'd  a  voluntary  throng, 
T'  avenge  a  private,  not  a  public  wrong ; 
What  else  to  Troy  th'  assembled  nations  draws, 
But  thine,  ungrateful,  and  thy  brother's  cause  ? 
Is  this  the  pay  our  blood  and  toils  deserve ; 
Disgrac'd  and  injur'd  by  the  man  we  serve  ? 
And  dar'st  thou  threat  to  snatch  my  prize  away, 
Due  to  the  deeds  of  many  a  dreadful  day  ? 
A  prize  as  small,  O  tyrant!  match'd  with  thine, 
As  thy  own  actions  if  compared  to  mine. 
Thine  in  each  conquest  is  the  wealthy  prey, 
Though  mine  the  sweat  and  danger  of  the  day. 
Some  trivial  present  to  my  ships  I  bear, 
Or  barren  praises  pay  the  wounds  of  war. 
But  know,  proud  monarch,  I'm  thy  slave  no  more ; 
My  fleet  shall  waft  me  to  Thessalia's  shore. 
Left  by  Achilles  on  the  Trojan  plain, 
What  spoils,  what  conquests,  shall  Atrides  gain? 

To  this  the  king.     Fly,  mighty  warrior !  fly! 
Thy  aid  we  need  not,  and  thy  threats  defy. 
There  want  not  chiefs  in  such  a  cause  to  fight ; 
And  Jove  lijmself  shall  guard  a  monarch's  right. 
Of  all  the  k|ngs  (the  gods'  distinguished  care) 
To  power  superior  none  such  hatred  bear : 


HOMER. 


Strife  and  debate  thy  restless  soul  employ, 
And  wars  and  horrors  are  thy  savage  joy. 
If  thou  hast  strength,  'twas  heav'n  that  strength 

bestow'd ; 

For  know,  vain  man,  thy  valour  is  from  God. 
Haste,  launch  thy  vessels,  fly  with  speed  away, 
Rule  thy  own  realms  with  arbitrary  sway: 
I  heed  thee  not,  but  prize  at  equal  rate, 
Thy  short-liv'd  friendship,  and    thy  groundless 

hate. 

Go!  threat  thy  earth-born  Myrmidons;  but  here 
'Tis  mine  to  threaten,  prince,  and  thine  to  fear. 
Know  if  the  god  the  beauteous  dame  demand, 
My  bark  shall  waft  her  to  her  native  land; 
But  then  prepare,  imperious  prince !  prepare, 
Fierce  as  thou  art,  to  yield  thy  captive  fair; 
E'en  in  thy  tent  I'll  seize  the  blooming  prize, 
Thy  lov'd  Brisei's,  with  the  radiant  eyes. 
Hence  shalt  thou  prove  rny  might,  and  curse  the 

hour, 

Thou  stood'st  a  rival  of  imperial  power ; 
And  hence  to  all  our  host  it  shall  be  known, 
That  kings  are  subject  to  the  gods  alone. 

Achilles  heard,  with  grief  and  rage  oppress'd 
His   heart   swell'd   high,    and    labour'd    in   his 

breast, 

Distracting  thoughts  by  turns  his  bosom  ruled, 
Now  fired  by  wrath,  and  now  by  reason  cooled: 
That  prompts  his  hand  to  draw  the  deadly  sword, 
Force   through    the    Greeks,    and    pierce    their 

haughty  lord; 

This  whispers  soft,  his  vengeance  to  control, 
And  calm  the  rising  tempest  of  his  soul. 
Just  as  in  anguish  of  suspense  he  stay'd, 
While  half  unsheath'd  appear'd  the    glittering 

blade, 

Minerva  swift  descended  from  above, 
Sent  by  the  sister  and  the  wife  of  Jove ; 
(For  both  the  princes  claim'd  her  equal  care,) 
Behind  she  stood,  and  by  the  golden  hair 
Achilles  seized;  to  him  alone  confess'd; 
A  sable  cloud  conceal'd  her  from  the  rest. 
He  sees,  and  sudden  to  the  goddess  cries, 
Known  by  the  flames  that  sparkle  from  her  eyes. 

Descends  Minerva  in  her  guardian  care, 
A  heavenly  witness  of  the  wrongs  I  bear 
From  Atreus'  son!  then  let  those  eyes  that  view 
The  daring  crime,  behold  the  vengeance  too. 

Forbear!  (the  progeny  of  Jove  replies,) 
To  calm  thy  fury  I  forsake  the  skies; 
Let  great  Achilles,  to  the  gods  resign'd, 
To  reason  yield  the  empire  o'er  his  mind. 
By  awful  Juno  this  command  is  given ; 
The  king  and  you  are  both  the  care  of  heaven. 
The  force  of  keen  reproaches  let  him  feel, 
But  sheath  obedient,  thy  revenging  steel. 
For  I  pronounce  (and  trust  a  heavenly  power,) 
Thy  injured  honour  has  its  fated  hour, 
When  the  proud  monarch  shall  thy  arms  implore, 
And  bribe  thy  friendship  with  a  boundless  store. 
Then  let  revenge  no  longer  bear  the  sway, 
Command  thy  passions,  and  the  gods  obey. 

To  her  Pelides.    With  regardful  ear, 
5Tis  just,  0  goddess!  I  thy  dictates  hear: 
Hard  as  it  is,  my  vengeance  I  suppress : 
Those  who  revere  the  gods,  the  gods  will  bless. 


He  said,  observant  of  the  blue-eyed  maid; 
Then  in  the  sheath  return'd  the  shining  blade. 
The  goddess  swift  to  high  Olympus  flies, 
And  joins  the  sacred  senate  of  the  skies. 

Nor  yet  the  rage  his  boiling  heart  forsook, 
Which  thus  redoubling  on  Atrides  broke  : 
0  monster!  mix'd  of  insolence  and  fear, 
Thou  dog  in  forehead,  but  in  heart  a  deer! 
When  wert  thou  known  in  ambush'd  fights  to 

dare, 

Or  nobly  face  the  horrid  front  of  war? 
'Tis  ours  the  chance  of  fighting  fields  to  try, 
Thine  to  look  on  and  bid  the  valiant  die. 
So  much  'tis  safer  through  the  camp  to  go, 
And  rob  a  subject,  than  despoil  a  foe. 
Scourge  of  thy  people,  violent  and  base! 
Sent  in  Jove's  anger  on  a  slavish  race, 
Who,  lost  to  sense  of  generous  freedom  past, 
Are  tamed  to  wrongs,  or  this  had  been  thy  last. 
Now  by  this  sacred  sceptre  hear  me  swear, 
Which  never  more  shall  leaves  or  blossoms  bear, 
Which  sever'd  from  the  trunk,  (as  I  from  thee,) 
On  the  bare  mountains  left  its  parent  tree; 
This  sceptre,  form'd  by  temper'd  steel,  to  prove 
An  ensign  of  the  delegates  of  Jove, 
From    whom    the  power   of  laws   and   justice 

springs 

(Tremendous  oath!  inviolate  to  kings): 
By  this  I  swear,  when  bleeding  Greece  again 
Shall  call  Achilles,  she  shall  call  in  vain. 
When,  fluslrd  with  slaughter,  Hector  comes  to 

spread, 

The  purpled  shore  with  mountains  of  the  dead, 
Then  shalt  thou  mourn  th'  affront  thy  madness 

gave, 

Forc'd  to  deplore,  when  impotent  to  save  : 
Then  rage  in  bitterness  of  soul,  to  know 
This  act  has  made  the  bravest  Greek  thy  foe. 
He    spoke,    and   furious    hurl'd    against   the 

ground 

His  sceptre  starr'd  with  golden  studs  around. 
Then  sternly  silent  sat.     With  like  disdain 
The  raging  king  return'd  his  frowns  again. 

To  calm  their  passions  with  the  words  of  age, 
Slow  from  his  seat  arose  the  Pylian  sage, 
Experienc'd  Nestor,  in  persuasion  skill'd, 
Words  sweet  as  honey  from  his  lips  distill'd; 
Two  generations  now  had  pass'd  away, 
Wise  by  his  rules,  and  happy  by  his  sway, 
Two  ages  o'er  his  native  realm  he  reign'd, 
And  now  the  example  of  the  third  remain'd. 
All  view'd  with  awe  the  venerable  man; 
Who  thus  with  mild  benevolence  began: 

What  shame,   what  woe   is  this   to   Greece! 

what  joy 
To  Troy's  proud  monarch,  and  the  friends  of 

Troy ! 

That  adverse  gods  commit  to  stern  debate, 
The  best,  the  bravest  of  the  Grecian  state. 
Young  as  ye  are  this  youthful  heat  restrain, 
Nor    think    your    Nestor's    years    and   wisdom 

vain. 

A  godlike  race  of  heroes  once  I  knew, 
Such  as  no  more  these  aged  eyes  shall  view! 
Lives  there,  a  chief  to  match  Pirithous'  fame, 
Dryas  the  bold,  or  Ceneus'  deathless  name ; 


HOMER. 


Theseus,  endued  with  more  than  mortal  might,      Along  the  shore  whole  hecatombs  were  laid, 


Or  Polyphemus,  like  the  gods  in  fight? 
With  these  of  old  to  toils  of  battle  bred, 
In  early  youth  my  hardy  days  I  led; 
Fir'd  with  the  thirst  which  virtuous  envy  breeds, 
And  smit  with  love  of  honourable  deeds. 
Strongest  of  men,  they  pierc'd  the  mountain  boar, 
Rang'd  the  wild  deserts  red  with  monster's  gore, 
And  from  their  hills  the  shaggy  centaurs  tore. 
Yet  these  with  soft  persuasive  arts  I  sway'd: 
When  Nestor  spoke,  they  listened  and  obey'd. 
If,  in  my  youth,  e'en  these  esteem'd  me  wise, 
Do  you,  young  warriors,  hear  my  age  advise. 
Atrides,  seize  not  on  the  beauteous  slave, 
That  prize  the  Greeks  by  common  suffrage  gave  : 
Nor  thou,  Achilles,  treat  our  prince  with  pride ; 
Let  kings  be  just  and  sovereign  power  preside. 
Thee  the  first  honours  of  the  war  adorn, 
Like  gods  in  strength,  and  of  a  goddess  born ; 
Him  awful  majesty  exalts  above 
The  pow?rs  of  earth,  and  scepter'd  sons  of  Jove. 
Let  both  unite,  with  well-consenting  mind, 
So  shall  authority  with  strength  be  join'd. 
Leave  me,  O  king!  to  calm  Achilles'  rage;        • 
Rule  thou  thyself,  as  more  advanced  in  age. 
Forbid  it  gods!  Achilles  should  be  lost, 
The  pride  of  Greece,  and  bulwark  of  our  host. 

This  said,  he  ceas'd.  The  king  of  men  replies, 
Thy  years  are  awful,  and  thy  words  are  wise : 
But  that  imperious,  that  unconquerd  soul, 
No  laws  can  limit,  no  respect  control. 
Before  his  pride  must  his  superiors  fall, 
His  word  the  law,  and  he  the  lord  of  all? 
Him  must  our  hosts,  our  chiefs,  ourselves  obey? 
What  king  can  bear  a  rival  in  his  sway? 
Grant  that  the  gods  his  matchless  force  hath  giv'n, 
Has  foul  reproach  a  privilege  from  heav'n? 

Here  on  the  monarch's  speech  Achilles  broke, 
And  furious  thus,  and  interrupting,  spoke: 
Tyrant,  I  well  deserv'd  thy  galling  chain, 
To  live  thy  slave,  and  still  to  serve  in  vain, 
Should  I  submit  to  each  unjust  decree : 
Command  thy  vassals,  but  command  not  me. 
Seize  on  Brisei's,  whom  the  Grecians  doom'd 
My  prize  of  war,  yet  tamely  see  resum'd : 
And  seize  secure:  no  more  Achilles  draws 
His  conquering  sword  in  any  woman's  cause ; 
The  gods  command  me  to  forgive  the  past, 
But  let  this  first  invasion  be  the  last: 
For  know,  thy  blood,  when  next  thou   dar'st 

invade, 

Shall  stream  in  vengeance  on  my  reeking  blade. 
At  this  they  ceas'd:  the  stern  debate  expir'd: 
The  chiefs  in  sullen  majesty  retir'd. 

Achilles  with  Patroclus  took  his  way, 
Where  near  his  tents  his  hollow  vessels  lay. 
Meantime  Atrides  launrh'd,  with  numerous  oars, 
A  well-rigg'd  ship  for  Chrysa's  sacred  shores: 
High  on  the  deck  was  fair  Chrysei's  plac'd, 
And  sage  Ulysses  with  the  conduct  grac'd  : 
Safe  in  her  sides  the  hecatomb  they  stow'd, 
Then  swiftly  sailing,  cut  the  liquid  road. 

The  host  to  expiate,  next  the  king  prepares, 
With  pure  lustrations  and  with  solemn  prayers. 
Wash'd  by  the  briny  wave,  the  pious  train 
Are  cleans'd,  and  cast  th'  ablutions  in  the  main. 


And  bulls  and  goats  to  Phoebus'  altars  paid. 
The  sable  fumes  in  curling  spires  arise, 
And  waft  their  grateful  odours  to  the  skies. 

The  army  thus,  in  sacred  rites  engag'd, 
Atrides  still  with  deep  resentment  rag'd. 
To  wait  his  will  the  sacred  heralds  stood, 
Talthybius  and  Eurybates  the  good. 
Haste  to  the  fierce  Achilles'  tent  (he  cries) 
Thence  bear  Brisei's  as  our  royal  prize : 
Submit  he  must ;  or,  if  they  will  not  part, 
Ourself,  in  arms,  shall  tear  her  from  his  heart. 

The  unwilling  heralds  act  their  lord's  com- 
mands, 

Pensive  they  walk  along  the  barren  sands : 
Arrived,  the  hero  in  his  tent  they  find, 
With  gloomy  aspect,  on  his  arm  reclin'd. 
At  awful  distance  long  they  silent  stand, 
Loth  to  advance,  or  speak  their  hard  command; 
Decent  confusion !  this  the  godlike  man 
Perceiv'd,  and  thus  with  accent  mild  began : 

With  leave  and  honour,  enter  our  abodes 
Ye  sacred  ministers  of  men  and  gods ! 
I  know  your  message  ;  by  constraint  you  came ; 
Not  you,  but  your  imperious  lord  I  blame. 
Patroclus,  haste,  the  fair  Brisei's  bring ; 
Conduct  my  captive  to  the  haughty  king. 
But  witness,  heralds,  and  proclaim  my  vow ; 
Witness  to  gods  above,  and  men  below  ! 
But  first,  and  loudest,  to  your  prince  declare, 
That  lawless  tyrant,  whose  commands  you  bear, 
Unmov'd  as  death  Achilles  shall  remain, 
Though  prostrate  Greece  should  bleed  at  every 

vein : 

The  raging  chief,  in  frantic  passion  lost, 
Blind  to  himself,  and  useless  to  his  host, 
Unskill'd  to  judge  the  future  by  the  past, 
In  blood  and  slaughter  shall  repent  at  last. 

Patroclus  now  the  unwilling  beauty  brought ; 
She,  in  soft  sorrows,  and  in  pensive  thought, 
Past  silent,  as  the  heralds  held  her  hand, 
And  oft  look'd  back,  slow  moving  o'er  the  strand. 
Not  so  his  loss  the  fierce  Achilles  bore ; 
But  sad  retiring  to  the  sounding  shore, 
O'er  the  wild  margin  of  the  deep  he  hung, 
That   kindred   deep    from  whence  his  mother 

sprung; 

There,  bath'd  in  tears  of  anger  and  disdain, 
Thus  loud  lamented  to  the  stormy  main : 

0  parent  goddess !  since  in  early  bloom, 
Thy  son  must  fall,  by  too  severe  a  doom ; 
Sure,  to  so  short  a  race  of  glory  born, 
Great  Jove,  in  justice,  should  this  span  adorn. 
Honour  and  fame  at  least  the  Thunderer  ow'd, 
And  ill  he  pays  the  promise  of  a  god/ 
If  yon  proud  monarch  thus  thy  son  defies, 
Obscures  my  glories,  and  resumes  my  prize. 

Far  in  the  deep  recesses  of  the  main, 
Where  aged  Ocean  holds  his  watery  reign, 
The  goddess  mother  heard.     The  waves  divide  ; 
And  like  a  mist  she  rose  above  the  tide ; 
Beheld  him  mourning  to  the  naked  shores, 
And  thus  the  sorrows  of  his  soul  explores: 
Why   grieves   my    son?     Thy  anguish   let   me 

.-hare, 
Reveal  the  cause,  and  trust  a  parent's  care. 

A2 


HOMER. 


He,  deeply  sighing,  said :  To  tell  my  woe, 
Is  but  to  mention  what  too  well  you  know. 
But  goddess !  thou  thy  suppliant  son  attend, 
To  high  Olympus'  shining  court  ascend, 
Urge  all  the  ties  to  former  service  ow'd, 
And  sue  for  vengeance  to  the  thundering  god. 
Conjure  him  far  to  drive  the  Grecian  train, 
To  hurl  them  headlong  to  their  fleet  and  main — 
To  heap  the  shores  with  copious  death,  and  bring 
The  Greeks  to  know  the  curse  of  such  a  king : 
Let  Agamemnon  lift  his  haughty  head, 
O'er  all  his  wide  dominion  of  the  dead, 
And  mourn  in  blood,  that  e'er  he  durst  disgrace 
The  boldest  warrior  of  the  Grecian  race. 

Unhappy  son !  (fair  Thetis  thus  replies, 
While  tears  celestial  trickle  from  her  eyes) 
Why  have  I  borne  thee  with  a  mother's  throes, 
To  fates  averse,  and  nurs'd  for  future  woes? 
So  short  a  space  the  light  of  heaven  to  view ! 
So  short  a  space !  and  fill'd  with  sorrow  too ! 
O  might  a  careful  parent's  wish  prevail, 
Far,  far  from  Ilion  should  thy  vessels  sail : 
And  thou,  from  camps  remote  the  danger  slum 
Which  now,  alas !  too  nearly  threats  my  son. 
Yet  (what  I  can)  to  move  thy  suit  I'll  go 
To  great  Olympus,  crown'd  with  fleecy  snow. 
Meantime,  secure  within  thy  ships,  from  far 
Behold  the  field,  nor  mingle  in  the  war. 
The  sire  of  gods,  and  all  th'  ethereal  train, 
On  the  warm  limits  of  the  farthest  main, 
Now  mix  with  mortals,  nor  disdain  to  grace 
The  feasts  of  Ethiopia's  blameless  race  ; 
Twelve  days  the  powers  indulge  the  genial  rite, 
Returning  with  the  twelfth  revolving  light. 
Then  will  I  mount  the  brazen  dome,  and  move 
The  high  tribunal  of  immortal  Jove. 

The  goddess  spoke :  the  rolling  waves  unclose  ; 
Then  down  the  deep  she  plunged,  from  whence 

she  rose, 

And  left  him  sorrowing  on  the  lonely  coast, 
In  wild  resentment  for  the  fair  he  lost. 

In  Chrysa's  port  now  sage  Ulysses  rode ; 
Beneath  the  deck  the  destin'd  victims  stow'd ; 
The  sails  they  furl'd,  they  lash'd  the  masts  aside 
And    dropp'd   their   anchors,  and   the  pinnace 

tied. 

Next  on  the  shore  their  hecatomb  they  land, 
Chrysei's  last  descending  on  the  strand. 
Her,  thus  returning  from  the  furrow'd  main, 
Ulysses  led  to  Phoebus'  sacred  fane; 
Where  at  his  solemn  altar,  as  the  maid 
He  gave  to  Chryses,  thus  the  hero  said : 

Hail,  rev'rend  priest !  to  Phoebus'  awful  dome 
A  suppliant  I  from  great  Atrides  come  ; 
Unransom'd  here  receive  the  spotless  fair ; 
Accept  the  hecatomb  the  Greeks  prepare ; 
And  may  thy  god  who  scatters  darts  around, 
Aton'd  by  sacrifice,  desist  to  wound. 

At  this  the  sire  embrac'd  the  maid  again, 
So  sadly  lost,  so  lately  sought  in  vain. 
Then  near  the  altar  of  the  darting  king, 
Dispos'd  in  rank  their  hecatomb  they  bring ; 
With  water  purify  their  hands,  and  take 
The  sacred  offering  of  the  salted  cake : 
While  thus  with  arms  devoutly  rais'd  in  air, 
And  solemn  voice,  the  priest  directs  his  prayer. 


God  of  the  silver  bow !  thy  ear  incline, 
Whose  pow'r  encircles  Cilia  the  divine, 
Whose  sacred  eye  thy  Tenedos  surveys, 
And  gilds  fair  Chrysa  with  distinguish 'd  rays! 
If,  fiYd  to  vengeance  at  thy  priest's  request, 
Thy  direful  darts  inflict  the  raging  pest, 
Once  more  attend !  avert  the  wasteful  woe, 
And  smile  propitious,  and  unbend  thy  bow. 

So  Chryses  pray'd ;  Apollo  heard  his  prayer. 
****** 

'Twas  night;  the  chiefs  beside  their  vessel  lie 
Till  rosy  morn  had  purpled  o'er  the  sky; 
Then  launch,  and  hoist  the  mast ;  indulgent  gales, 
Supplied  by  Phoebus,  fill  the  swelling  sails: 
The  milk-white  canvass  bellying  as  they  blow, 
The  parted  ocean  foams  and  roars  below : 
Above  the  bounding  billows  swift  they  flew, 
Till  now  the  Grecian  camp  appear'd  in  view. 
Far  on  the  beach  they  haul  their  bark  to  land, 
(The  crooked  keel  divides  the  yellow  sand,) 
Then  part,  where  stretch'd  along  the  winding  bay, 
The  ships  and  tents  in  mingled  prospect  lay. 

But  raging  still,  amidst  his  navy  sate 
The  stern  Achilles,  steadfast  in  his  hate; 
Nor  mix'd  in  combat,  nor  in  council  join'd ; 
But  wasting  cares  lay  heavy  on  his  mind : 
In  his  black  thoughts  revenge  and  slaughter  roll, 
And  scenes  of  blood  rise  dreadful  in  his  soul. 

Twelve  days  were  past,  and  now  the  dawn- 
ing light 

The  gods  had  summon'd  to  th'  Olympian  height: 
Jove  first  ascending  from  the  watery  bowers, 
Leads  the  long  order  of  ethereal  powers. 
When  like  the  morning  mist  in  early  day, 
Rose  from  the  flood,  the  daughter  of  the  sea ; 
And  to  the  seats  divine  her  flight  addrest. 
There  far  apart,  and  high  above  the  rest, 
The  Thunderer  sat:  where  old  Olympus  shrouds 
His  hundred  heads  in  heaven,  and  props  the  clouds, 
Suppliant  the  goddess  stood :  one  hand  she  plac'd 
Beneath  his  beard,  and  one  his  knees  embrac'd. 
If  e'er,  0  father  of  the  gods !  she  said, 
My  words  could  please  thee,  or  my  actions  aid, 
Some  marks  of  honour  on  my  son  bestow, 
And  pay  in  glory  what  in  life  you  owe. 
Fame  is  at  least  by  heav'nly  promise  due 
To  life  so  short,  and  now  dishonourd  too. 
Avenge  this  wrong,  0  ever  just  and  wise ! 
Let  Greece  be  humbled,  and  the  Trojans  rise; 
Till  the  proud  king,  and  all  th'  Achaian  race, 
Shall  heap  with  honours  him  they  now  disgrace. 

Thus  Thetis  spoke :  but  Jove  in  silence  held 
The  sacred  counsels  of  his  breast  conceal'd. 
Not  so  repuls'd,  the  goddess  closer  prest, 
Still  grasp'd  his  knees,  and  urg'd  the  dear  request. 
O  sire  of  gods  and  men !  thy  suppliant  hear ; 
Refuse,  or  grant,  for  what  has  Jove  to  fear? 
Or,  oh !  declare,  of  all  the  powers  above, 
Is  wretched  Thetis  least  the  care  of  Jove  ? 

She  said :  and  sighing,  thus  the  god  replies, 
Who  rolls  the  thunder  o'er  the  vaulted  skies: 

What  hast  thou  ask'd?    Ah  why  should  Jove 

engage 

In  foreign  contests,  and  domestic  rage, 
The  gods'  complaints,  and  Juno's  fierce  alarms, 
While  I,  too  partial,  aid  the  Trojan  arms? 


HOMER. 


Go,  lest  the  haughty  partner  of  my  sway 
With  jealous  eyes  thy  close  access  survey ; 
But  part  in  peace,  secure  thy  prayer  is  sped; 
Witness  the  sacred  honours  of  our  head, 
The  nod  that  ratifies  the  will  divine, 
The  faithful,  fix'd,  irrevocable,  sign: 
This  seals  thy  suit,  and  this  fulfils  thy  vows. — 
He  spoke,  and  awful  bends  his  sable  brows; 
Shakes  his  ambrosial  curls,  and  give's  the  nod, 
The  stamp  of  fate,  and  sanction  of  the  god: 
High  heaven  with  trembling  the  dread  signal  took, 
And  all  Olympus  to  the  centre  shook. 


Book  II. 

TJLTSSES    AJTD    THERSITES. 

The  Greeks,  in  despair  of  taking  Troy,  resolve  on  return- 
ing home,  but  are  detained  by  the  management  of 
Ulysses. 

****** 
HE  ran,  he  flew,  through  all  the  Grecian  train : — 
Each  prince  of  name,  or  chief  in  arms  approv'd, 
He  fired  with  praise,  or  with  persuasion  mov'd. 
But  if  a  clamorous,  vile  plebeian  rose, 
Him  with  reproof  he    check'd,  or   tam'd  with 

blows. 

"  Silence,  base  slave !  and  to  thy  betters  yield, 
Dolt,  as  thou  art,  in  council  and  in  field! 
All  cannot  rule,  and,  least  of  all  allow'd, 
That  worst  of  tyrants,  an  usurping  crowd, 
To  one  sole  monarch  Jove  commits  the  sway; 
His  are  the  laws,  and  let  us  all  obey." 

With   words    like    these,  the    troops    Ulysses 

ruled, 

The  loudest  silenced,  and  the  fiercest  cooled, — 
All  but  Thersites;  he,  above  the  throng, 
Loquacious,  loud,  and  turbulent  of  tongue; 
Awed  by  no  shame,  by  no  respect  controll'd, 
In  scandal  busy,  in  reproaches  bold; 
With  witty  malice  studious  to  defame, 
Scorn  all  his  joy,  and  laughter  all  his  aim ; 
But  chief  he  gloried,  with  licentious  style, 
To  lash  the  great,  and  monarchs  to  revile. 
His  figure  such  as  might  his  soul  proclaim ; 
One  eye  was  blinking,  and  one  leg  was  lame; 
The  gibbous  load,  that  either  shoulder  prest, 
To  close  contraction  pinch'd  his  pointed  breast; 
And  on  his  sharp  convexity  of  head, 
Stray  hairs,  like  wool,  were  here  and  there  out- 
spread ; 

Spleen  to  mankind  his  envious  heart  possest, 
And  much  lie  liatrd  all,  but  most,  the  best. 
Ulysses  or  Achilles  still  his  theme; 
But  royal  scandal  his  deliuht  supreme. 
Long  had  ho  lived,  the  scorn  of  every  Greek, 

when  he  spoke,  yet  still  they  heard  him 

speak. 

Sharp  was  his  voice;  which,  in  the  shrillest  tone, 
Thus  with  injurious  taunts  attacked  the  throne: 

"Amidst  the  glories  of  so  bright  a  reign, 
What  moves  the  great  Atrides  to  complain? 

Selected  beauties,  each  a  city's  pride, 

We,  by  our  valour,  for  thy  choice  provide. 

Or  seek'st  thou  gold?  more  gold,  those  heaps  to 

raise, 
Which  for  his  rnnsom'd  sons  the  Trojan  pays? 


Some,  whom  this  conquering  arm  shall  captive 

lead, 

Or  other  Argive  doomed  for  thee  to  bleed  ? 
Seek'st  thou  a  fresher  fair  to  yield  delight, 
Hid  in  thy  tent  apart  from  public  sight? 
For  ill  beseems  the  guardian  of  our  host, 
By  vile  example,  to  corrupt  us  most. 
Oh,  Argive  women!  Argive  men  no  more: 
Let  the  fleet  speed  us  to  our  native  shore ; 
Leave   him   unsated  here,  though   gorg:d  with 

spoil, 

To  learn  if  gained  or  not  by  Grecian  toil. 
His  was  the  outrage,  he  Pelides  shamed, 
A  warrior  far  o'er  him  in  valour  famed: 
His  now  the  vaunt  to  guard  Brisei's'  charms, 
Reft  by  his  rapine  from  that  hero's  arms! 
A  hero? — no!  fear  chains  Achilles'  force, 
Or    this    last   deed   had   closed    thy   shameful 

course!" 
The  scoffer  ceased — with  stern,  contemptuous 

eyes, 
Ulysses  viewed  the  wretch,  and  thus  replies: 

"Peace,  factious  monster,  born  to  vex  the  state, 
With  wrangling  talents  formed  for  foul  debate; 
Nor  strive  with  monarchs!  Thou  of  all  our  host, 
The  man  who  acts  the  least,  and  vaunts  the 

most ! 

Think  not  to  shameful  flight  the  Greeks  to  bring, 
Nor  let  those  lips  profane  the  name  of  king. 
For  our  return  we  trust  to  heavenly  powers ; 
Be  that  their  care ;  to  fight  like  men  be  ours. 
But  grant  the  host  with  wealth  their  general  load, 
Except  detraction,  what  hast  thou  bestow'd? 
But  mark  my  word,  nor  think  the  warning  vain ; 
If  here  I  find  thee,  raving  thus  again, 
Low  lie  my  brow ! — May  I  at  once  expire, 
And  loved  Telemachus  disown  his  sire, 
If  stript  and  scourged,  and  writhing  in  thy  pain, 
I  drive  thee  not  back  howling  to  the  main." 
He  said;  and,  writhing  as  the  dastard  bends, 
The  weighty  sceptre  on  his  back  descends; 
On  his  round  bunch  the  bloody  tumours  rise, 
While  tears  spring  starting  from  his  haggard  eyes; 
Trembling  he  sat,  and,  shrunk  in  abject  fears, 
From  his  foul  visage  wiped  the  scalding  ten 
The  host,  though  grieved,  his  moans  with  laugh- 
ter heard ; 

While  burst  from  lip  to  lip  the  scornful  word: — 
"Great  deeds  and  oft  Laertes'  son  has  wrought, 
To  war  renown,  to  council  wisdom,  brought; 
But  this  far  all  transcends ;  the  scoffer's  jest, 
And  base  garrulity,  at  once  represt. 
Such  just  examples,  on  offenders  shown, 
Sedition  silence  and  assert  the  throne." 


Book  1IL 

HELEW,  WITH  PRIAM  AXD  THE  EIDERS,  BEFORE 
THE  SC-KAJT-GATE. 

****** 

SHE  spake ;  and  sweet  desire  moved  Helen's  mind, 
Deep-touched  by  all  her  folly  had  resign'd, 
The  lord,  whom  once  her  virgin  arms  carest, 
The  roof  that  rear'd  her,  and  the  hearth  that 
blest : — 


HOMER. 


She  rose,  her  snowy  veil  around  her  spread, 
And  tears  of  tenderness  beneath  it  shed  ; 
Then  onward  pass'd  and  sought  the  Screan-gate, 
Where  sate  the  elders  of  the  Trojan  state  ; 
Chiefs,  who  no  more  in  bloody  fights  engage, 
But  wise  through  time,  and  narrative  with  age, 
Like  grasshoppers,  that  in  the  woods  rejoice, 
Or  send  from  summer  bowers  their  slender  voice. 
These,  when  the  Spartan  queen  approach'd  the 

tower, 

In  secret  own'd  resistless  beauty's  power : 
They  cried,  "No  wonder  such  celestial  charms 
For  nine  long  years  have  set  the  world  in  arms ; 
What  winning  graces  !  what  majestic  mien  ! 
See  moves  a  goddess,  and  she  looks  a  queen ! 
Yet  hence,  oh  heaven !  convey  that  fatal  face, 
And  from  destruction  save  the  Trojan  race." 

The  good  old  Priam  welcomed  her  and  cried, 
"  Approach,  my  child,  and  grace  thy  father's  side  ; 
No  crime  of  thine  our  present  suffering  draws, 
Not  thou,  but  heaven's  disposing  will,  the  cause. 
The  gods  these  armies  and  this  force  employ, 
The  hostile  gods  conspire  the  fate  of  Troy. 
Now  lift  thine  eyes,  and  say  what  Greek  is  he 
(Far  as  from  hence  these  aged  eyes  can  see) 
Around  whose  brow  such  martial  graces  shine, 
So  tall,  so  awful,  and  almost  divine  ? 
Though  some  of  loftier  stature  tread  the  green, 
None  match  his  grandeur  and  exalted  mien ; 
He  seems  a  monarch,  and  his  country's  pride." 
Thus  ceased  the  king,  and  thus  the  fair  replied  : 
"Before  thy  presence,  father,  I  appear 
With  conscious  shame,  and  reverential  fear. 
Ah,  had  I  died,  ere  to  these  walls  I  fled, 
False  to  my  country  and  my  nuptial  bed, 
My  brothers,  friends,  and  daughter,  left  behind, 
False  to  them  all,  to  Paris  only  kind ! 
All,  all  alas !  I  left — hence  ever  flow 
Tears  that  consume  my  soul  with  hopeless  woe. 
Yet  hear  what  thou  requir'st: — that  form,  that  air, 
Great  Agamemnon,  Atreus'  son  declare, 
A  king,  a  warrior,  scarce  surpassed  in  fame ; 
Ah,  once  I  knew  him  by  a  brother's  name !" 

With  wonder  Priam  viewed  the  godlike  man, 
Extolled  the  happy  prince,  and  then  began 
"0  blest  Atrides!  born  to  prosperous  fate, 
Successful  monarch  of  a  mighty  state  ; 
How  vast  thy  empire;  of  yon  matchless  train 
What  numbers  lost,  what  numbers  yet  remain !" 
This  said ;  his  eyes  next  on  Ulysses  light, 
"And  who  is  he,  inferior  far  in  height, 
Yet  ampler  shoulder'd  and  of  broader  breast, 
Yon  chief,  whose  arms  on  earth  now  peaceful 

rest?" 

Then  Helen  thus:  "Whom  your  discerning  eyes 
Have  singled  out,  is  Ithacus  the  wise; 
Mid  Ithaca's  bleak  mountains  born  and  bred, 
Yet  keen  in  counsel  and  of  craftiest  head." 
Her  wise  Antenor  answered:  "Well  my  word 
Bears  witness  of  the  truth  from  Helen  heard. 
When  here  their  steps,  for  thee  by  Hellas'  sent, 
Brave  Menelaus  and  Ulysses  bent, 
I  knew  their  persons  and  admired  their  parts, 
Both  brave  in  arms,  and  both  approved  in  arts. 
Erect,  the  Spartan  most  engaged  our  view, 
Ulysses,  seated,  greater  reverence  drew; 


When  Atreus'  son  harangued  the  listening  train 
Fust  was  his  sense,  and  his  expression  plain; 
rlis  words  succinct,  yet  full;  without  a  fault; 
rle  spoke  no  more  than  just  the  thing  he  ought. 
3ut  when  Ulysses  rose,  in  thought  profound, 
rlis  modest  eyes  he  fixed  upon  the  ground 
A.S  one  unskilled  or  dumb,  he  seemed  to  stand ; 
r  raised  his  head,  nor  stretched  his  sceptred 

hand; 

3ut  when  he  gave  his  voice  its  force  and  flow, 
Soft  fell  his  words  like  flakes  of  feathery  snow. 
All  felt  his  matchless  power,  all  caught  his 

flame, 

r  paused  to  wonder  at  his  outward  frame." 
Again  hoar  Priam  spoke,  the  while  his  sight, 
Rested  on  Ajax,  towering  in  his  height: 
Say  who  yon  chief,  conspicuous  o'er  the  rest 
For  stateliness  of  size  and  breadth  of  breast?" 
Ajax  the  great,"  (the  beauteous  queen  replied,) 
Himself  a  host,  the  Grecian  strength  and  pride. 
And  see,  Idomeneus,  by  Crete  ador'd, 
And  how  the  Cretans  gather  round  their  lord. 

reat  as  a  god!  I've  seen  him  oft  before, 
With  Menelaus  on  the  Spartan  shore. 
The  rest  I  know  and  could  in  order  name, 
All  valiant  chiefs  and  men  of  mighty  fame ; 
But    where — oh,    where  's   equestrian    Castor's 

might, 

Where  Pollux,  matchless  in  the  csestus-nghf? 
My  brothers  they ;  the  same  our  native  shore, 
One  house  contained  us,  as  one  mother  bore. 
Perhaps  the  chiefs,  from  warlike  toils  at  ease, 
For  distant  Troy  refused  to  sail  the  seas ; 
Perhaps    their    swords     some    nobler     quarrel 

draws, 

Ashamed  to  combat  in  their  sister's  cause." 
So  spoke  the  Fair,  nor  knew  her  brothers'  doom, 
Wrapped  in  the  cold  embraces  of  the  tomb, 
Adorned  with  honours  on  their  native  shore, 
Silent  they  slept,  and  heard  of  wars  no  more. 


Book  V. 
JUNO'S  COURSERS. 

FAR  as  a  shepherd  from  some  point  on  high, 
O'er  the  wide  main  extends  his  boundless  eye, 
Through  such  a  space  of  air,  with  thundering 

sound, 
At  every  leap  the  immortal  coursers  bound. 

MINERVA    ARMING    HERSELF    FOR    BATTLE.* 

BUT  the  stern  daughter  of  all-mighty  Jove 
Cast  off  the  veil  her  tfand  had  finely  wove, 
Whose  spreading  folds  around  her  girdle  flow'd 
On  the  starr'd  pavement  of  th'  Olympian  god. 
Then,  mail'd  for  ruthless  battle,  firmly  brac'd 
The  corslet  that  the  cloud-compeller  grac'd. 
The  snake-fring'd  YEgis  round  her  shoulder  drew, 
Where  Terror,  wreath'd  throughout,  came  forth 
to  view, 


*  According  to  Eustathius,  the  ancient  critics  marked 
these  verses  (in  the  original)  with  an  asterisk,  to  denote 
their  beauty. 


HOMER. 


There    Strife,  there   Fortitude,  ne'er  known  to 

yield, 

There  merciless  Pursuit,  that  wastes  the  field, 
And  Jove's  dire  omen  nameless  horrors  spread, 
Th'  appalling  monster,  the  Gorgonian  head — 
Then  brac'd  her  casque,  all  gold,  whose  four- 
coned  height 
Spreads,  o'er  an  hundred  hosts,  o'ershadowing 

night. 

Thus,  in  her  terror  mail'd,  the  goddess  leapt 
In  her  bright  car,  whence  flame-wing'd   light- 
nings swept, 
And  grasp'd  the  spear,  which,  when  her  fury 

burns, 

Proud  tyrants   humbles  and  whole    hosts   o'er- 
turns. 

Book  VI. 

THE    RACE    OF    MA5T. 

LIKE  leaves  on  trees  the  Race  of  Man  is  found; 
Now    green   in  youth,   now    withering   on  the 

ground : 

Another  race  the  following  spring  supplies; 
They  fall  successive,  and  successive  rise: 
So  generations  in  their  course  decay, 
So  flourish  these,  when  those  have  pass'd  away. 


From  Hippolochus  I  came, 

The  honour'd  author  of  my  birth  and  name ; 
By  his  decree  I  sought  the  Trojan  town, 
By  his  instructions  learn  to  win  renown, 
To  stand  the  first  in  worth  as  in  command, 
And  add  new  honours  to  my  native  land, 
Before  mine  eyes  my  mighty  sires  to  place, 
And  emulate  the  glories  of  our  race.* 

THE    PARTING    OP    HECTOR    AJTD    AKDROMACHE. 

"Too  daring  prince!  ah,  whither  dost  thou  run? 
'Ah,  too  forgetful  of  thy  wife  and  son! 
And  think'st  thou  not  how  wretched  we  shall  be, 
A  widow  I,  an  helpless  orphan  he? 
For  sure  such  courage  length  of  life  denies, 
And  thou  must  fall,  thy  virtue's  sacrifice. 
Greece  in  her  single  heroes  strove  in  vain; 
Now  hosts  oppose  thee,  and  thou  must  be  slain! 
Oh,  grant  me,  gods!  ere  Hector  meets  his  doom, 
All  I  can  ask  of  heaven,  an  early  tomb! 
So  shall  my  days  in  one  sad  tenor  run, 
And  end  with  sorrows  as  they  first  begun. 
No  parent  now  remains  my  grief  to  share, 
No  father's  aid,  no  mother's  tender  care. 
The  fierce  Achilles  wrapp'd  our  walls  in  fire, 
Laid  Thebe  waste,  and  slew  my  warlike  sire! 
His  fate  compassion  in  the  victor  bred. 
Stern  as  he  was,  he  yet  revered  the  dead, 


f  fit'fixi'f ,  xai  tx  tov 
&  pea  Tpot^v,  xai  /itot  /waxa  rtoM,' 
Aiev  aptoT'fvfti',  xai  vrtfipo^ov  i-'juuf 
ytVoj  IlaT'fpwv  aiazwifuV  ot 

iytvovto  xai  tv  Avxiy  fvpfiy 
oi  yfviijs  ff  xai  al'/juttos  tii^o^ac  tlvai. 
2 


His  radiant  arms  preserved  from  hostile  spoil, 

And  laid  him  decent  on  the  funeral  pile. 

Then  raised  a  mountain,  where  his  bones  were 

burn'd, 

The  mountain  nymphs  the  rural  tomb  adorn'd, 
Jove's  sylvan  daughters  bade  the  elms  bestow 
A  barren  shade,  and  in  his  honour  grow. 
By  the  same  arm  my  seven  brave  brothers  fell ; 
In  one  sad  day  beheld  the  gates  of  hell : 
While  the  fat  herds  and  snowy  flocks  they  fed. 
Amid  their  fields  the  hapless  heroes  bled ! 
My  mother  lived  to  bear  the  victor's  bands. 
The  queen  of  Hippoplacia's  sylvan  lands : 
Redeem'd  too  late,  she  scarce  beheld  again 
Her  pleasing  empire,  and  her  native  plain,     . 
When  ah  !  opprest  by  life-consuming  woe, 
She  fell  a  victim  to  Diana's  bow. 

"Yet,  while  my  Hector  still  survives,  I  see 
My  father,  mother,  brethren,  all  in  thee : 
Alas !  my  parents,  brothers,  kindred,  all 
Once  more  will  perish,  if  my  Hector  fall. 
Thy  wife,  thy  infant,  in  thy  danger  share : 
Oh  prove  a  husband's  and  a  father's  care ! 
That  quarter  most  the  skilful  Greeks  annoy, 
Where  yon  wild  fig-trees  join  the  walls  of  Troy : 
Thou,  from  this  tower,  defend  th'  important  post; 
There  Agamemnon  points  his  dreadful  host, 
That  pass  Tydides,  Ajax,  strive  to  gain, 
And  there  the  vengeful  Spartan  fires  his  train. 
Thrice  our  bold  foes  the  fierce  attack  have  given, 
Or  led  by  hopes,  or  dictated  from  heav'n. 
Let  others  in  the  field  their  arms  employ, 
But  stay  my  Hector  here,  and  guard  his  Troy." 

The  chief  replied :  "  That  post  shall  be  my  care, 
Nor  that  alone,  but  all  the  works  of  war. 
How  would  the  sons  of  Troy,  in  arms  renown'd, 
And  Troy's  proud  dames,  whose  garments  sweep 

the  ground, 

Attaint  the  lustre  of  my  former  name, 
Should  Hector  basely  quit  the  field  of  fame  ? 
My  early  youth  was  bred  to  martial  pains, 
My  soul  impels  me  to  th'  embattled  plains : 
Let  me  be  foremost  to  defend  the  throne, 
And  guard  my  father's  glories,  and  my  own. 
Yet  come  it  will,  the  day  decreed  by  fates : 
(How  my  heart  trembles,  while  my  tongue  re- 
lates :) 

The  day  when  thou,  imperial  Troy !  must  bend, 
And  see  thy  warriors  fall,  thy  glories  end. 
And  yet  no  dire  presage  so  wounds  my  mind, 
My  mother's  death,  the  ruin  of  my  kind, 
Not  Priam's  hoary  head  defil'd  with  gore, 
Not  all  my  brothers  gasping  on  the  shore, 
As  thine,  Andromache  !  thy  griefs  I  dread; 
I  see  thee  trembling,  weeping,  captive  led ! 
In  Argive  looms  our  battles  to  design, 
And  woes,  of  which  so  large  a  part  was  thine ! 
To  bear  the  victor's  hard  commands,  or  bring 
The  weight  of  waters  from  Hyperia's  spring. 
There,  while  you  groan   beneath   the  load  of 

life, 

They  cry,  Behold  the  mighty  Hector's  wife  ! 
Some  haughty  Greek,  who  lives  thy  tears  to  see, 
Embitters  all  thy  woes,  by  naming  me. 
The  thoughts  of  glory  past,  and  present  shame, 
A  thousand  griefs,  shall  waken  at  the  name ! 


10 


HOMER. 


May  I  lie  cold  before  that  dreadful  day, 
Prest  with,  a  heap  of  monumental  clay ! 
Thy  Hector,  wrapt  in  everlasting  sleep, 
Shall  neither  hear  thee  sigh,  nor  see  thee  weep." 

Thus  having  spoke,  th'  illustrious  chief  of  Troy 
Stretch'd  his  fond  arms  to  clasp  the  lovely  boy. 
The  babe  clung  crying  to  his  nurse's  breast, 
Scar'd  at  the  dazzling  helm,  and  nodding  crest. 
With  secret  pleasure  each  fond  parent  smil'd, 
And  Hector  hasted  to  relieve  his  child — 
The  glittering  terrors  from  his  brows  unbound, 
And  placed  the  beaming  helmet  on  the  ground  ; 
Then  kiss'd  the  child,  and,  lifting  high  in  air, 
Thus  to  the  gods  preferred  a  father's  prayer : 

"O  Thou!  whose  glory  fills  the  ethereal  throne, 
And  all  ye  deathless  powers !  protect  my  son. 
Grant  him,  like  me,  to  purchase  just  renown, 
To  guard  the  Trojans,  to  defend  the  crown ; 
Against  his  country's  foes  the  war  to  wage, 
And  rise  the  Hector  of  a  future  age. 
So,  when  triumphant  from  successful  toils 
Of  heroes,  slain  he  bears  the  reeking  spoils, 
Whole  hosts  may  hail  him  with  deserved  acclaim, 
And  say,  this  chief  transcends  his  father's  fame  : 
While  pleased,  amidst  the  general  shouts  of  Troy, 
His  mother's  conscious  heart  o'e-rflows  with  joy." 

He  spoke,  and  fondly  gazing  on  her  charms, 
Restored  the  pleasing  burden  to  her  arms : 
Soft  on  her  fragrant  breast  the  babe  he  laid, 
Hush'd  to  repose,  and  with  a  smile  survey'd. 
The  troubled  pleasure  soon  chastis'd  by  fear, 
She  mingled  with  the  smile  a  tender  tear. 
The  soften'd  chief  with  kind  compassion  view'd, 
And  dried  the  falling  drops,  and  thus  pursued : 

"  Andromache  !  my  soul's  far  better  part ! 
Why  with  untimely  sorrow  heaves  thy  heart1? 
No  hostile  hand  can  antedate  my  doom, 
Till  fate  condemns  me  to  the  silent  tomb : 
Fix'd  is  the  term  to  all  the  race  of  earth ; 
And  such  the  hard  condition  of  our  birth, 
No  force  can  then  resist,  no  flight  can  save  ; 
All  sink  alike,  the  fearful  and  the  brave. 
No  more — but  hasten  to  thy  tasks  at  home ; 
There  guide  the  spindle,  and  direct  the  loom. 
Me  glory  summons  to  the  martial  scene, 
The  field  of  combat  is  the  sphere  for  men ; 
Where  heroes  war,  the  foremost  place  I  claim, 
The  first  in  danger,  as  the  first  in  fame." 

Thus  having  said,  the  glorious  chief  resumes 
His  towery  helmet,  black  with  shading  plumes. 
His  princess  parts  with  a  prophetic  sigh, 
Unwilling  parts,  and  oft  reverts  her  eye, 
That  stream'd  at  every  look :  then,  moving  slow, 
Sought  her  own  palace,  and  indulged  her  woe. 
There,  while  her  tears  deplored  the  godlike  man, 
Through  all  her  train  the  soft  infection  ran  ; 
The  pious  maids  their  mingled  sorrows  shed, 
And  mourn'd  the  living  Hector,  as  the  dead. 

Book  IX. 

EMBASSY  OF  PHO3NIX,  AJAX,  AND  ULYSSES  TO  THE 
TENT  OF  ACHILLES. 

THROUGH  the  still  night  they  march,  and  hear 

the  roar 
Of  murmuring  billows  on  the  sounding  shore. 


To  Neptune,  ruler  of  the  seas  profound, 
Whose  liquid  arms  the  mighty  globe  surround, 
They  pour  forth  vows  their  embassy  to  bless, 
And  calm  the  rage  of  stern  ./Eacides. 
And  now  arriv'd,  where,  on  the  sandy  bay, 
The  Myrmidonian  tents  and  vessels  lay ; 
Amus'd,  at  ease,  the  godlike  man  they  found, 
Pleas'd  with  the  solemn  harp's  harmonious  sound. 
With  this  he  soothes  his  angry  soul,  and  sings 
The  immortal  deeds  of  heroes  and  of  kings. 
Patroclus  only  of  the  royal  train, 
Placed  in  his  tent,  attends  the  lofty  strain. 
Full  opposite  he  sat,  and  listen'd  long, 
In  silence  waiting  till  he  ceased  the  song. 
Unseen  the  Grecian  embassy  proceeds 
To  his  high  tent ;  the  great  Ulysses  leads. 
Achilles  starting,  as  the  chiefs  he  spied, 
Leap'd  from  his  seat,  and  laid  his  harp  aside. 
With  like  surprise  arose  Menoetius'  son  : 
Pelides  grasp'd  their  hands,  and  thus  begun. 

HOSPITALITY    OF  ACHILLES PATRIARCHAL 

MANNERS. 

HE  spake :  nor  him  Patroclus  disobeyed — 
Then,  nigh  the  fire,  his  lord  a  basket  laid ; 
There  cast  a  goat's  and  sheep's  extended  chine, 
And  the  huge  carcase  of  a  fatted  swine, 
Served  by  Automedon,  with  dext'rous  art : 
Achilles'  self  divided  part  from  part. 
Fixed   on   the    spits   the   flesh,  where  brightly 

blaz'd 

The  fire's  pure  splendour,  by  Patroclus  rais'd. 
Patroclus  next,  when  sank  the  flame,  subdued, 
O'er  the  raked  embers  placed  the  spitted  food ; 
Then  rais'd  it  from  the  props — then,  salted  o'er, 
And  duly  roasted,  to  the  dresser  bore : 
Next  to  each  guest,  along  the  table  spread, 
In  beauteous  baskets,  the  allotted  bread : 
Achilles'  self  distributed  the  meat, 
And  placed  against  his  own  Ulysses'  seat. 
And  now  Patroclus,  at  his  lord's  desire, 
The  hallowed  offering  cast  amid  the  fire : 
The  guests  then  feasted,  and,  the  banquet  o'er, 
When  satiate  thirst  and  hunger  claim'd  no  more, 
Ulysses  mindful,  crown'd  his  cup  with  wine, 
And  to  Achilles  drank. 

ACHILLES'  ABHORRENCE  OF  FALSEHOOD. 

WHO  dares  think  one  thing  and  another  tell, 
My  soul  detests  him  as  the  gates  of  hell. 

Another  translation  of  the  Same. 
LOATHED  as  the  gates  of  Hades,  I  despise 
The  lip  that  utters  what  the  heart  denies. 

PHCENIX'S    ENDEAVOUR  TO  APPEASE  ACHILLES. 

ACHILLES  !  bid  thy  mighty  spirit  down: 
Thou  shouldst  not  be  thus  merciless ;  the  gods, 
Although  more  honourable,  and  in  power 
And  virtue  thy  superiors,  are  themselves 
Yet  placable ;  and,  if  a  mortal  man 
Offend  them  by  transgression  of  their  laws, 
Libation,  incense,  sacrifice  and  prayer, 
In  meekness  offered,  turn  their  wrath  away. 


HOMER. 


11 


Prayers  are  Jove's  daughters,  wrinkled,  lame, 

slant-eyed, 

Which,  though  far  distant,  yet  with  constant  pace, 
Follow  offence.     Offence,  robust  of  limb, 
And  treading  firm  the  ground,  outstrips  them  all, 
And  over  all  the  earth  before  them  runs, 
Hurtful  to  man.     They  following,  heal  the  hurt; 
Received  respectfully  when  they  approach, 
They  yield  us  aid,  and  listen  when  we  pray. 
But  if  we  slight,  and  with  obdurate  heart 
Resist  them,  to  Saturnian  Jove  they  cry 
Against  us  ;  supplicating  that  offence 
May  cleave  to  us  for  vengeance  of  the  wrong. 
Thou,  therefore,  0  Achilles !  honour  yield 
To  Jove's  own  daughters,  vanquish'd  as  the  brave 
Have  often  been,  by  honour  done  to  thee. 


Book  XII. 

ATTACK   OF   THE   TROJANS    OX   THE    GREEKS 

AUGURIES — HECTOR'S  REPLY  TO  POLYDAMAS. 

WAR  raged  at  every  gate,  and  deeds  were 

wrought, 
None  but  a  god  can  sing :  deeds  passing  human 

thought. 

The  battle  burn'd : — the  stones,  a  missile  shower, 
Rung  round  the  wall,  and  smote  each  batter'd 

tower. 

The  Greeks,  by  harsh  necessity  constrain'd, 
Guards  of  their  fleet,  though  bowed  with  woe, 

remain'd : 

When  on  the  Trojans'  left,  both  hosts  between, 
Aloft  an  eagle  soar'd,  distinctly  seen, 
Whose  talons  a  voluminous  serpent  grasp'd 
That,  bathed  in  gore,  yet  palpitating,  gasp'd, 
And,  fiercely  struggling,   backward    rear'd    his 

crest, 

Coiled  round  the  eagle's  neck,  and  tore  his  breast. 
The  bird,  in  anguish  of  that  piercing  wound, 
Mid  the  throng'd  army  cast  him  on  the  ground ; 
Spread  her  broad  wings,  and,  floating  on  the  wind, 
Shriek'd  as  she  flew,  and  left  her  prey  behind : 
While,  where  the  serpent  lay,  with  fear  amaz'd, 
On  Jove's  portentous  sign  the  Trojans  gaz'd. 

Then  spake  Polydamas :  "  Full  oft  my  word, 
Though  just,  brave  Hector,  has  thy  blame  incurred ; 
Yet — both  in  war  and  council,  still  the  aim, 
That  best  becomes  each  citizen, — thy  fame. 
Hence  will  I  freely  speak :  here,  Hector,  stay, 
Nor  lead  against  the  fleet  our  arm'd  array. 
For  sure  to  warn  us  is  that  omen  scut. 
And  thus  my  mind  expounds  the  dread  event. 
When  on  our  battle's  left,  each  host  between, 
The  eagle  and  that  snake,  distinctly  seen, 
Which,  yet  alive,  on  earth  she  downward  flung, 
Nor  to  her  aerie  brought,  to  feast  her  young : 
Thus  we — if  forc'd  each  gate,  if  prone  each  tow'r, 
And    Greece,  dishcart.-ii'd,  dread    to    front  our 

power — 

Ne'er  from  that  fleet,  in  orderly  array, 
Shall  back  return  on  our  triumphant  way ; 
But,  in  her  fleet's  defence,  by  Grapcia  slain, 
There  many  a  Trojan  son  shall  strew  the  plain. 
Slight  not  my  word — I  speak  as  speaks  the  seer, 
Whom  gods  have  gifted,  and  mankind  revere." 


"Cease,"  —  Hector  sternly  answer'd — "cease 

this  word, 

This  warning  voice,  with  scorn  by  Hector  heard  : 
Some  worthier  frame — if  this  advis'dly  said, 
Thy  reason  wanders,  by  the  gods  betray'd. 
Thou  didst  me — reckless  of  the  powers  above — 
Forget  the  counsels  ratified  by  Jove  : 
Thou  bidst  me  birds  obey — I  scorn  their  flight, 
I  reck  not  whence  they  spring,  nor  where  alight. 
"  If,  on  the  right  they  seek  the  dawn  of  day, 
Or,  on  the  left,  through  darkness  cJeave  their  way. 
Jove  I  obey,  who,  on  th'  Olympian  throne 
O'er  mortals  and  immortals  rules  alone. 
Watch  thou  the  flight  of  birds — such  omens  thine : 
One,  far  o'er  all — to  guard  my  country — mine.';* 


He    spake:   and  onward  rush'd:  Troy's   dense 

array 

Pursued,  loud  clamouring,  where  he  led  the  way : 
From  Ida's  topmost  brow  the  Thunderer,  Jove, 
O'er  all  the  fleet  thick  dust  in  whirlwinds  drove, 
Quell'd  in  the  Greeks  the  spirit  of  the  brave, 
And  added  fame  to  Troy  and  Hector  gave. 

SARPEDOJf. 

THUS  godlike  Hector  and  his  troops  contend 
To  force  the  ramparts,  and  the  gates  to  rend ; 
Nor  Troy  could  conquer,  nor  the  Greeks  would 

yield, 

Till  great  Sarpedon  tower'd  amid  the  field ; 
For  mighty  Jove  inspired  with  martial  flame 
His  matchless  son,  and  urged  him  on  to  fame. 
In  arms  he  shines,  conspicuous  from  afar, 
And  bears  aloft  his  ample  shield  in  air; 
Within    whose  orb,  the    thick   bull-hides  were 

roll'd, 
Ponderous  with  brass,  and  bound  with  ductile 

gold: 

And  while  two  pointed  javelins  arm  his  hands, 
Majestic  moves  along,  and  leads-his  Lycian  bands. 
So,  pressed  with  hunger,  from  the  mountain's 

brow 

Descends  a  lion  on  the  flocks  below ; 
So  stalks  the  lordly  savage  o'er  the  plain, 
In  sullen  majesty,  and  stern  disdain: 
In  vain  loud  mastiffs  bay  him  from  afar, 
And  shepherds  gall  him  with  an  iron  war; 
Regardless,  furious,  he  pursues  his  way ; 
He  foams,  he  roars,  he  rends  the  panting  prey. 

Resolved  a.like,  divine  Sarpedon  glows 
With  generous  rage  that  drives  him  on  the  foes. 
He  views  the  towers,  and  meditates  their  fall, 
To  sure  destruction  dooms  th'  aspiring  wall: 
Then,  casting  on  his  friend  an  ardent  look, 
Fin-d  with  the  thirst  of  glory,  thus  he  spoke: 

Why  boast  we,  Glaucus!  our  extended  reign, 
Where  Xanthus'  streams  enrich  the  Lycian  plain, 
Our  numerous  herds  that  range  the  fruitful  field, 
And  hills  were  vines  their  purple  harvest  yield, 


*  Et'j  ouovoj  opttftfoj  a,pvv£aO<u  rttpt 
which  Mr.  Pope  thus  translates  : 

"  Without  a  sign  his  sword  the  brave  man  draws, 
And  asks  no  omen  but  his  country's  cause." 


12 


HOMER. 


Our  foaming  bowls  with  purer  nectar  crown'd, 
Our    feasts    enhanced    with    music's    sprightly 

sound ! 

Why  on  those  shores  are  we  with  joy  survey'd, 
Admired  as  heroes,  and  as  gods  obey'd, 
Unless  great  acts  superior  merit  prove, 
And  vindicate  the  bounteous  powers  above? 
'Tis  ours,  the  dignity  they  give  to  grace ; 
The  first  in  valour,  as  the  first  in  place : 
That  when  with  wondering  eyes  our  martial 

bands 

Behold  our  deeds  transcending  our  commands, 
Such,  they  may  cry,  deserve  the  sovereign  state, 
Whom  those  that  envy,  dare  not  imitate ! 
Could  all  our  care  elude  the  gloomy  grave, 
Which  claims  no  less  the  fearful  than  the  brave, 
For  lust  of  fame  I  should  not  vainly  dare 
In  fighting  fields,  nor  urge  thy  soul  to  war : — 
But  since,  alas !  ignoble  age  must  come, 
Disease,  and  death's  inexorable  doom; 
The  life  which  others  pay,  let  us  bestow, 
And  give  to  fame  what  we  to  nature  owe; 
Brave  though  we  fall,  and  honour'd  if  we  live, 
Or  let  us  glory  gain,  or  glory  give ! 

DEEDS    OF    HECTOR. 

As  when  two  scales  are  charged  with  doubt- 
ful loads, 

From  side  to  side  the  trembling  balance  nods 
(While  some  laborious  matron,  just  and  poor, 
With  nice  exactness  weighs  her  woolly  store,) 
Till,  poised  aloft,  the  resting  beam  suspends 
Each  equal  weight;  nor  this,  nor  that  descends: 
So  stood  the  war,  till  Hector's  matchless  might 
With  fates  prevailing,  turn'd  the  scale  of  fight. 
Fierce  as  a  whirlwind  up  the  wall  he  flies, 
And  fires  his  host  with  loud  repeated  cries : 
Advance,  ye  Trojans !  lend  your  valiant  hands, 
Haste  to  the  fleet,  and  toss  the  blazing  brands. 
They  hear,  they  run ;  and,  gathering  at  his  call, 
Raise  scaling  engines,  and  ascend  the  wall: 
Around  the  works  a  wood  of  glittering  spears 
Shoots  up,  and  all  the  rising  host  appears. 
A  ponderous  stone  bold  Hector  heaved  to  throw, 
Pointed  above,  and  rough  and  gross  below : 
Not  two  strong  men  the  enormous  weight  could 

raise, 

Such  men  as  live  in  these  degenerate  days. 
Yet  this,  as  easy  as  a  swain  could  bear 
The  snowy  fleece,  he  toss'd,  and  shook  in  air : 
For  Jove  upheld,  and  lighten'd  of  its  load 
The  unwieldy  rock,  the  labour  of  a  god. 
Thus  arm'd,  before  the  folded  gates  he  came, 
Of  massy  substance,  and  stupendous  frame ; 
With  iron  bars  and  brazen  hinges  strong, 
On  lofty  beams  of  solid  timber  hung: 
Then,  thundering  through  the  planks  with  force- 
ful sway, 

Drives  the  sharp  rock ;  the  solid  beams  give  way, 
The  folds  are  shatter'd ;  from  the  crackling  door 
Leap  the  resounding  bars,  the  flying  hinges  roar. 
Now  rushing  in,  the  furious  chief  appears, 
Gloomy  as  night !  and  shakes  two  shining  spears : 
A  dreadful  gleam  from  his  bright  armour  came, 
And  from  his  eye-balls  flash'd  a  living  flame. 


He  moves  a  god,  resistless  in  his  course, 
And  seems  a  match  for  more  than  mortal  force. 
Then  pouring  after,  through  the  gaping  space, 
A  tide  of  Trojans  flows,  and  fills  the  place  : 
The  Greeks  behold,  they  tremble,  and  they  fly; 
The  shore  is  heap'd  with  dead,  and  tumult  rends 
the  sky. 

Book  XIII. 

NEPTUNE  HASTENING  TO  THE  HELIEF  OF  THE 
GREEKS. 


sweeps  the  god;  and  trembling,  where  he 

treads, 
Rocks,  mountains,  forests,  bow  their  conscious 

heads  ; 

O'er  isle,  o'er  sea,  at  three  vast  strides  he  wends, 
And,  with  the  fourth,  on  .^Egse's  shore  descends,  — 
His  goal;  —  where  bright,  nor  built  by  mortal 

hands, 

Deep  midst  the  waves,  his  ocean-palace  stands;  — 
There,  brazen-hoof  'd,  gold-man'd,  to  their  fleet  car 
His  steeds  he  yokes,  and  arms  himself  for  war, 
Grasps  the  bright  scourge,  and  forth,  in  gold  array, 
Swift,  through  the  onward  billows,  shoots  his 

way; 

Up  from  their  caves  the  whales  exulting  spring, 
Sport  round  his  track,  and  hail  their  ocean-king; 
Subsiding  seas  a  leveller  space  supply, 
And  waves,  disparting,  leave  his  axle  dry.* 

THE  GIRDLE  OF  VENUS. 

.........  The  embroidered  zone, 

Where  each  embellishment  divinely  shone: 
There  dwell  the  allurements,  all  that  love  inspire  ; 
There  soft  seduction,  there  intense  desire  ; 
There  witchery  of  words,  whose  flatteries  weave 
Wiles,  that  the  wisdom  of  the  wise  deceive. 

The  Same  paraphrased. 

The  zone  ...................... 

With  various  skill  and  high  embroidery  grac'd, 
In  which  was  every  art,  and  every  charm, 
To  win  the  wisest,  and  the  coldest  warm  : 
Fond  love,  the  gentle  vow,  the  gay  desire, 
The  kind  deceit,  the  still-reviving  fire  ; 
Persuasive  speech,  arid  more  persuasive  sighs, 
Silence  that  spoke,  and  eloquence  of  eyes. 


Book  XV in. 

ACHILLES  SHOWING  HIMSELF  AT  THE  HEAD  OF 
THE  ENTRENCHMENTS. 

Forth  marched  the  chief,  and,  distant  from  the 

crowd, 
High  on  the  rampart  rais'd  his  voice  aloud ; 


*  This  description  of  the  Sea-God  has  been  quoted  by 
Longinus  as  a  specimen  of  the  sublime  ;  but  how  infinitely 
inferior  is  it  (as  Dr.  Smith  has  truly  observed)  to  a  thou- 
sand passages  in  Scripture,  descriptive  of  the  divine 
presence.  See  the  Book  of  Job  and  Psalms — particularly 
Psalm  xviii.  7—10 ;  and  Ixxvii.  16—19,  &c.  See  also, 
Milton's  description  of  the  Messiah,  b.  vi.  772  and 
781. 


HOMER. 


13 


With  her  own  shout,  Minerva  swells  the  sound ; 
Troy  starts  astonished,  and  the  shores  rebound. 
As  the  loud  trumpet's  brazen  mouth  from  far, 
With  shrilling  clangour  sounds  the  alarm  of  war, 
Struck  from  the  walls,  the  echoes  float  on  high, 
And  the  round  bulwarks  and  thick  towers  reply, 
So  high  his  brazen  voice  the  hero  rear'd  : 
Hosts  dropp'd  their  arms,  and  tremble  as  they 

heard  ; 

And  back  the  chariots  roll,  and  coursers  bound, 
And  steeds  and  men  lie  mingled  on  the  ground. 
Thrice  from  the  trench  his  dreadful  voice  he 

rais'd, 
And  thrice  they  fled,  confounded  and  amaz'd. 

SHIELD   OF  ACHILLES. 

HE  first  a  vast  and  massive  buckler  made ; 
There  all  the  wonders  of  his  work  display'd : 
With  silver  belt  adorn'd,  and  triply  wound 
Orb  within  orb,  the  border  beaming  round. 
Five  plates  composed  the  shield ;  there  Vulcan's 

art 

Charged  with  his  skilful  mind  each  varied  part. 
There  earth,  there  heaven  appeared  ;  there  ocean 

flowed ; 
There    the    orbed    moon,    and    sun    unwearied 

glowed  : 

There,  every  star  that  gems  the  brow  of  night, 
Pleiads  arid  Hyads,  and  Orion's  might ; 
The  Bear,  that,  watchful  in  his  ceaseless  roll 
Around  the  star  whose  light  illumes  the  pole, 
Still  eyes  Orion,  nor  e'er  stoops  to  lave 
His  beams  unconscious  of  the- ocean  wave. 

There,  by  the  god's  creative  power  reveal'd, 
Two  stately  cities  fill'd  with  life  the  shield. 
Here  nuptials,  solemn  feasts,  and  pomps  that  led, 
Brides  from  their  chambers  to  the  nuptial  bed. 
Bright  blaz'd  the  torches  as  they  swept  along 
Through  streets  that  rung  with  hymeneal  song : 
And  while  gay  youths,  swift  circling  round  and 

round, 

Danced  to  the  pipe  and  harp's  harmonious  sound, 
The  women  throng'd,  and,  wondering  as  they 

viewed, 
Stood  in  each  portal,  and  the  pomp  pursued. 

Next,  on  the  shield,  a  forum  met  the  view ; 
Two  men,  contending,  there  a  concourse  drew : 
A  citizen  was  slain :  keen  rose  the  strife  : 
'Twas  compensation  claim'd  for  loss  of  life. 
This  swore  the  mulct  for  blood  was  strictly  paid  ; 
This,  that  the  fine  long  due  was  yet  delay 'd. 
Both  cliiim'd  th'  award,  anil  bade  the  laws  decide, 
And  partial  numbers,  ranir'd  on  either  side, 
With  eager  clamours  for  decision  call, 
Till  the  fear'd  heralds  seat  and  silence  all. 
There  the  hoar  elders,  in  their  sacred  place, 
On  seats  of  polish'd  stone  the  circle  grace ; 
Rise  with  a  herald's  sceptre,  weigh  the  cause, 
And  speak  in  turn  the  sentence  of  the  laws: 
While,  in  the  midst,  for  him  to  bear  away, 
Who  rightliest  spoke,  two  golden  talents  lay. 

The  other  city  on  the  shield  displayed, 
Two  hosts  that  girt  it,  in  bright  mail  array'd: 


Diverse  their  counsel :  these,  to  burn,  decide, 
And  those  to  seize,  and  all  its  wealth  divide. 
The  town  their  summons  scorn'd,  resistance 

dar'd, 

And  secretly  for  ambush  arms  prepar'd. 
Wife,  grandsire,  child,  one  soul  alike  in  all, 
Stand  on  the  battlements,  and  guard  the  wall. 
Mars,  Pallas,  led  their  host :  gold  either  god, 
A  golden  radiance  from  their  armour  flow'd. 
Onward  they  pass'd,  till,  where  a  river  wound, 
A  station  fit  for  ambush  mark'd  the  ground  5 
A  watering  place  for  beasts  of  every  kind, 
And  there  they  couch'd  beneath  their  arms  re- 
clined. 

Two  spies,  at  distance  from  their  eomrades,  lay, 
And  watch'd  the  cattle  on  their  wonted  way. 
They  come  ; — unconscious  of  the  ambuscade, 
Two  shepherds,  following,  on  their  reedrpipes 

play'd. 
Warn'd  by  their  spies,  the  warriors  seize  the 

prey, 

Drive  the  horn'd  beasts  and  snowy  flocks  away, 
And  slay  the  swains.     As  loud  the  tumult  rose, 
Of  bellowing  oxen,  and  conflicting  blows, 
The  chiefs  from  council  dart:  with  fiery  speed, 
Mount,  lash  their  coursers,  pour  upon  the  mead, 
And,  warring  on  the  margin  of  the  flood, 
The  spear-armed  foemen  shed  each  other's  blood. 
Mid  these  Contention  rush'd,  wild  Tumult  rag'd, 
And  ruthless  Fate  unsparing  battle  wag'd ; 
Grasp'd  one  new-wounded,  one  without  a  wound, 
And  drew  another  slain  along  the  ground  : 
While  the  dark  garments  that  the  warriors  wore, 
Clung  to  their  shoulders,  thick  with  human  gore. 
Like  life  the  conflict  clash'd,  the  battle  bled, 
And  host  immixt  with  host,  dragg'd  forth  by  turn 
the  dead. 

The  god  then  wrought  on  that  celestial  shield, 
A  broad,  a  triple-plough'd,  and  fertile  field  ; 
There  many  ploughmen,  bending  o'er  their  toil, 
Turn'd  to  and  fro  their  yokes,  and  clave  the  soil ; 
And,  as  they  reach'd  the  confine  of  the  plain, 
And  paus'd  to  breathe  ere  turning  back  again, 
The  master  met  them,  and  to  every  hind 
A  goblet,  fill'd  with  luscious  wine,  assign'd ; 
Then,    each   his    furrow    labouring,   clave    the 

ground, 

And  strove  to  reach  the  glebe's  extremest  bound ; 
And  the  tilth  darken'd  like  a  new-turn'd  clod, 
Though  golden  all :  all  wonder  of  the  god. 

Now,  laden  deep  with  corn,  a  heavy  field 
Rose  on  the  view,  and  bristled  o'er  the  shield. 
The  reapers  toil'd,  the  sickles  in  their  hand, 
And  heap  on  heap  fell  thick  along  the  land ; 
Three  labourers  grasp  them,  and  in  sheaves  up- 

bind  ; 

Boys,  gathering  up  their  handfuls,  went  behind, 
Proffering  their    load;   mid  these,  in  gladsome 

mood, 

Mute,  leaning  on  his  staff,  the  master  stood. 
Apart,  the  heralds,  in  an  oaken  glade, 
Slew  a  huge  bullock,  and  the  banquet  made ; 
While  women,  busy  with  the  wheaten  grain, 
Kneaded  the  meal  to  feast  at  eve  the  swain. 
B 


14 


HOMER. 


Now,  bow'd  with  grapes,  in  gold  a  vineyard 

glow'd, 

A  purple  light  along  its  clusters  flow'd : 
On  poles  of  silver  traiii'd,  the  vines  repos'd, 
Dark  the  deep  trench,  and  pales  of  tin  enclos'd. 
One  path  alone  there  led,  along  whose  way 
Ceas'd  not  the  gatherers  thro'  the  live-long  day: 
Youths  and  fair  girls,  who,  gladdening  in  the  toil, 
In  woven  panniers  bore  the  nectar  spoil: — 
Sweet  struck  the  lyre  a  boy  amid  the  throng, 
And  chanted  with  shrill  voice  the  Linus-song; 
While  the  gay  chorus,  as  they  danc'd  around, 
Together  sang,  together  beat  the  ground. 

Now  a  large  herd,  high-horn'd,  part  tin,  part 

gold, 

Rose  from  the  buckler  of  celestial  mould : 
These  from  their  stalls  rush'd  bellowing  to  the 

meads, 

Where  flow'd  a  river  midst  o'ershadowing  reeds : 
Four  herdsmen  follow'd,  all  in  gold  design'd, 
And  nine  fleet-footed  dogs  came  on  behind. 
Two  famish'd  lions,  prowling  for  their  prey, 
Sprung  on  the  bull  that  foremost  led  the  way, 
And  wild  with  pain  their  bellowing  victim  drew, 
While  on  their  track  the  dogs  and  herdsmen  flew : 
Thro'  the  rent  hide  their  food  the  lions  tore, 
The  fuming  entrails  gorg'd,  and  drain'd  his  gore. 
In  vain  the  herdsmen  speed,  and  urge  in  vain 
The  dogs  the  lions'  conflict  to  sustain; 
Too  weak  to  wound,  they  linger'd,  half-dismay 'd, 
Yet  stood,  too  bold  to  fly,  and  fiercely  bay'd. 

Now  the  god's  changeful  artifice  display'd 
Fair  flocks  at  pasture  in  a  lovely  glade : 
And  folds,  and  sheltering  stalls  peeped  up  be- 
tween, 
And  shepherd-huts  diversified  the  scene. 

Now  on  the  shield  a  choir  appear'd  to  move, 
Whose  flying  feet  the  tuneful  labyrinth  wove ; 
Such  as  fam'd  Daedalus,  on  Gnossus'  shore, 
For  bright-hair'd  Ariadne  form'd  of  yore  ; 
Youths  and  fair  girls,  there,  hand  in  hand,  ad- 
vanced, 

Tim'd  to  the  song  their  step,  and  gaily  danced. 
Round  every  maid  light  robes  of  linen  flow'd, 
Round  every  youth  a  glossy  tunic  glow'd ; 
Those  wreath'd  with  flowers,  while  from  their 

partners  hung, 
Swords    that,    all    gold,    from    belts    of    silver 

swung. 

Train'd  by  nice  art  each  flexile  limb  to  wind, 
Their  twinkling  feet   the    measur'd    maze    en- 

twin'd, 

Fleet  as  the  wheel,  whose  use  the  potter  tries 
When  twirl'd  beneath  his  hand  its  axle  flies. 
Now  all  at  once  their  graceful  ranks  combine, 
Each  rang'd  against  the  other,  line  with  line. 
The   crowd  flock'd   round,   and,   wondering  as 

they  viewed, 

Thro'  every  change  the  varying  dance  pursued; 
The  while  two  tumblers,  as  they  led  the  song, 
Turn'd    in   the    midst,    and    roll'd    themselves 

along. 

There,  last,  the  god  the  force  of  Ocean  bound, 
And  pour'd  its  waves  the  buckler's  orb  around. 


Book  XIX. 

GRECIAN    ARMT    GOING    FORTH    TO    BATTLE- 
APPEARANCE    OF    ACHILLES. 

THE  host  set  forth  and  its  steele  waves 

pour'd  far  out  of  the  fleete ; 
And  as  from  aire  the  north-winde  blows 

a  frostie-colde  thicke  sleete, 
That  dazzles  eyes,  flakes  after  flakes 

incessantly  descending; 
So  thicke  helmes,  curets,  ashen  darts, 

and  round  shields  never-ending, 
Flowed  from  the  navie's  hollow  wombe ; 

their  splendors  gave  heaven's  eye 
His  beames  againe ;  earth  laugh'd  to  see 

her  face  so  like  the  skie ; 
Amies  shin'd  so  hote,  and  she  such  clouds 

made  with  the  dust  she  cast; 
She  thunder'd — feet  of  men  and  horse 

importuned  her  so  fast. 
In  midst  of  all  divine  Achil- 
les his  faire  person  arm'd; 
His  teeth  gnasht  as  he  stood — his  eyes 

so  full  of  fire,  they  warm'd ; 
Unsuffer'd  griefe  and  anger  at 

the  Troians  so  combin'd; 
His  greaves  first  usde,  his  goodly  cu- 
rets on  his  bosome  shin'd; 
His  sworde,  his  shielde  that  caste  from  it 

a  brightnesse  like  the  moone. 
And  as  from  sea  sailers  disceme 

a  harmfull  fire,  let  runne 
By  herdsmen's  faults,  till  all  their  stall 

flies  up  in  wrestling  flame, 
Which,  being  on  hils,  is  seene  farre  off; 

but  being  alone,  none  came 
To  give  it  quench,  at  shore  no  neigh- 
bors, and  at  sea  their  friends 
Driven  off  -with  tempests ;  such  a  fire 

from  his  bright  shield  extends 
His  ominous  radiance  and  in  heaven 

imprest  his  fervent  blaze. 
His  crested  helmet,  grave  and  high, 

had  next  triumphant  place 
On  his  curl'd  head;  and,  like  a  starre, 

it  cast  a  spurrie  ray 
About  which  a  bright  thicken'd  bush 

of  golden  haire  did  play, 
Which  Vulcan  forg'd  him  for  his  plume. 

Thus  compleate  arm'd,  he  tride 
How  fit  they  were,  and  if  with  ease 

his  motion  could  abide 
Their  brave  instruction;  and  so  farre 

they  were  from  hindering  it, 
That  to  it  they  were  nimble  wings, 

and  made  so  light  his  spirit, 
That  from  the  earthe  the  princely  cap- 
tame  they  took  up  to  aire. 
Then  from  his  armoury  he  drew 

his  lance,  his  father's  speare, 
Huge,  weightie,  firme,  that  not  a  Greeke 

but  he  himselfe  alone 
Knew  how  to  shake.     It  grew  upon 

the  mountaine  Pelion, 
From  whose  height  Chiron  hew'd  it  for 

his  sire,  and  fatall  'twas 
To  great-soul'd  men. 


HOMER. 


15 


Book  XX. 

THE    BATTLE    OF    THE    GODS. 

Tow  through  the  trembling  shores  Minerva  calls, 
incl  now  she  thunders  from  the  Grecian  walls. 
Mars,  hovering  over  Troy,  his  terror  shrouds 
In  gloomy  tempests  and  a  night  of  clouds. — 
Above,  the  Sire  of  gods  his  thunder  rolls, 
And  peals  on  peals,  redoubled,  shake  the  poles. 
Beneath,  stern  Neptune  shakes  the  solid  ground ; 
The  forests  wave,  the  mountains  nod  around; 
Through  all  their  summits  tremble  Ida's  woods, 
And,  from  their  sources,  boil  her  hundred  floods : 
Troy's  turrets  totter  on  the  rocking  plain, 
And  the  Greek  navies  beat  the  heaving  main. — 
Deep  in  the  dismal  regions  of  the  dead, 
The  infernal  monarch  rear  d  his  horrid  head, 
Leap'd   from   his   throne,    lest    Neptune's    arm 

should  lay 

His  dark  dominions  open  to  the  day, 
And  pour  in  light  on  Pluto's  drear  abodes, 
Abhorr'd  by  men,  and  dreadful  e'en  to  gods. 


Book  XXIII. 

WRESTLING. 

THE  third  bold  game  Achilles  next  demands, 
And  calls  the  wrestlers  to  the  level  sands : 
A  massy  tripod  for  the  victor  lies, 
Of  twice  six  oxen  its  reputed  prize  ; 
And  next,  the  loser's  spirits  to  restore, 
A  female  captive,  valued  but  at  four. 
Scarce  did  the  chief  the  vigorous  strife  propose, 
When  tower-like  Ajax  and  Ulysses  rose. 
Amid  the  ring  each  nervous  rival  stands, 
Embracing  rigid  with  implicit  hands ; 
Close-lock'd  above  their  heads  and  arms  are  mixt, 
Below,  their  planted  feet,  at  distance  fixt : 
Like  two  strong  rafters,  which  the  builder  forms, 
Proof  to  the  wintry  winds  and  howling  storms, 
Their  tops  connected,  but  at  wider  space, 
Fixt  on  the  centre  stands  their  solid  base. 
Now  to  the  grasp  each  manly  body  bends, 
The  humid  sweat  from  every  pore  descends  j 
Nor  could  Ulysses,  for  his  art  renown'd, 
O'erturn  the  strength  of  Ajax  on  the  ground ; 
Nor  could  the  strength  of  Ajax  overthrow 
The  watchful  caution  of  his  artful  foe. 
While  the  long  strife  e'en  tired  the  lookers  on, 
Thus  to  Ulysses  spake  great  Telamon : 
Or  let  me  lift  thee,  chief,  or  lift  thou  me : 
Prove  we  our  force,  and  Jove  the  rest  decree. 
He  said;  and,  straining,  heaved  him  off  the  ground 
With  matchless  strength  ;  that  time  Ulysses  found 
To  foil  his  foe,  and  where  the  nerves  combine 
His  ancle  struck:  the  giant  fell  supine: 
Ulysses,  following,  on  his  bosom  lies ; 
Shouts  of  applause  run  rattling  through  the  skies. 
Ajax  to  lift  Ulysses  next  essays ; 
He  barely  stirred  him,  but  he  could  not  raise : 
His  knee  lock'd  fast,  the  foe's  attempt  denied, 
And  grappling  close,  they  tumble  side  by  side. 
Deftl'd  with  honourable  dust  they  roll, 
Still  breathing  strife,  and  unsubdued  of  soul : 
Again  they  rage,  again  to  combat  rise; 
When  great  Achilles  thus  divides  the  prize  : 


"Your  noble  vigour,  0  my  friends,  restrain; 
Nor  weary  out  your  generous  strength  in  vain. 
Ye  both  have  won :  let  others,  who  excel, 
Now  prove   the  prowess  you  have  proved  so 
well.1' 


Book  XXIV. 

PRIAM'S  SPEECH  TO  ACHILLES,  ENTREATING  FROM 
HIM  THE  BEAD   BODY  OF  HECTOR. 

"  THINK,  O  Achilles,  semblance  of  the  gods, 
On  thine  own  father,  full  of  days  like  me, 
And  trembling  on  the  gloomy  verge  of  life. 
Some  neighbour  chief,  it  may  be,  even  now 
Oppresses  him,  and  there  is  none  at  hand, 
No  friend  to  succour  him  in  his  distress. 
Yet,  doubtless,  hearing  that  Achilles  lives, 
He  still  rejoices,  hoping  day  by  day, 
That  one  day  he  shall  see  the  face  again 
Of  his  own  son,  from  distant  Troy  returned. 
But  me  no  comfort  cheers,  whose  bravest  sons, 
So  late  the  flowers  of  Ilium,  all  are  slain. 
When  Greece  came  hither,  I  had  fifty  sons; 
But  fiery  Mars  hath  thinn'd  them. — One  I  had, 
One,  more  than  all  my  sons,  the  strength  of  Troy, 
Whom  standing  for  his  country,  thou  hast  slain — 
Hector.     His  body  to  redeem  I  come 
Into  Achaia's  fleet,  bringing  myself, 
Ransom  inestimable  to  thy  tent. 
Rev'rence  the  gods,  Achilles !  recollect 
Thy  father ;  for  his  sake  compassion  show 
To  me  more  pitiable  still,  who  draw 
Home  to  my  lips  (humiliation  yet 
Unseen  on  earth,)  his  hand  who  slew  my  son !" 
So  saying,  he  waken'd  in  his  soul  regret 
Of  his  own  sire ;  softly  he  placed  his  hand 
On  Priam's  hand,  and  push'd  him  gently  away. 
Remembrance  melted  both.     Rolling  before 
Achilles'  feet,  Priam  his  son  deplored 
Wide-slaughtering  Hector,  and  Achilles  wept 
By  turns  his  father,  and  by  turns  his  friend, 
Patroclus :  sounds  of  sorrow  fill'd  the  tent. 

HELEN'S  LAMENTATION  OVER  HECTOR. 

OH.  Hector !  thou  wert  rooted  in  my  heart ; 
No  brother  there  had  half  so  large  a  part. 
Not  less  than  twenty  years  are  now  passed  o'er, 
Since  first  I  landed  on  the  Trojan  shore, 
Since  Paris  lured  me  from  my  home  away, 
(Would  I  had  died  before  that  fatal  day!) 
Yet  was  it  ne'er  my  fate  from  thee  to  find 
A  deed  ungentle,  or  a  word  unkind. 
When  others  cursed  the  authoress  of  their  woe, 
Thy  pity  checked  my  sorrows  in  their  flow  : 
If  by  my  sisters  or  the  queen  revil'd, 
(For  the  good  king,  like  thee,  was  ever  mild,) 
Thy  kindness  still  has  all  my  grief  beguil'd. 
For  thee  I  mourn,  and  mourn  myself  in  thee, 
Nor  hope,  nor  solace  now  remains  to  me ; 
Sad  Helen  has  no  friend,  now  thou  art  gone.* 


*  "Few  things," (says  Mr  Coleridge,)  "are  more  inte- 
resting than  to  observe  how  the  same  hand  that  has  given 
us  the  fury  and  inconsistency  of  Achilles,  gives  us  also 
the  consummate  elegance  and  tenderness  of  Helen.  She 


16 


HOMER. 


SIMILES. 

[In  every  language,  the  earliest  writers,  particu- 
larly poets,  have  been  addicted  to  the  use  of 
comparisons  and  metaphors  of  a  highly  figura- 
tive and  bold  character.  This  is  more  especially 
observable  with  respect  to  the  sacred  poets  and 
Homer,  from  whom,  it  is  no  exaggeration  to  say, 
that  three  out  of  four  of  the  similes  of  all  sub- 
sequent writers  have  been,  more  or  less  di- 
rectly, copied  or  paraphrased.] 

Book  IL 

OF  BEES  SWARMING,  TO  AW  ARMY  ISSUING    FROM 
THEIR  TENTS  AND  SHIPS. 

As  when  the  bees'  dense  nation  rise,  and  rise 
From  the  cleft  rock,  and  cloud  with  life  the  skies, 
In  clusters  hang  o'er  spring's  unfolded  flower, 
Sweep    to    and  fro,  and  wind  from  bower  to 

bower : 

Thus,  from  their  ships  and  tents,  host  urging  host 
To  council  swarmed. 

OF  ROLLING   BILLOWS,  TO    AN    ARMY«  IN    MOTION. 

THE  hosts  rush  rolling  on,  as  wave  on  wave, 
When  o'er  th'  Icarian  sea  swoln  billows  rave, 
When  east  and  south  in  adverse  fury  sweep, 
Burst  the  dark  clouds  at  once  and  lash  the  deep. 
f 

OF    A    FOREST    IN    FLAMES,  TO    THE    LUSTRE    OF 
ARMS. 

As  flames  on  flames  spread  far  and  wide  their 

light, 

From  forests  blazing  on  the  mountain  height, 
Thus  flashed  the  lightning  of  their  arms  afar, 
And  heaven's  bright  cope  beamed  back  the  glare 

of  war. 

OF    A    FLIGHT    OF    CRANES    OR    SWANS,  TO    A    NU- 
MEROUS   ARMY. 

As  when  of  many  sorts  the  long-neck'd  fowl, 

Unto  the  large  and  flowing  plain  repair, 
(Through  which  Ciiyster's  waters  gently  roll,) 

In  multitudes — high  flying  in  the  air, 
Now  here,  now  there  fly,  priding  on  their  wing, 

And  by  and  by  at  once  light  on  the  ground, 
And  with  their  clamour  make  the  air  to  ring, 

And  th'  earth,  whereon  they  settle,  to  resound. 
So  when  the  Achaians  went  up  from  the  fleet, 

And  on  their  march  were  to  the  towers  of  Troy, 
The  earth  resounded  loud  with  hoofs  and  feet. 

But  on  Scamander's  flowery  bank  they  stay, 
In  number  like  the  flowers  of  the  field, 

Or  leaves  in  spring,  or  multitude  of  flies 
In  some  great  dairy,  round  the  vessels  filled, 

Delighted  with  the  milk,  dance,  fall,  and  rise.* 


is,  throughout  the  Iliad,  a  genuine  lady,  graceful  in  mo- 
tion and  speech,  noble  in  her  associations,  full  of  remorse 
for  a  fault  for  which  higher  powers  seem  responsible, 
yet  grateful  towards  those  with  whom  that  fault  had 
connected  her.  I  have  always  thought  the  speech,  in 
which  Helen  laments  Hector,  and  hints  at  her  own  in- 
vidious and  unprotected  situation  in  Troy,  as  almost  the* 
sweetest  passage  in  the  poem." 

*  Hobbes,  in  his  quaint  manner,  gives  us  his  reasons 
for  translating  Homer.    "  Why  then  did  I  write  it  ?— Be- 


dnother  of  the  Same. 

NOT  less  their  number  than  the  embodied  cranes, 
Or  milk-white  swans,  in  Asius'  watery  plains, 
That  o'er  the  winding  of  Cayster's  springs, 
Stretch  their  long  necks,  and  clap  their  rustling 

wings, 

Now  tower  aloft,  and  course  in  airy  rounds : 
Now  light  with  noise:  with  noise  the  field  re- 
sounds. 

Thus  clamorous  and  confused,  extending  wide, 
The  legions  crowd  Scamander's  flowery  side, 
In  numbers  numberless  as  leaves  and  flowers, 
That  fill  the  lap  of  spring,  and  robe  her  bowers. 

OF    SWARMS    OF    FLIES,  TO    A    NUMEROUS    ARMY. 

As  in  the  spring-time,  when  the  swain  recalls 
His  lowing  cattle  to  their  wonted  stalls, 
Eve's  milking  hour  from  ether  downwards  draws 
The  flies'  winged  nations,  swarming  o'er  the  vase, 
Thus  Greece  poured  forth  her  multitudinous 
throng. 

OF    A    SHEPHERD    GATHERING    HIS    FLOCKS,  TO    A 

GENERAL     HANGING     HTS     ARMY AND     OF    THE 

STATELINESS     OF     A     BULL,    TO     THE     PORT     OF 
AGAMEMNON. 

As  goat-herds,  watchful  of  their  charge  at  feed, 
Part  flock  from  flock,  commingling  on  the  mead, 
Not  skilful  less,  the  chiefs  beneath  their  sway, 
Ranged  rank  by  rank  and  formed  the  war-array. 
Mid  these  Atrides  towered,  his  eye  like  fire, 
His  brow,  like  Jove  exultant  in  his  ire. 
As  mid  the  herds,  a  bull  of  stateliest  size 
Rears  his  horned  forehead,  and  the  field  defies, 
Thus,  on  that  day,  all,  all  their  chiefs  above, 
Towered  Agamemnon,  glorified  by  Jove. 


.       Book  IV. 

OF    THE    DARKNESS    OF    TROOPS,  TO    THE    GATHER- 
ING   OF    CLOUDS. 

As  from  some  promontory's  lofty  brow, 
A  swain  surveys  the  gathering  storm  below ; 
Slow  from  the  main  the  heavy  vapours  rise, 
Spread  in  dim  streams  and  sail  along  the  skies, 
Till,  black  as  night,  the  swelling  tempest  shows, 
The  cloud  condensing  as  the  west  wind  blows; 
He  dreads  the  impending  storm,  and  drives  his 

flock 

To  the  close  covert  of  some  arching  rock: 
Such  and  so  thick  the  embattled  squadrons  stood. 

OF    SUCCESSION    OF    WAVES,  TO    THE    MOVING    OF 
TROOPS. 

As  when  the  winds,  ascending  by  degrees 
First  move  the  whitening  surface  of  the  seas, 
The  billows  float  in  order  to  the  shore ; 
The  wave  behind  rolls  on  the  wave  before, 


cause  I  had  nothing  else  to  do.  Why  publish  it  ?— Becausu 
I  thought  it  might  take  off  ray  adversaries  from  showing 
their  folly  upon  my  more  serious  writings,  and  set  them 
upon  my  verses  to  show  their  wisdom." 


HOMER.                                                                 17 

1    Till,  with  the  growing  storm,  the  deeps  arise, 

And,  where  the  barley  bristles  into  grain, 

IFoam  o'er  the  rocks,  and  thunder  to  the  skies  : 

Row  after  row,  with  sheaves  o'erstrew  the  plain; 

So  to  the  fight  the  thick  battalion^  throng. 

The  Greeks  and  Trojans  thus,  in  clash'd  career, 

Slay  and  are  slain  ;*  —  none  pause,  none  fly,  none 

OF    TORRENTS    RUSHING    THROUGH    THE   VALLEYS. 

fear, 

TO  ARMIES  IN   BATTLE. 

But  lift  alike  their  crests,  and,  wild  with  rage, 

As  torrents  roll,  increased  by  numerous  rills, 

Like  wolves,  th'  exterminating  battle  wage. 

With  rage  impetuous  down  their  echoing  hills, 

:    Rush  to  the  vales,  and,  pour'd  along  the  plain, 

OF  AJAX,  TO  AN  ASS  SURROUNDED  BT  BOTS. 

Roar  through  a  thousand  channels  to  the  main, 
The  distant  shepherd,  trembling,  hears  the  sound  : 

As  when  an  ass,  slow-paced,  despite  a  throng 
Of  urchins,  bursts  ripe  fields  of  corn  among, 

So  mix  both  hosts,  and  so  their  cries  rebound. 

And  bruised  by  many  a  broken  staff  in  vain, 

__:  

At  pleasure  crops  the  ears  of  golden  grain, 

RftnJf   VJJT 

While  nought  such  efforts  and  weak  blows  avail, 

JjOOK                    V            J.JrJ.9 

Till  the  gorged  beast's  keen  sense  of  hunger  fail, 

OFTHE  MOON  AND  STARS  I  N  f.  LORY,  TO  THE  BRIGHT- 

Thus the  brave  Trojans  and  their  leagued  bands 

NESS  AND  NUMBER  OF  THE  TROJAN  FIRES. 

Struck  on  the  shield  of  Ajax. 

As  when  the  moon,  refulgent  lamp  of  night, 

O'er  heaven's  clear  azure  spreads  her  sacred  light, 

When  not  a  breath  disturbs  the  deep  serene, 

Book  XII 

And  not  a  cloud  o'ercasts  the  solemn  scene  ; 

OF  TWO  MOUNTAIN  OAKS,  TO  TWO  HEROES. 

Around  her  throne  the  vivid  planets  roll, 

And  stars  unnumberd  gild  the  glowing  pole, 
O'er  the  dark  trees  a  yellow  verdure  shed, 

.  .  .At  the  gates  two  mightiest  warriors  stood, 
Resistless  race  of  Lapithean  blood  — 

And  tip  with  silver  every  mountain  head  ; 

They  stood  like  oaks,  that  on  the  mountain  soar, 

Then  shine  the  vales,  the  rocks  in  prospect  rise, 
A  flood  of  glory  bursts  from  all  the  skies  ; 
The  conscious  swains,  rejoicing  in  the  sight, 

Where,  day  by  day,  perpetual  tempests  roar; 
Rear  amid  whirlwinds  their  unswerving  form, 
And  spread  their  gnarled  roots  beneath  the  storm. 

Eye  the  blue  vault,  and  bless  the  useful  light, 

So  many  fires  before  proud  Ilion  blaze, 

OF  ARROWS,  TO  FLAKES  OF  SNOW. 

And  lighten  glimmering  Xanthus  with  their  rays. 

As  the  foathery  snows 

Another  translation  of  the  Same. 

Fall  frequent  on  some  wintry  day,  when  Jove 
Hath  risen  to  shed  them  on  the  race  of  man, 

As  when,  around  the  clear,  bright  moon,  the  stars 

And  show  his  arrowy  stores;  he  lulls  the  wind, 

Shine  in  full  splendour,  and  the  winds  are  hushed  ; 

Then   shakes   them   down   continual,   covering 

The  groves,  the  mountains-tops,  the  headland- 

thick 

heights, 

Mountain  tops,  promontories,  flowery  meads, 

Stand  all  apparent  ;  not  a  vapour  streaks 

And  cultured  valleys  rich,  and  ports  and  shores 

The  boundless  blue  ;  but  ether,  opened  wide, 

Along  the  margined  deep  ;  but  there  the  wave 

All  glitters,  and  the  shepherd;s  heart  is  cheered. 

Their  further  progress  stays  ;  while  all  besides 

Lies   whelm'd   beneath  Jove's  fast  descending 

Another. 

shower; 

As  when  the  stars,  at  night's  illumined  noon, 
Beam  in  their  brightness  round   the   full-orbed 
moon  — 

So  thick,  from  side  to  side,  by  Trojans  hurled 
Against  the  Greeks,  and  by  the  Greeks  returned, 
The  stony  vollies  flew. 

When    sleeps   the  wind,    and  every  mountain 



height, 

Book  XIV. 

Rock,  and  hoar  cliff,  shine  towering  up  in  light, 

Then  gleam  the  vales,  and  ether,  widely  riven, 

OF  THE  WAVES  ROLLING  TO  AND  FRO,  TO  THE 

Expands  to  other  stars,  another  heaven  : 

DOUBTS  OF  NESTOR. 

While  the  lone  shcphonl.  watchful  of  his  fold, 

As  when  with  its  unwieldy  waves 

Looks  wondering  up,  and  gladdens  to  behold  — 

the  sea  forefeels  the  winds 

Not  less  the  fires,  that  through  the  nightly  hours 

That  both  ways  murmur,  and  no  way 

Spread  war's  whole  scene  before  Troy's  guarded 

a  certain  current  finds, 

towers, 
Flung  o'er  the  distant  fleet  a  shadowy  gleam, 
And  quivering  played  on  Xanthus'  silver  stream, 

But  pants  and  swells  confusedly; 
here  goes  and  there  will  stay, 
Till  on  it  air  casts  one  firm  wind, 



and  then  it  rolls  away, 

r>     ».  yr 

So  stood  old  Nestor  in  debate, 

HOOK  -AY. 

two  thoughts  at  once  on  wing.  .  .  . 

OF  CORN   FALLING    IN    ROWS,  TO    MEN    SLAI.v    IV 

BATTLE. 

BUT  as  keen  reapers,*band  opposed  to  band, 
Toil  in  the  harvest  of  a  grateful  land, 

*  They  are  true  to  the  last  of  their  blood  and  their  breath, 
And  like  reapers  descend  to  the  harvest  of  death. 
Campbell. 

3                                                                                     n2 

18 


HOMER. 


Book  XV. 

OF  HECTOR,  TO  A  FIERY  COURSER  BREAKING  FROM 
HIS  STALL. 

As  when,  high-fed  with  grain,  a  stall-bound  steed 
Snaps  his  strong  cord,  and  flies,  from  bondage  freed, 
Strikes  with  resounding  hoof  the  earth,  and  flies 
Where  the  wide  champaign  spread  before  him 

lies, 

Seeks  the  remembered  haunts,  on  fire  to  lave 
His  glowing  limbs,  and  dash  amid  the  wave, 
High  rears  his  crest,  and  tossing  with  disdain 
Wide  o'er  his  shoulders  spreads  his  stream  of 

mane, 

And  fierce  in  beauty,  graceful  in  his  speed, 
Snuffs  his  known  fellows  in  the  distant  mead. 
Thus  Hector.— 

OF    AN    EQUESTRIAN    LEAPING    FROM    HORSE    TO 
HORSE,  TO  AJAX  STRIDING  FROM  SHIP  TO  SHIP. 

As  one  well-skilled,  from  many  a  gallant  steed 

Has  four  selected  of  excelling  breed, 

And  towards  the  city,  mid;  th'  admiring  throng, 

Lashing  their  speed  the  public  way  along, 

Firm  without  fall,  alternating  at  will, 

Swift  vaults  from  horse  to  horse  with  easy  skill, 

Thus  on  from  deck  to  deck  fierce  Ajax  sprung. 

Book  XV I. 

OF    AN    AUTUMNAL    STORM    AND    DELUGE,  TO    THE 
RUIN    OF    A    ROUTED    ARMY. 

As  when,  o'er  canopied  with  night  of  clouds, 
The  autumnal  storm  the  face  of  nature  shrouds, 
When  vengeful  Jove,  in  fury  uncorifin'd, 
Pours  down  the^veight  of  waters  on  mankind, 
Who  right  and  wrong  confound,  'gainst  heaven 

rebel, 

And  injured  Justice  from  their  courts  expel : — 
Then  swoln  with  floods,  their  rivers  all  overflow, 
Then  cataracts  shatter  many  a  mountain  brow, 
Roar  as  they  rush,  hurled  headlong  from  the  steep, 
And,  'neath  th'  empurpled  main,  man's  wasted 

labours  sweep. 


Book  X  VII. 

OF  YOUNG  EUPHORBUS,  TO  AN  UPROOTED   OLIVE 
TREE. 

As  a  young  olive,  in  some  sylvan  scene, 
Crown'd  by  fresh  fountains  with  eternal  green, 
Lifts  its  gay  head,  in  snowy  flowrets  fair, 
And  plays  and  dances  to  the  gentle  air; 
When  lo!  by  blasts  uprooted,  whirled  around, 
Low  lies  the  plant,  extended  on  the  ground : 
Thus  in  his  beauty  young  Euphorbias  lay. 

Book  XXII. 

OF  THE  RADIANCE  OF  HESPER,  TO  THE  POINT 

OF  ACHILLES'  SPEAR. 

As  radiant  Hesper  shines  with  keener  light, 
Far-beaming  o'er  the  silver  host  of  night, 
When  all  the  starry  train  emblaze  the  sphere : 
So  shone  the  point  of  great  Achilles'  spear. 


FROM  THE  ODYSSEY  OF  HOMER. 
Book  IV. 

,  ELYSIUM. 

BUT  oh,  beloved  of  heaven !  reserved  for  thee 
A  happier  lot  the  smiling  fates  decree: 
Free  from  that  law,  beneath  whose  mortal 
Matter  is  changed,  and  varying  forms  decay ; 
Elysium  shall  be  thine ;  the  blissful  plains 
Of  utmost  earth,  where  Rhadamanthus  reigns. 
Joys  ever  young,  unmixed  with  pain  or  fear, 
Fill  the  wide  circle  of  the  eternal  year ; 
Stern  winter  smiles  on  that  auspicious  clime, 
The  fields  are  florid  with,  unfading  prime ; 
From  the  bleak  pole  no  winds  inclement  blow, 
Mould  the  round  hail,  or  flake  the  fleecy  snow ; 
But  from  the  breezy  deep  the  blest  inhale 
The  fragrant  murmurs  of  the  western  gale. 

Book  V. 

HERMES  SENT  TO  THE  ISLAND  OF  CALYPSO. 

HE  spoke.     The  god  who  mounts  the  winged 

winds 

Fast  to  his  feet  the  golden  pinions  binds, 
That  high  through  fields  of  air  his  flight  sustain 
O'er  the  wide  earth,  and  o'er  the  boundless  main. 
He  grasps  the  wand  that  causes  sleep  to  fly, 
Or  in  soft  slumber  seals  the  wakeful  eye : 
Then  shoots  from  heaven  to  high  Pieria's  steep, 
And  stoops  incumbent  on  the  rolling  deep. 
So  wat'ry  fowl,  that  seek  their  fishy  food, 
With  wings  expanded  o'er  the  foaming  flood, 
Now  sailing  smooth  the  level  surface  sweep, 
Now  dip  their  pinions  in  the  briny  deep. 
Thus  o'er  the  world  of  waters  Hermes  flew, 
Till  now  the  distant  island  rose  in  view : 
Then  swift  ascending  from  the  azure  wave, 
He  took  the  path  that  winded  to  the  cave. 
Large  was  the   grot,  in  which  the  nymph  he 

found, 
The     fair-hair 'd    nymph     with     every    beauty 

crown'd. 

She  sat  and  sung ;  the  rocks  resound  her  lays : 
The  cave  was  brighten'd  with  a  rising  blaze  : 
Cedar  and  frankincense,  an  od'rous  pile, 
Flam'd  on  the  hearth,  and  wide  perfum'd  the  isle  ; 
While  she  with  work  and  song  the  time  divides, 
And  through  the  loom  the  golden  shuttle  guides. 
Without  the  grot,  a  various  sylvan  scene 
Appear'd  around,  and  groves  of  living  green  | 
Poplars  and  alders  ever  quiv'ring  play'd 
And  nodding  cypress  form'd  a  fragrant  shade ; 
On  whose  high  branches,  waving  with  the  storm, 
The  birds  of  broadest  wing  their  mansion  form, 
The  chough,  the  sea-mew,  the  loquacious  crow, 
And  scream  aloft,  and  skim  the  deeps  below. 
Depending  vine's  the  shelving  cavern  screen, 
With  purple  clusters  blushing  through  the  green. 
Four  limpid  fountains  from  the  clefts  distil, 
And  every  fountain  pours  a  sev'ral  rill, 
In  mazy  windings  warul'ring  down  the  hill : 
Where  bloomy  meads  with  vivid  greens  were 

crown'd, 

And  glowing  violets  threw  odours  round. 
A  scene,  where  if  a  god  should  cast  his  sight, 
A  god  might  gaze,  and  wander  with  delight ! 


HOMER. 


10 


ULYSSES,  IX  THE  ISLAND  OF  CAtYPSO,  PIXIXG  FOB 
HIS  KATIVE  ITHICA. 

On  the  shore 

She  found  him  seated ;  tears  succeeding  tears 
Deluged  his  eyes,  while,  hopeless  of  return, 
Life's  precious  hours  to  gnawing  cares  he  gave, 
Continual ;  for  the  nymph  now  charmed  no  more. 
Yet,  cold  as  she  was  amorous,  still  he  pass'd 
His  nights  beside  her  in  the  hollow  grot 
Constrained,  and  day  by  day  the  rocks  among, 
Which  lined  the  shore,  heart-broken  sat,  and  oft, 
While  wistfully  he  eyed  the  barren  deep, 
Wept,  groan'd  desponding,  sigh'd  and  wept  again. 
Then  drawing  near,  thus  spake  the  nymph  divine : 
"  Unhappy !  weep  not  here,  nor  life  consume 
In  anguish ;  go !  thou  hast  my  glad  consent. 

******* 
Farewell !  I  pardon  thee.     But  couldst  thou  guess 
The  woes  which  fate  ordains  thee  to  endure 
Ere  yet  thou  reach  thy  country,  well  content 
Here  to  inhabit,  thou  wouldst  keep  my  grot 
And  be  immortal,  howsoe'er  thy  wife 
Engage  thy  every  wish,  day  after  day. 
Yet  can  I  not  in  stature  or  in  grace 
Myself  suspect  inferior  aught  to  her, 
Since  competition  cannot  be  between 
Mere  mortal  beauties  and  a  form  divine." 

To  whom  Ulysses,  ever  wise,  replied : 
"  Awful  divinity,  be  not  incensed ! 
I  know  that  my  Penelope  in  face 
And  stature  altogether  yields  to  thee, 
For  she  is  mortal,  and  immortal  thou, 
From  age  exempt ;  yet  not  the  less  I  wish 
My  home,  and  languish  daily  to  return. 
But  should  some  god,  amid  the  sable  deep, 
Dash  me  again  into  a  wreck,  my  soul 
Shall  yet  endure  it." 

ULYSSES'  RAFT. 

SHE  gave  him,  fitted  to  the  grasp,  an^axe 
Of  iron,  ponderous,  double-edged,  with  haft 
Of  olive-wood,  inserted  firm,  and  wrought 
With  curious  art.     Then  placing  in  his  hand 
A  polish'd  adze,  she  led  herself  the  way 
To  her  isle's  utmost  verge,  where  loftiest  stood 
The  alder,  poplar,  and  cloud-piercing  fir, 
Though  sapless,  sound,  and  fittest  for  his  use 
As  buoyant  most.     To  that  once  verdant  grove 
His  steps  the  beauteous  nymph  Calypso  led, 
And  sought  her  home  again.     Then  slept  not  he, 
But,  swinjriiiLr  with  both  hands  the  axe,  his  task 
Soon  finish'd ;  trees  full  twenty  to  the  ground 
He    cast,   which,   dext'rous,   with    his    adze    he 

smooth 'd, 
The  knotted  surface  chipping  by  a  line. 

•no  the  lovely  goddess  to  his  aid  - 
Sharp  augers  brought,  with  which  he  bored  the 

beams, 

Then  placed  them  side  by  side,  adapting  each 
To  other,  and  the  seams  with  wadding  closed 
Broad  as  an  artist,  skill'd  in  naval  works, 
The-  bottom  of  a  ship  of  burthen  spren 
Sii'-h  breadth  Ulysses  to  his  raft  assign'd. 
He  deck'd  her  over  with  long  planks,  upborne 
On  massy  beams ;  he  made  the  mast,  to  which 


He  added  suitable  the  yard ;  he  framed 
Rudder  and  helm  to  regulate  her  course; 
With  wicker-work  he  border'd  all  her  length 
For  safety,  and  much  ballast  stowed  within. 
Meantime  Calypso  brought  him  for  a  sail 
Fittest  materials,  which  he  also  shaped, 
And  to  it  all  due  furniture  annex'd 
Of  cordage  strong,  foot-ropes,  and  ropes  aloft, 
Then  heaved  her  down  with  levers  to  the  deep.* 

SHIPWRECK  OF  ULYSSES. 

HE  spoke,  and  high  the  forky  trident  hurl'd, 
Rolls  clouds  on  clouds,  and  stirs  the  wat'ry  world. 
At  once  the  face  of  earth  and  sea  deforms, 
Swells  all  the  winds,  and  rouses  all  the  storms. 
Down  rush'd  the  night.    East,  west,  together  roar, 
And  south  and  north,  roll  mountains  to  the  shore; 
Then  shook  the  hero,  to  despair  resigned, 
And  questioned  thus  his  yet  unconquer'd  mind. 

Wretch  that  I  am !  what  farther  fates  attend 
This  life  of  toils,  and  what  my  destin'd  end  ? 
Too  well  alas !  the  island  goddess  knew, 
On  the  black  sea  what  perils  should  ensue. 
New  horrors  now  this  destin'd  head  enclose ; 
UnfiU'd  is  yet  the  measure  of  my  woes. 
With  what  a  cloud  the  brows  of  heaven  are 

crown'd ! 

What  raging  winds  !  what  roaring  waters  round! 
'Tis  Jove  himself  the  swelling  tempest  rears ; 
Death,  present  death  on  every  side  appears. 
Happy !  thrice  happy !  who  in  battle  slain 
Press'd  in  Atrides'  cause  the  Trojan  plain : 
Oh  !  had  I  died  before  that  well-fought  wall ; 
Had  some  distinguish'd  day  renown'd  my  fall ; 
(Such  as  was  that,  when  showers  of  jav'lins  fled 
Trom  conqu'ring  Troy  around  Achilles  dead) 
All  Greece  had  paid  my  solemn  fun'rals  then, 
And  spread  my  glory  with  the  sons  of  men. 
A  shameful  fate  now  hides  my  hapless  head, 
Unwept,  unnoted,  and  for  ever  dead  !f 

A  mighty  wave  rush'd  o'er  him  as  he  spoke, 
The  raft  it  cover'd,  and  the  mast  it  broke ; 
Swept  from  the  deck,  and  from  the  rudder  torn, 
Far  on  the  swelling  surge  the  chief  was  borne : 
While  by  the  howling  tempest  rent  in  twain 
Flew  sail  and  sail-yards  rattling  o'er  the  main. 
Long  prest,  he  heaved  beneath  the  mighty  wave, 
Clogg'd  by  the  cumbrous  vest  Calypso  gave. 
At  length  emerging,  from  his  nostrils  wide 
And  gushing  mouth,  effused  the  briny  tide. 

*  What  is  chiefly  valuable  in  the  above  passage,  is  the 
insight  which*  it  gives  us  as  to  the  degree  at  which  the 
art  of  ship-building  had  then  arrived. 

t  Plutarch  in  his  Symposiacs  relates  a  memorable  story 
relating  to  this  passage.  When  Memmius,  the  Roman 
general,  had  sacked  the  city  of  Corinth,  and  made  slaves 
of  those  who  survived  the  ruin  of  it,  he  commanded  one 
of  the  youths  of  a  liberal  education  to  write  down  some 
sentence  in  his  presence,  accordin"  to  his  own  inclina- 
tions. The  youth  immediately  wrote  this  passage  from 
Homer.  Memmius  burst  into  tears,  and  gave  the  youth 
and  all  his  relations  their  liberty.  Virgil  has  translated 
this  passage  in  the  first  book  of  his  yEneis.  Both  heroes 
lament  not  that  they  are  to  die,  but  only  the  inglorious 
manner  of  it.  Drowning  was  esteemed  by  the  ancients 
an  accursed  death,  as  it  deprived  their  bodies  of  the  rites 
of  sepulture. 


20 


HOMER. 


E'en  then,  not  mindless  of  his  last  retreat, 
He  seized  the  raft,  and  leaped  into  his  seat; 
Strong  with  the  fear  of  death.     The  rolling  flood, 
Now  here,  now  there,  impell'd  the  floating  wood. 
As  when  a  heap  of  gathering  thorns  is  cast, 
Now  to,  now  fro,  before  the  autumnal  blast ; 
Together  clung,  it  rolls  around  the  field  ; 
So  rolled  the  float,  and  so  its  texture  held. 
And  now  the  south,  and  now  the  north,  bears 

sway,     . 

And  now  the  east  the  foamy  floods  obey, 
And  now  the  west-wind  whirls  it  o'er  the  sea. 

****** 
While  now  his  thoughts  distracted  counsels  hold, 
The  raging  god  a  watery  mountain  roll'd; 
Like  a  black  sheet,  the  whelming  billows  spread, 
Burst  o'er  the  float,  and  thundered  on  his  head. 
Planks,    beams,    disparted     fly;     the    scatter'd 

wood 
Rolls    diverse,    and,    in    fragments,    strews    the 

flood. 

So  the  rude  Boreas,  over  fields  new  shorn, 
Tosses  and  drives  the  scattered  heaps  of  corn — 
And  now  a  single  beam  the  chief  bestrides. 


Book  VII. 


THE    GARDEN    OF    ALCINOUS. 


CLOSE 


A  gates  a  spacious  garden  !i  'S; 
skies: 

Four  aci'cs  vas  tlr  allotted  space  of  ground, 
FencVi  with  a  green  enclosure  all  around, 
Tall  thriving  trees  confessed  the  fruitful  mould; 
The  redd'ning  apple  rip^n.-:  here  TO  arold. 
Here  the  blue  fig  with  luscious  juice  o'erflows, 
With  deeper  red  the  fall  pomegranate  glows, 
The  branch  ,here   bends   beneath   the   weighty 

pear, 

And  verdant  olives  ilouvish  round  the  year. 
The  balmy  spirit  of  the  western  gale 
Eternal  breathes  on  fruits  untaught  to  fail : 
Each  dropping  pear  a  following  pear  supplies, 
On  apples  apples,  figs  on  figs  arise: 
The  same  mild  season  gives  the  blooms  to  blow, 
The  buds  to  harden,  and  the  fruits  to  grow. 

Here  order'd  vines  in  equal  ranks  appear, 
With  all  th'  united  labours  of  the  year; 
Some  to  unload  the  fertile  branches  run, 
Some  dry  the  black'ning'clusters  in  the  sun, 
Others  to  tread  the  liquid  harvest  join, 
The  groaning  presses  foam  with  floods  of  wine. 
Here  are  the  vines  in  early  flower  descried, 
Here  grapes  discolour'd  on  the  sunny  side, 
And  there  in  autumn's  richest  purple  dyed. 

Beds  of  all  various  herbs,  for  ever  green, 
In  beauteous  order  terminate  the  scene. 
Two   plenteous    fountains    the  whole    prospect 

crown'd — 
This    through    the    gardens    leads    its    streams 

around, 

Visits  each  plant,  and  waters  all  the  ground: 
While  that,  in  pipes,  beneath  the  palace  flows, 
And  thence  its  current  on  the  town  bestows; 
To  various  use  their  various  streams  they  bring, 
The  people  on.e,  and  one  supplies  the  king. 


Book  VIII. 

THE    BARD. 

Demodocus 

The  sacred  master  of  celestial  song: 

Dear  to  the  muse!  who  gave  his  days  to  flow 

With  mighty  blessings,  mix'd  with  mighty  woe : 

With  clouds  of  darkness  quench'd  his  visual  ray, 

But  gave  him  skill  to  raise  the  lofty  lay.* 

High  on  a  radiant  throne  sublime  in  state, 

Encircled  by  huge  multitudes,  he  sate : 

With    silver    shone   the    throne ;   his  lyre  well 

strung 
To  rapturous  sounds,  at  hand  Pontonous  hung . 

Then  fir'd  by  all  the  muse,  aloud  he  sings 
The  mighty  deeds  of  demigods  and  kings : 
From  that  fierce  wrath  the  noble  song  arose, 
That  made  Ulysses  and  Achilles  foes : 
How  o'er  the  feast  they  doom  the  fall  of  Troy ; 
The  stern  debate  Atrides  hears  with  joy : 
For  heaven  foretold  the  contest,  when  he  trod 
The  marble  threshold  of  the  Delphic  god, 
Curious  to  learn  the  counsels  of  the  sky, 
Ere  yet  he  loos'd  the  rage  of  war  on  Troy. 

Touch'd  at  the  song,  Ulysses  straight  resign'd 
To  soft  affliction  all  his  manly  mind : 
Before  his  eyes  the  purple  vest  he  drew, 
Industrious  to  conceal  the  falling  dew : 
But  when  the  music  paus'd,  he  ceas'd  to  shed 
The  flowing  tear,  and  rais'd  his  drooping  head: 
And  lifting  to  the  gods  a  goblet  crown'd, 
He  pour'd  a  pure  libation  to  the  ground. 

Transported  with  the  song,  the  list'ning  train 
Again  with  loud  applause  demand  the  strain: 
Again  Ulysses  veil'd  his  pensive  head, 
Again  unmann'd  a  shower  of  sorrow  shed : 
Conceal'd  he  wept. 


Book  IX. 

ULYSSES'  ADVENTURES  IN  THE  CAVE  OF  POLY- 
PHEMUS. ^ 

WHEN  to  the  nearest  verge  of  land  we  drew, 
Fast  by  the  sea,  a  lonely  cave  we  view, 
High,  and  with  dark'ning  laurels  cover'd  o'er*; 
Where  sheep  and  goats  lay  slumb'ring  round  the 

shore. 

Near  this,  a  fence  of  marble  from  the  rock, 
Brown  with  o'er-arching  pine,  and  spreading  oak. 
A  giant  shepherd  here  his  flock  maintains 
Far  from  the  rest,  and  solitary  reigns, 
In  shelter  thick  of  horrid  shade  reclin'd ; 
And  gloomy  mischiefs  labour  in  his  mind. 
A  form  enormous!  far  unlike  the  race 
Of  human  birth,  in  stature,  or  in  face ; 
As  some  lone  mountain.^  monstrous  growth  he 

stood, 
Crown'd  with   rough  thickets,   and    a   nodding 

wood. 

I  left  my  vessel  at  the  point  of  land, 
And  close  to  guard  it  gave  our  crew  command  : 


*  It  has  been  generally  thought  that  Homer  represents 
himself  in  the  person  of  Demodocus. 


HOMER. 


21 


With  only  twelve,  the  boldest  and  the  best, 
I  seek  th'  adventure,  and  forsake  the  rest. 
Then  took  a  goatskin  fill'd  with  precious  wine, 
The  gift  of  Maron,  of  Evantheus'  line,     ' 
(The  priest  of  Phoebus  at  th'  Ismarian  shrine) 
In  sacred  shade  his  honour'd  mansion  stood 
Amidst  Apollo's  consecrated  wood  ; 
Him,  and  his  house,  heaven  mov'd  my  mind  to 

save, 

And  costly  presents  in  return  he  gave ; 
Seven  golden  talents  to  perfection  wrought, 
A  silver  bowl  that  held  a  copious  draught, 
And  twelve  large  vessels  of  unmingled  wine, 
Mellifluous,  undecaying,  and  divine! 
Which  now,  some  ages  from  his  race  conceal'd, 
The  hoary  sire  in  gratitude  reveal'd ; 
Such  was  the  wine:  to  quench  whose  fervent 

steam, 

Scarce  twenty  measures  from  the  living  stream 
To  cool  one  cup  sufficed :  the  goblet  crown'd 
Breath'd  aromatic  fragrancies  around. 
Of  this  an  ample  vase  we  heav'd  aboard, 
And  brought  another  with  provisions  stord. 
My  soul  foreboded  I  should  find  the  bower 
Of    some    fell    monster,    fierce    with    barb'rous 

power. 

Some  rustic  wretch,  who  liv'd  in  heaven's  de- 
spite, 

Contemning  laws,  and  trampling  on  the  right. 
The  cave  we  found,  but  vacant  all  within, 
(His  flock  the  giant  tended  on  the  greert) 
But  round  the  grot  we  gaze,  and  all  we  view 
In  order  rang'd,  6ur  admiration  drew : 
The   bending   shelves   with   loads   of    cheeses 

press'd, 

The  folded  flocks,  each  sep'rate  from  the  rest, 
(The  larger  here,  and  there  the  lesser  lambs, 
The  new  fall'n  young  here  bleating  for  their 

dams; 

The  kid  distinguish'd  from  the  lambkin  lies:) 
The  cavern  echoes  with  responsive  cries. 
Capacious  chargers  all  around  were  laid, 
Full  pails,  and  vesifcls  of  the  milking  trade. 
With  fresh  provision  hence  our  fleet  to  store 
My  friends  advise  me,  and  to  quit  the  shore ; 
Or  drive  a  flock  of  sheep  and  goats  away, 
Consult  our  safety,  and  put  off  to  sea. 
Their  wholesome  counsel  rashly  I  declined, 
Curious  to  view  the  man  of  monstrous  kind, 
And  try  what  social  rites  a  savage  lends : 
Dire  rites  alas!  and  fatal  to  my  friends! 

Then  first  a  fire  we  kindle,  and  prepare 
For  his  return  with  sacrifice  and  prayer. 
The  loaden  shelves  afford  us  full  repast ; 
We  sit  expecting.     Lo!  he  comes  at  last. 
Near  half  a  forest  on  his  back  he  bore, 
And  cast  the  pondrous  burden  at  the  door. 
It  thuucler'd  as  it  fell.      We  trembled  thru, 
And  sought  the  deep  recesses  of  the  den. 
Now   driven  before   him,   through  the    arching 

rock, 
Came  tumbling,  heaps  on  heaps,  th'  unnumbered 

flock: 

Piicr-udclrr'd  ewes,  and  goats  of  female  kind, 
(The    mains    \vere    penn'd    in    outward   courts 

behind) 


Then,  heav'd  on  high,  a  rock's  enormous  weight 
To  the  cave's  mouth  he  roll'd,  and  clos'd  the  gate. 
(Scarce  twenty  four-wheel'd  cars,  compact  and 

strong, 

The  massy  load  could  bear,  or  roll  along.) 
He  next  betakes  him  to  his  evening  cares, 
And  sitting  down,  to  milk  his  flocks  prepares; 
Of  half  their  udders  eases  first  the  dams, 
Then  to  the  mother's  teat  submits  the  lambs. 
Half  the  white  stream  to  hard'ning  cheese  he 

press'd, 

And  high  in  wicker  baskets  heap'd :  the  rest 
Reserv'd  in  bowls,  supplied  his  nightly  feast. 
His  labour  done,  he  fir'd  the  pile  that  gave 
A  sudden  blaze,  and  lighted  all  the  cave. 
We  stand  discover d  by  the  rising  fires; 
Askance  the  giant  glares,  and  thus  inquires. 

What  are  ye,  guests;  on  what  adventure,  say, 
Thus  far  ye  wander  through  the  wat'ry  way1? 
Pirates  perhaps,  who  seek  through  seas  unknown 
The  lives  of  others,  and  expose  your  own? 
His  voice  like    thunder   through  the  cavern 

sounds : 

My  bold  companions  thrilling  fear  confounds, 
Appaird  at  sight  of  more  than  mortal  man ! 
At  length,  with  heart  recover'd,  I  began. 

From  Troy's  fam'd  fields,  sad  wand'rers  o'er 

the  main, 

Behold  the  relics  of  the  Grecian  train ! " 
Through  various  seas  by  various  perils  to.ss'd, 
And  forc'd  by  storms,  unwilling,  on  your  coast; 
Far  from  our  destin'd  course,  and  native  land, 
Such  was  our  fate,  and  such  high  Jove's  com- 
mand! 

Nor  what  we  are  befits  us  to  disclaim, 
Atrides'  friends,  (in  arms  a  mighty  name) 
Who  taught  proud  Troy,  and  all  her  sons  to  bow ; 
Victors  of  late,  but  humble  suppliants  now ! 
Low  at  thy  knee  thy  succour  we  implore; 
Respect  us,  human,  and  relieve  us,  poor. 
At  least  some  hospitable  gift  bestow ; 
'Tis  what  the  happy  to  th'  unhappy  owe ; 
'Tis  what  the  gods  require :  those  gods  revere, 
The  poor  and  stranger  are  their  constant  care: 
To  Jove  their  cause,  and  their  revenge  belongs, 
He   wanders    with    them,    and    he    feels    their 

wrongs. 

Fools  that  ye  are !  (the  savage  thus  replies, 
His  inward  fury  blazing  at  his  eyes) 
Or  strangers,  distant  far  from  our  abodes, 
To  bid  me  rev'rence  or  regard  the  gods. 
Know  then  we  Cyclops  are  a  race  above 
Those  air-bred  people,  and  their  goat-nurs'd  Jove : 
And  learn,  .our  power  proceeds  with  thee  and 

thine, 

Not  as  he  wills,  but  as  ourselves  incline. 
But  answer,  the  good  ship  that  brought  ye  o'er, 
Where  lies  she  anchor'd?  near  or  off  the  shore? 
Thus  he.     His  meditated  fraud  I  find,  * 

Vers'd  in  the  turns  of  various  humankind) 
And,  cautious,  thus — Against  a  dreadful  rock, 
Fast  by  your  shore  the  gallant  vessel  broke  : 
Scarce  with  these  few  I  'scap'd;  of  all  my  train, 
Whom    anpry   Neptune    whelm'd    beneath    the 

main ; 
The  smtter'd  wreck  the  winds  blew  back  again. 


22 


HOMER. 


He  answer'd  with  his  deed.    His  bloody  hand 
Snatch'd  two,  unhappy!  of  my  martial  band; 
And  dash'd  like  dogs  against  the  stony  floor : 
The  pavement  swims  with  brains  and  mingled 

gore. 

Torn  limb  from  limb,  he  spreads  his  horrid  feast, 
And  fierce  devours  it  like  a  mountain  beast: 
He  sucks  the  marrow,  and  the  blood  he  drains, 
Nor  entrails,  flesh,  nor  solid  bone  remains. 
We  see  the  death  from  which  we  cannot  move, 
And,  humbled,  groan  beneath  the  hand  of  Jove. 
His  ample  maw  with  human  carnage  fill'd, 
A  milky  deluge  next  the  giant  swill'd; 
Then  stretch'd  in  length  o'er  half  the  cavern'd 

rock, 

Lay  senseless,  and  supine,  amidst  the  flock. 
To  seize  the  time,  and  with  a  sudden  wound 
To  fix  the  siumb'ring  monster  to  the  ground, 
My  soul  impels  me;  and  in  act  I  stand 
To  draw  the  sword;  but  wisdom  held  my  hand. 
A  deed  so  rash  had  finish'd  all  our  fate, 
No  mortal  forces  from  the  lofty  gate 
Could  roll  the  rock.     In  hopeless  grief  we  lay, 
And  sigh,  expecting  the  return  of  day. 
Now  did  the  rosy-finger'd  morn  arise, 
And  shed  her  sacred  light  along  the  skies. 
He  wakes,  he  lights  the  fire,  he  milks  the  dams, 
And  to  the  mother's  teat  submits  the  lambs, 
The  task  thus  finish'd  of  his  morning  hours, 
Two  more  he  snatches,  murders,  and  devours. 
Then   pleas'd   and  whistling,  drives   his   flock 

before ; 

Removes  the  rocky  mountain  from  the  door, 
And  shuts  again ;  with  equal  ease  dispos'd, 
As  a  light  quiver's  lid  is  op'd  and  clos'd. 
His  giant  voice  the  echoing  region  fills: 
His  flocks,  obedient,  spread  o'er  all  the  hills. 

Thus  left  behind,  e'en  in  the  last  despair 
I  thought,  devis'd,  and  Pallas  heard  my  prayer. 
Revenge,  and  doubt,  and    caution  work'd   my 

breast; 

But  this  of  many  counsels  seem'd  the  best : 
The  monster's  club  within  the  cave  I  spied, 
A  tree  of  stateliest  growth,  and  yet  undried, 
Green  from  the  wood;  of  height  and  bulk  so 

vast, 

The  largest  ship  might  claim  it  for  a  mast. 
This  shorten'd  of  its  top,  I  gave  my  train 
A  fathom's  length,  to  shape  it  and  to  plane 
The  narrower  end  I  sharpen'd  to  a  spire; 
Whose  point  we  harden'd  with  the  force  of  fire, 
And  hid  it  in  the  dust  that  strew'd  the  cave. 
Then  to  my  few  companions,  bold  and  brave, 
Propos'd,  who  first  the  vent'rous  deed  should  try 
In  the  broad  orbit  of  his  monstrous  eye 
To  plunge  the  brand,  and  twirl  the  pointed  wood, 
When  slumber  next  should  tame  the  man  of 

blood. 

Just  as  I  wish'd,  the  lots  were  cast  on  four : 
Myself  the  fifth.     We  stand  and  wait  the  hour. 
He  comes  with  evening:  all  his  fleecy  flock 
Before  him  march,  and  pour  into  the  rock: 
Not  one,  or  male  or  female,  stay'd  behind ; 
(So  fortune  chanc'd,  or  so  some  god  design'd) 
Then  heaving  high  the  stone's  unwieldy  weight, 
He  roll'd  it  on  the  cave,  and  clos'd  the  gate. 


First  down  he  sits,  to  milk  the  woolly  dams, 
And  then  permits  their  udder  to  the  lambs. 
Next  seiz'd  two  wretches  more,  and  headlong 

cast, 

Brain'd  on  the  rock;  his  second  day's  repast. 
I  then  approach'd  him  reeking  with  their  gore, 
And  held  the  brimming  goblet  foaming  o'er: 
Cyclop !  since  human  flesh  has  been  thy  feast, 
Now  drain  this  goblet,  potent  to  digest : 
Know  hence  what  treasures  in  our  ship  we  lost, 
And  what  rich  liquors  other  climates  boast. 
We  to  thy  shore  the  precious  freight  shall  bear, 
If  home  thou  send  us,  and  vouchsafe  to  spare. 
But  oh !  thus  furious,  thirsting  thus  for  gore, 
The  sons  of  men  shall  ne'er  approach  thy  shore, 
And  never  shalt  thou  taste  this  nectar  more. 
He    heard,  he  took,   and  pouring    down   his 

throat 

Delighted  swill'd  the  large  luxurious  draught. 
More!  give  me  more,  he  cried:  the  boon  be  thine, 
Whoe'er  thou  art  that  bear'st  celestial  wine ! 
Declare  thy  name;  not  mortal  is  this  juice, 
Such  as  the  unbless'd  Cyclopean  climes  produce, 
(Though  sure  our  vine  the  largest  cluster  yields, 
And  Jove's  scorn'd  thunder  serves  to  drench  our 

fields) 

But  this  descended  from  the  bless'd  abodes, 
A  rill  of  nectar,  streaming  from  the  gods. 

He  said,  and  greedy  grasp'd  the  heady  bowl, 
Thrice  drain'd,  and  pour'd  the  deluge  on  his  soul : 
His  sense  lay  cover'd  with  the  dozy  fume ; 
While  thus  my  fraudful  speech  I  reassume. 
Thy  promis'd  boon,  O  Cyclop !  now  I  claim, 
Arid  plead  my  title :  Noman  is  my  name. 
By  that  distinguished  from  my  tender  years, 
'Tis  what  my  parents  call  me,  and  my  peers. 

The  giant  then.     Our  promis'd  grace  receive, 
The  hospitable  boon  we  mean  to  give : 
When   all   thy   wretched    crew  have    felt   my 

power, 
Noman  shall  be  the  last  I  will  devour. 

He  said,  then  nodding  with  the  fumes  of  wine 
Dropp'd  his  huge  head,  and  snoring  lay  supine. 
His  neck  obliquely  o'er  his  shoulder  hung, 
Pressed  with  the  weight  of  sleep  that  tames  the 

strong ! 
There  belch'd  the  mingled  steams  of  wine  and 

blood, 

And  human  flesh,  his  indigested  food. 
Sudden  I  stir  the  embers,  and  inspire 
With  animating  breath  the  seeds  of  fire ; 
Each  drooping  spirit  with  bold  words  repair, 
And  urge  my  train  the  dreadful  deed  to  dare. 
The  stake  now  glow'd  beneath  the  burning  bed 
(Green  as  it  was)  and  sparkled  fiery  red. 
Then  forth  the  vengeful  instrument  I  bring; 
With  beating  hearts  my  fellows  form  a  ring. 
Urg'd  by  some  present  god,  they  swift  let  fall 
The  pointed  torment  on  his  visual  ball. 
Myself  above  them  from  a  rising  ground 
Guide  the  sharp  stake,  and  twirl  it  round  and 

round. 

As  when  a  shipwright  stands  his  workmen  o'er,, 
Who  ply  the  wimble,  some  huge  beam  to  bore; 
Urg'd  on  all  hands  it  nimbly  spins  about, 
The  grain  deep  piercing  till  it  scoops  it  out : 


HOMER. 


23 


In  his  broad  eye  so  whirls  the  fiery  wood ; 
From  the  pierc'd  pupil  spouts  the  boiling  blood ; 
Sing'd  are  his  brows ;  the  scorching  lids  grow 

black; 

The  jelly  bubbles,  and  the  fibres  crack. 
And  as  when  arm'rers  temper  in  the  ford 
The  keen-edg'd  pole-axe,  or  the  shining  sword, 
The  red-hot  metal  hisses  in  the  lake  ; 
Thus  in  his  eyeball  hiss'd  the  plunging  stake. 
He  sends  a  dreadful  groan:  the  rocks  around 
Through  all  their  inmost-winding  caves  resound. 
Scar'd  we  receded.     Forth,  with  frantic  hand 
He  tore,  and  dash'd  on  earth  the  gory  brand : 
Then  calls  the  Cyclops,  all  that  round  him  dwell, 
With  voice  like  thunder,  and  a  direful  yell. 
From  all  their  dens  the  one-eyed  race  repair, 
From  rifted  rocks,  and  mountains  bleak  in  air. 
All  haste  assembled,  at  his  well-known  roar, 
Inquire  the  cause,  and  crowd  the  cavern  door. 

What  hurts  thee,  Polypheme?   what  strange 

aifright 

Thus  breaks  our  slumbers,  and  disturbs  the  night? 
Does  any  mortal,  in  th'  unguarded  hour 
Of  sleep,  oppress  thee,  or  by  fraud  or  power  ? 
Or  thieves  insidious  the  fair  flock  surprise  ? 
Thus  they :  the  Cyclop  from  his  den  replies : 

Friends,  Noman  kills  me ;  Noman  in  the  hour 
Of  sleep,  oppresses  me  with  fraudful  power. 
"  If  no  man  hurt  thee,  but  the  hand  divine 
Inflicts  disease,  it  fits  thee  to  resign  : 
To  Jove  or  to  thy  father  Neptune  pray," 
The  brethren  cried,  and  instant  strode  away. 

Joy  touch'd  my  secret  soul  and  conscious  heart, 
Pleas'd  with  th'  effect  of  conduct  and  of  art. 
Meantime  the  Cyclop,  raging  with  his  wound, 
Spreads  his  wide  arms,  and  searches  round  and 

round  : 

At  last,  the  stone  removing  from  the  gate, 
With  hands  extended  in  the  midst  he  sate ; 
And  search'd  each  passing  sheep,  and  felt  it  o'er, 
Secure  to  seize  us  ere  we  reach'd  the  door. 
(Such  as  his  shallow  wit,  he  deem'd  was  mine) 
But  secret  I  revolv'd  the  deep  design; 
'Twas  for  our  lives  my  lab'ring  bosom  wrought; 
Each    scheme    I    turn'd,    and    sharpen'd    every 

thought ; 

This  way  and  that,  I  cast  to  save  my  friends, 
Till  one  resolve  my  varying  counsel  ends. 

Strong  were  the  rams,  with  native  purple  fair, 
Well  fed,  and  largest  of  the  fleecy  care. 
These  three  and  three,  with  osier  bands  we  tied, 
(The  twining  bands  the  Cyclop's  bed  supplied) 
The  midmost  bore  a  man ;  the  outward  two 
Securd  each  side :  so  bound  we  all  the  crew. 
One  ram  remain'd  the  leader  of  the  flock ; 
In  his  deep  fleece  my  grasping  hands  I  lock, 
And  fast  beneath,  in  woolly  curls  inwove, 
There  cling  implicit,  and  confide  in  Jove. 
When  rosy*tnorning  glimmer'd  o'er  the  dales, 
He  drove  to  pasture  all  the  lusty  ma! 
The  ewes  still  folded,  with  distended  thighs 
Unmilk'd,  lay  bleating  in  distressful  cries. 
But  heedless  of  those  cares,  with  anguish  stung, 
He  felt  their  fleeces  as  they  pass'd  along. 
(Fool  that  he  was)  and  let  them  safely  go, 
All  unsuspecting  of  their  freight  below. 


The  master  ram  at  last  approach'd  the  gate, 
Charg'd  with  his  wool,  and  with  Ulysses'  fate. 
Him  while  he  past  the  monster  blind  bespoke : 
What  makes  my  ram  the  lag  of  all  the  flock? 
First  thou  wert  wont  to  crop  the  flowery  mead, 
First  to  the  field  and  river's  bank  to  lead, 
And  first  with  stately  step  at  evening  hour 
Thy  fleecy  fellows  usher  to  their  bower. 
Now  far  the  last,  with  pensive  pace  and  slow 
Thou  mov'st  as  conscious  of  thy  master's  wo ! 
Seest  thou  these  lids  that  now  unfold  in  vain1? 
(The  deed  of  Noman  and  his  wicked  train.) 
Oh !  didst  thou  feel  for  thy  afflicted  lord, 
And  would  but  fate  the  power  of  speech  afford ; 
Soon  might'st  thou  tell  me,  where  in  secret  here 
The  dastard  lurks,  all  trembling  with  his  fear : 
Swung  round  and  round,  and  dash'd  from  rock 

to  rock, 
His   batter'd   brains    should   on   the   pavement 

smoke. 

No  ease,  no  pleasure  my  sad  heart  receives, 
While  such  a  monster  as  vile  Noman  lives. 

The  giant  spoke,  and  through  the  hollow  rock 
Dismiss'd  the  ram,  the  father  of  the  flock. 
No  sooner  freed,  and  through  th'  enclosure  pass'd, 
First  I  release  myself,  my  fellows  last : 
Fat  sheep  and  goats  in  throngs  we  drive  before, 
And  reach  our  vessel  on  the  winding  shore. 
With  joy  the  sailors  view  their  friends  retum'd, 
And  hail  us  living  whom  as  dead  they  mourn'd. 
Big  tears  of  transport  stand  in  every  eye  : 
I  check  their  fondness,  and  command  to  fly. 
Aboard  in  haste  they  heave  the  wealthy  sheep, 
And  snatch  their  oars,  and  rush  into  the  deep. 

Now  off  at  sea,  and  from  the  shallows  clear, 
As  far  as  human  voice  could  reach  the  ear ; 
With  taunts  the  distant  giant  I  accost, 
Hear  me,  oh  Cyclop !  hear  ungracious  host ! 
'Twas  on  no  coward,  no  ignoble  slave, 
Thou  meditat'st  thy  meal  in  yonder  cave; 
But  one,  the  vengeance  fated  from  above 
Doom' d  to  inflict ;  the  instrument  of  Jove. 
Thy  barb'rous  breach  of  hospitable  bands, 
The  god,  the  god  revenges  by  my  hands. 

These  words  the  Cyclop's  burning  rage  pro- 
voke : 

From  the  tall  hill  he  rends  a  pointed  rock ; 
High  o'er  the  billows  flew  the  massy  load, 
And  near  the  ship  came  thund'ring  on  the  flood. 
It  almost  brush'd  the  helm,  and  fell  before : 
The  whole  sea  shook,  and  refluent  beat  the  shore. 
The  strong  concussion  on  the  heaving  tide, 
Roll'd  back  the  vessel  to  the  island's  side : 
Aurain  I  shoved  her  off;  our  fate  to  fly, 
Each  nerve  we  stretch,  and  every  oar  we  ply. 
Just  'scaped  impending  death,  when  now  again 
We  twice  as  far  had  furrow'd  back  the  main, 
Once  more  I  raise  my  voice :  my  friends  afraid 
With  mild  entreaties  my  design  dissuade. 
What  boots  the  godless  giant  to  provoke  ? 
Whose  arm  may  sink  us  at  a  single  stroke. 
Already,  when  the  dreadful  rock  he  threw, 
Old  ocean  shook,  and  back  his  surges  ilew. 
The  sounding  voice  directs  his  aim  again; 
The    rock   o'erwhelms  us,  and  we  'scaped   in 
vain. 


24 


HOMER. 


But  I,  of  mind  elate,  and  scorning  fear, 
Thus  with  new  taunts  insult  the  monster's  ear : 
Cyclop  !  if  any,  pitying  thy  disgrace, 
Ask,  who  disfigur'd  thus  that  eyeless  face  ? 
Say  'twas  Ulysses ;  'twas  his  deed,  declare, 
Laertes'  son,  of  Ithaca  the  fair  ; 
Ulysses,  far  in  fighting  fields  renown'd, 
Before  whose  arm  Troy  tumbled  to  the  ground. 

Th'  astonish'd  savage  with  a  roar  replies : 
Oh  heavens !  oh  faith  of  ancient  prophecies ! 
This,  Telemus  Eurymides  foretold,* 
(The  mighty  seer  who  on  these  hills  grew  old ; 
Skill 'd  the  dark  fates  of  mortals  to  declare, 
And  learn'd  in  all  wing'd  omens  of  the  air) 
Long  since  he  menac'd,  such  was  fate's  command ; 
And  nam'd  Ulysses  as  the  destin'd  hand. 
I  deem'd  some  godlike  giant  to  behold, 
Or  lofty  hero,  haughty,  brave,  and  bold ; 
Not  this  weak  pigmy-wretch,  of  mean  design, 
Who  not  by  strength  subdued  me,  but  by  wine. 
But  come,  accept  our  gifts,  and  join  to  pray 
Great  Neptune'  blessing  on  the  wat'ry  way : 
For  his  I  am,  and  I  the  lineage  own ; 
Th'  immortal  father  no  less  boasts  the  son. 
His  power  can  heal  me,  and  relight  my  eye ; 
And  only  his,  of  all  the  gods  on  high. 

Oh !  could  this  arm  (I  thus  aloud  rejoin'd) 
From  that  vast  bulk  dislodge  thy  bloody  mind, 
And  send  thee  howling  to  the  realms  of  night! 
As  sure,  as  Neptune  cannot  give  thee  sight. 

Thus  I :  while  raging  he  repeats  his  cries, 
With  hands  uplifted  to  the  starry  skies. 
Hear  me,  oh  Neptune!  thou  whose  arms  are 

hurl'd 

From  shore  to  shore,  and  gird  the  solid  world. 
If  thine  I  am,  nor  thou  my  birth  disown, 
And  if  th'  unhappy  Cyclop  be  thy  son ; 
Let  not  Ulysses  breathe  his  native  air, 
Laertes'  son,  of  Ithaca  the  fair. 
If  to  review  his  country  be  his  fate, 
Be  it  through  toils  and  sufferings,  long  and  late, 
His  lost  companions  let  him  first  deplore ; 
Some  vessel,  not  his  own,  transport  him  o'er ; 
And  when  at  home  from  foreign  suff 'rings  freed, 
More  near  and  deep,  domestic  woes  succeed ! 

With  imprecations  thus  he  fill'd  the  air, 
And  angry  Neptune  heard  th'  unrighteous  prayer. 
A  larger  rock  then  heaving  from  the  plain, 
He  whirl'd  it  round :  it  sung  across  the  main : 
It  fell,  and  brush 'd  the  stern:  the  billows  roar, 
Shake  at  the  weight,  and  refluent  beat  the  shore. 
With  all  our  force  we  kept  aloof  to  sea, 
And  gain'd  the  island  where  our  vessels  lay. 
Our  sight  the  whole  collected  navy  cheer'd, 
Who  waiting  long,  by  turns  had  hop'd  and  fear'd, 
There  disembarking  on  the  green  seaside, 
We  land  our  cattle,  and  the  spoil  divide : 
Of  these  due  shares  to  every  sailor  fall; 
The  master  ram  was  voted  mine  by  all: 
And  him  (the  guardian  of  Ulysses'  fate,) 
With  pious  mind  to  heaven  I  consecrate. 


*  This  incident  sufficiently  shows  the  use  of  that  dis- 
simulation which  enters  into  the  character  of  Ulysses : 
if  he  had  discovered  his  name,  the  Cyclops  had  destroyed 
him  as  his  most  dangerous  enemy. 


But  the  great  god,  whose  thunder  rends  the  skies, 
Averse,  beholds  the  smoking  sacrifice  ; 
And  sees  me  wand'ring  still  from  coast  to  coast; 
And  all  my  vessels,  all  my  people,  lost ! 

While  thoughtless  we  indulge  the  genial  rite, 
As  plenteous  cates  and  flowing  bowls  invite ; 
Till  evening  Phoebus  roll'd  away  the  light: 
Stretch'd  on  the  shore  in  careless  ease  we  rest, 
Till  ruddy  morning  purpled  o'er  the  east. 
Then  from  their  anchors  all  our  ships  unbind, 
And  mount  the  decks,  and  call  the  willing  wind. 
Now  rang'd  in  order  on  our  banks,  we  sweep 
With  hasty  strokes  the  hoarse-resounding  deep  ; 
Blind  to  the  future,  pensive  with  our  fears, 
Glad  for  the  living,  for  the  dead  in  tears. 

Book  XI. 

FROM  ULYSSES'  NARRATION  OF  HIS  DESCENT  INTO 
HELL. 

THUS  in  a  tide  of  tears  our  sorrows  flow, 
And  add  new  horror  to  the  realms  of  woe ; 
Till,  side  by  side,  along  the  weary  coast, 
Advanc'd  Achilles'  and  Patroclus'  ghost, 
A  friendly  pair !  near  these  the  Pylian*  stray'd, 
And  towering  Ajax,  an  illustrious  shade ! 
War  was  his  joy,  and  pleas'd  with  loud  alarms, 
None  but  Pelides  brighter  shone  in  arms. 

Through  the  thick  gloom  his  friend  Achilles 

knew, 

And,  as  he  speaks,  the  tears  descend  in  dew. 
"  Com'st  thou  alive  to  view  the  Stygian  bounds, 
Where  the  wan  spectres  walk  eternal  rounds  ; 
Nor  fear'st  the  dark  and  dismal  waste  to  tread, 
Throng'd  with  pale  ghosts,  familiar  with  the 
dead?" 

To  whom  with  sighs:  "I  pass  these  dreadful 

gates 

To  seek  the  Theban,f  and  consult  the  fates : 
For  still  distress'd  I  rove  from  coast  to  coast, 
Lost  to  my  friends,  and  to  my  country  lost. 
But  sure  the  eye  of  time  beholds  no  name 
So  blest  as  thine  in  all  the  rolls  of  fame : 
Alive  we  hail'd  thee  with  our  guardian  gods, 
And  dead,  thou  rul'st  a  king  in  these  abodes." 

"Talk  not  of  ruling  in  this  dolorous  gloom, 
Nor  think  vain  words"  (he  cried)  "  can  ease  my 

doom. 

Rather  I  choose  laboriously  to  bear 
A  weight  of  woes,  and  breathe  the  vital  air, 
A  slave  to  some  poor  hind  that  toils  for  bread, 
Than  reign  the  scepter'd  monarch  of  the  dead."^ 

******* 

Now,  without  number,  ghost  by  ghost  arose, 
All  wailing  with  unutterable  woes. 
Alone,  apart,  in  discontented  mood, 
A  gloomy  shade,  the  sullen  Ajax  stood ; 


*  Antilochus.  f  Tiresias. 

t  Contrast  this  gloomy  picture  with  that  of  the  Elysian 
plain  in  the  fourth  book  :— 
Thee  to  the  Elysian  plain,  earth's  farthest  end, 
Where  Rhadamanthus  dwells,  the  gods  shall  send; 
Where  mortals  easiest  pass  the  careless  hour; 
No  lingering  winters  there,  nor  snow,  nor  shower; 
But  ocean  ever,  to  refresh  mankind, 
Breathes  the  shrill  spirit  of  the  western  wind. 

A.  Moore. 


HOMER. 


25 


For  ever  sad,  with  proud  disdain  he  pin'd, 
And  the  lost  arms  for  ever  stung  his  mind ; 
Though  to  the  contest  Thetis  gave  the  laws, 
And  Pallas,  by  the  Trojans,  judg'd  the  cause. 
O  why  was  I  victorious  in  the  strife  ? 
0  dear-bought  honour  with  so  brave  a  life ! 
With  him  the  strength  of  war,  the  soldier's  pride, 
Our  second  hope  the  great  Achilles  died. 
Touch'd  at  the  sight,  I  scarce  my  tears  repress'd, 
And  thus,  with  soothing  words,  the  ghost  ad- 

dress'd : 
"  Still  burns  thy  rage  ?   And  can  brave  souls 

resent 

E'en  after  death  ?  Relent,  great  shade,  relent ! 
Perish  those  arms,  which,  by  the  gods'  decree, 
Accurs'd  our  army  with  the  loss  of  thee ! 
With  thee  we  fell;  Greece  wept  thy  hapless 

fates, 

And  shook,  astonish'd,  through  her  hundred  states. 
O  deem  thy  fall  not  owed  to  man's  decree ; 
Jove  hated  Greece,  and  punish'd  Greece  in  thee  \ 
Turti  then,  oh  peaceful  turn,  thy  wrath  control, 
And  calm  the  raging  tempest  of  thy  soul." 

While  yet  I  speak,  the  shade  disdains  to  stay, 
In  silence  turns,  and  sullen  stalks  away. 

Touch'd  at  his  sour  retreat,  through  deepest 

night, 
Through  hell's  black  bounds,  I  had  pursued  his 

flight, 

And  forc'd  the  stubborn  spectre  to  reply; 
But  other  visions  drew  my  curious  eye. 
High  on  a  throne,  tremendous  to  behold, 
Stern  Minos  waves  a  mace  of  burnish'd  gold ; 
Around  ten  thousand  thousand  spectres  stand, 
Through   the  wide   dome   of  Dis,  a  trembling 

band ; 

Whilst,  as  they  plead,  the  fatal  lots  he  rolls, 
Absolves  the  just,  and  dooms  the  guilty  souls. 

There  huge  Orion,  of  portentous  size, 
Swift  through  the  gloom,  a  giant-hunter,  flies. 
A  ponderous  mace  of  brass,  with  direful  sway, 
Aloft  he  whirls,  to  crush  his  savage  prey ; 
Stern  beasts,  in  trains,  that  by  his  truncheon  fell, 
Now  grisly  forms,  shoot  o'er  the  lawns  of  hell. 
There  Tityus  large  and  long,  in  fetters  bound, 
O'erspreads  nine  acres  of  infernal  ground  ; 
Two  ravenous  vultures,  furious  for  their  food, 
Scream  o'er  the  fiend,  and  riot  in  his  blood, 
Incessant  gore  the  liver  in  his  breast, 
Th'  immortal  liver  grows,  and  gives  th'  immortal 

feast. 

For  as  o'er  Panope's  enamell'd  plains 
Latona  journey'd  to  the  Pythian  fanes, 
With  haughty  love  th'  audacious  monster  strove 
To  force  the  goddess,  and  to  rival  Jove. 

There  Tantalus  along  the  Stygian  bounds 
Pours  out  deep  groans;  (with  groans  all  hell  re- 
sounds) 

Even  in  the  circling  flood  refreshment  craves, 
And  pines  with  thirst  amidst  a  sea  of  waves: 
When  to  the  water  he  his  lip  applies, 
Back  from  his  lip  the  treach'rous  water  flies. 
Above,  beneath,  around  his  hapless  head, 
Trees  of  all  kinds  delicious  fruitage  spread ; 
There  figs  sky-dyed,  a  purple  hue  disclose, 
Green  looks  the  olive,  the  pomegranate  glows, 
4 


There  dangling  pears  exalted  scents  unfold, 
And  yellow  apples  ripen  into  gold ; 
The  fruit  he  strives  to  seize :  but  blasts  arise, 
Toss  it  on  high,  and  whirl  it  to  the  skies. 

I  turn'd  my  eye,  and  as  I  turn'd  survey'd 
A  mournful  vision !  the  Sisyphian  shade ; 
With  many  a  weary  step,  and  many  a  groan, 
Up  the  high  hill  he  heaves  a  huge  round  stone ; 
The  huge  round  stone,  resulting  with  a  bound, 
Thunders  impetuous  down,  and  smokes  along 

the  ground. 

Again  the  restless  orb  his  toil  renews, 
Dust  mounts  in  clouds,  and  sweat  descends  in 

dews. 

Now  I  the  strength  of  Hercules  behold, 
A  towering  spectre  of  gigantic  mould, 
A  shadowy  form !  for  high  in  heaven's  abodes 
Himself  resides,  a  god  among  the  gods ; 
There  in  the  bright  assemblies  of  the  skies, 
The  nectar  quaffs,  and  Hebe  crowns  his  joys. 
Here  hovering  ghosts,  like  fowl,  his  shade  sur- 
round, 

And  clang  their  pinions  with  terrific  sound ; 
Gloomy  as  night  he  stands,  in  act  to  throw 
Th'  aerial  arrow  from  the  twanging  bow. 
Around  his  breast  a  wondrous  zone  is  roll'd, 
Where  woodland  monsters  grin  in  fretted  gold  ; 
There  sullen  lions  sternly  seem  to  roar, 
The  bear  to  growl,  to  foam  the  tusky  boar, 
There  war  and  havoc  and  destruction  stood, 
And  vengeful  murder  red  with  human  blood. 
Thus  terribly  adorn'd  the  figures  shine, 
Inimitably  wrought  with  skill  divine. 
The  mighty  ghost  advanc'd  with  awful  look, 
And  turning  his  grim  visage,  sternly  spoke. 

"O  exercis'd  in  grief!  by  arts  refin'd! 
0  taught  to  bear  the  wrongs  of  base  mankind ; 
Such,  such  was  I !  still  toss'd  from  care  to  care, 
While  in  your  world  I  drew  the  vital  air ; 
Even  I  who  from  the  lord  of  thunders  rose,    * 
Bore  toils  and  dangers,  and  a  weight  of  woes ; 
To  a  base  monarch  still  a  slave  confin'd, 
(The  hardest  bondage  to  a  gen'rous  mind !) 
Down  to  these  worlds  I  trod  the  dismal  way, 
And  dragg'd  the  three-mouth'd  dog  to    upper 

day; 

Even  hell  I  conquer'd,  through  the  friendly  aid 
Of  Maia's  offspring  and  the  martial  maid." 

Thus  he,  nor  deign'd  for  our  reply  to  stay, 
But  turning  stalk'd  with  giant  strides  away, 
Curious  to  view  the  kings  of  ancient  days, 
The  mighty  dead  that  live  in  endless  praise, 
Resolv'd  I  stand ;  and  haply  had  survey'd 
The  godlike  Theseus,  and  Perithous'  shade ; 
But  swarms  of  spectres  rose  from  deepest  hell, 
With  bloodless  visage,  and  with  hideous  yell, 
They  scream,  they  shriek ;  sad  groans  and  dismal 

sounds 
Stun  my  scar'd  ears,  and  pierce  hell's  utmost 

bounds. 

No  more  my  heart  the  dismal  din  sustains, 
And  my  cold  blood  hangs  shivering  in  my  veins ; 
Lest  Gorgon  rising  from  th'  infernal  lakes, 
With  horrors  arm'd,  and  curls  of  hissing  snakes, 
Should  fix  me,  stiffen'd  at  the  monstrous  sight, 
A  stony  image,  in  eternal  night ! 
C 


20 


HOMER. 


Book  XVII. 

THE    DOG    ARGUS. 

THUS,  near  the  gates,  conferring  as  they  drew, 
Argus,  the  dog,  his  ancient  master  knew ; 
He,  not  unconscious  of  the  voice,  and  tread, 
Lifts  to  the  sound  his  ear,  and  rears  his  head; 
Bred  by  Ulysses,  nourish'd  at  his  board, 
But  ah !  not  fated  long  to  please  his  lord ! 
To    him  his   swiftness  and  his    strength  were 

vain; 

The  voice  of  glory  call'd  him  o'er  the  main. 
Till  then,  in  every  sylvan  chase  renown'd, 
With  Argus,  Argus,  rung  the  woods  around ; 
With  him  the  youth  pursued  the  goat  or  fawn, 
Or  traced  the  mazy  leveret  o'er  the  lawn. 
Now  left  to  man's  ingratitude,  he  lay 
Unhoused,  neglected,  in  the  public  way ; 
And    where    on   heaps    the    rich   manure  was 

spread, 
Obscene  with  reptiles,  took  his  sordid  bed. 

He  knew  his  lord;   he  knew,  and  strove  to 

meet; 

In  vain  he  strove,  to  crawl,  and  kiss  his  feet ; 
Soft  pity  touch'd  the  mighty  master's  soul ; 
Adown  his  cheek  a  tear  unbidden  stole, 
Stole    unperceiv'd;    he    turn'd    his   head,    and 

dried 

The  drop  humane,  and  thus  impassion'd  cried ; 
"  What  noble  beast,  in  this  abandon'd  state, 
Lies  here  all-helpless  at  Ulysses'  gate  ? 
His  bulk  and  beauty  speak  no  vulgar  praise ; 
If,  as  he  seems,  he  was  in  better  days, 
Some  care  his  age  deserves :  or  was  he  priz'd 
For  worthless  beauty?  therefore  now  despis'd! 
Such  dogs,  and  men,  there  are,  mere  things  of 

state, 
And  always  cherish'd  by  their  friends,  the  great." 

"  Not  Argus  so,"  (Eumseus  thus  rejoin'd) 
"  But  serv'd  a  master  of  a  nobler  kind, 
Who  never,  never  shall  behold  him  more ! 
Long,  long  since  perish'd  on  a  distant  shore! 
Oh,   had   you   seen    him,    vigorous,    bold,    arid 

young, 

Swift  as  a  stag,  and  as  a  lion  strong ; 
Him  no  fell  savage  on  the  plain  withstood, 
None  'scap'd  him,  bosom'd  in  the  gloomy  wood ; 
His  eye  how  piercing,  and  his  scent  how  true, 
To  winde  the  vapour  in  the  tainted  dew  f 
Such,  when  Ulysses  left  his  natal  coast, 
Now  years  unnerve  him  and  his  lord  is  lost! 
The  women  keep  the  generous  creature  bare, 
A  sleek  and  idle  race  is  all  their  care: 
The  master  gone,  the  servants  what  restrains? 
Or  dwells  Humanity  where  Riot  reigns? 
Jove  fix'd  it  certain  that  whatever  day 
Makes  man  a  slave,  takes  half  his  worth  away." 

This  said,  the  honest  herdsman  strode  before : 
The  musing  monarch  pauses  at  the  door : 
The  Dog,  whom  Fate  had  granted  to  behold 
His  Lord,  when  twenty  tedious  years  had  roll'd, 
Takes  a  last  look,  and, — having  seen  him, — dies : 
— So  closed  for  ever  faithful  Argus'  eyes! 


Book  XIX. 

PENELOPE  LAMENTING  THE  ABSENCE  OF  HER 
HUSBAND. 

As  when  the  months  are  clad  in  flowery  green, 
Sad  Philomel,  in  bowery  shades,  unseen, 
To  vernal  airs  attunes  her  varied  strains ; 
And  Itylus  sounds  warbling  o'er  the  plains : 
Young  Itylus,  his  parents'  darling  joy ! 
Whom  chance  misled  the  mother  to  destroy: 
Now  doom'd  a  wakeful  bird  to  wail  the  beaute- 
ous boy — 

So,  in  nocturnal  solitude  forlorn, 
A  sad  variety  of  woes  I  mourn. 


THE  HOMERIC  HYMNS. 

THE  Homeric  Hymns  have  been  considered 
by  almost  all  modern  critics — with  the  eminent 
exception  of  Hermann — as  the  productions  of  an 
age  subsequent  to  that  of  Homer.  Nevertheless 
it  is  certain  that  they  are  of  very  high  antiquity, 
and  were  attributed  to  Homer  by  the  ancients 
with  almost  as  much  confidence  as  the  Iliad  and 
Odyssey  themselves.  Thucydides.  Diodorus  Sicu- 
lus,  Pausanias,  and  many  other  old  authors  cite 
different  verses  from  these  Hymns,  and  treat 
them  in  every  respect  as  genuine  Homeric  re- 
mains. Nor  is  it  improbable  that  some  of  them, 
if  not  actually  the  works  of  Homer  or  of  his  age, 
yield  only  to  them  in  remoteness  of  date. — See 
H.  N.  Coleridge's  Introduction  to  Homer. 


HYMN  TO  MERCURY. 

"  THE  Hymn  to  Mercury,"  (says  Mr.  Coleridge,) 
is  one  of  the  most  diverting  poems  in  the  Greek 
literature.  It  is  pre-eminently  humorous  in  the 
best  sense  of  the  word,  and  therefore  essentially 
different  from  the  wit  and  comic  license  of  Aris- 
tophanes. This  hymn  is  perfectly  regular  and 
connected  throughout,  and  tells  the  whole  story 
of  Mercury's  famous  felony  on  the  oxen  of  Apollo, 
the  altercation  of  the  two  gods,  their  reference  to 
Jupiter,  and  final  compromise.  That  it  should 
be  honourable  to  a  deity  to  be  celebrated  for  such 
thieving  and  such  ineffable  lying  as  Mercury 
icre  plays  off  against  the  sagacious  and  truth- 
oving  Apollo,  is  a  very  curious  characteristic  of 
the  popular  religion  of  the  Greeks ;  and,  indeed, 
the  matter  is  so  managed  by  the  poet,  that 
most  readers  get  fonder  of  this  little  born-rogue 
than  of  any  other  of  the  ancient  dwellers  on 
Olympus. 

In  this  hymn  Hermes  is  gifted  with  the  char- 
acter of  a  perfect  Spanish  Picaro,  a  sort  of  Laza- 
rillo  de  Tormes  amongst  the  gods,  stealing  their 
goods,  playing  them  tricks,  and  telling  such  enor- 
mous, such  immortal,  lies  to  screen  himself  from 
detection,  that  certainly  no  human  thief  could 
ever  have  the  vanity  to  think  of  rivalling  them 
on  earth. 

Mercury  was  the  son  of  Jupiter  and  Maia,  and 
was  born  in  a  cave  about  day-break;  by  noon  he 


HOMER. 


27 


had  made  a  lyre  out  of  the  shell  of  a  tortoise 
which  he  caught  crawling  at  the  entrance  of  the 
cavern,  and  had  learnt  to  play  upon  it;  and  that 
same  evening  he  stole  and  drove  away  a  matter 
of  fifty  cows  belonging  to  Apollo  and  grazing  on 
the  Pierian  hills.  The  description  of  the  ancient 
lyre  in  this  hymn,  has  been  followed  by  almost 
all  writers  in  mentioning  the  subject: — 

And  through  the  stone-shell'd   tortoise's  strong 

skin, 

At  proper  distances  small  holes  he  made, 
And  fasteri'd  the  cut  stems  of  reeds  within, 
And  with  a  piece  of  leather  overlaid 
The  open  space,  and  fixed  the  cubits  in, 
Fitting  the  bridge  to  both,  and  stretched  o'er  all 
Symphonious  chords  of  sheep-gut  rythmical. 

When  he  had  wrought  the  lovely  instrument, 
He  tried  the  chords,  and  made  division  meet, 
Preluding  with  the  plectrum,  and  there  went 
Up  from  beneath  his  hand  a  tumult  sweet 
Of  mighty  sounds,  and  from  his  lips  he  sent 
A  strain  of  unpremeditated  wit 
Joyous,  and  wild,  and  wanton — such  you  may 
Hear  among  revellers  on  a  holiday,  &c.  &c. 

As  to  the  cows,  he  makes  them  walk  back- 
ward and  does  so  himself,  taking  the  additional 
precaution  of  throwing  away  his  sandals  and 
wrapping  up  his  feet  in  the  leafy  twigs  of  shrubs. 
He  meets  one  old  labouring  man,  and  recommends 
him  to  be  blind  and  deaf  to  present  objects,  or  he 
may  suffer  for  it.  When  he  comes  to  the  Al- 
pheus,  he  turns  the  cows  into  a  meadow  to  feed, 
and  kills  and  dresses  two  of  them ;  and  after  ex- 
tinguishing the  fire,  he  creeps  about  the  dawn 
into  his  cradle  again.  The  whole  description  is 
very  graphic  and  spirited. 

He    drove    them    wandering    o'er    the    sandy 

way, 

But,  being  ever  mindful  of  his  craft, 
Backward  and  forward  drove  he  them  astray, 
So  tfiat  the  tracks,  which   seemed  before,  went 

aft: 

His  sandals  then  he  threw  to  the  ocean  spray, 
And  for  each  foot  he  wrought  a  kind  of  raft 
Of  tamarisk,  and  tamarisk-like  sprigs, 
And  bound  them  in  a  lump  with  withy  twigs, 
And  on  his  feet  he  tied  these  sandals  light, 
The    trail    of  whose    wide    leaves    might    not 

betray 

His  track;  and  then,  a  self-sufficing  wight, 
Like  a  man  hastening  on  some  distant  way, 
He  from  Pieria's  mountain  bent  his  flight; 
But  an  old  man  perceived  the  infant  pass 
Down  green  Orchestus,  heaped  like  beds  with 

grass. 

The  old  man  stood  dressing  his  sunny  vine: 
"Halloo!  old  fellow  with  the  crooked  shoulder! 
You  grub  those  stumps !     Before  they  will  bear 

wine 

Methinks  even  you  must  grow  a  little  older : 
Attend,  I  pray,  to  this  advice  of  mine, 
As    you    would    'scape    what   might   appal    a 

bolder — 


Seeing,  see  not — and  hearing,  hear  not — and — 
If  you  have  understanding — understand.'1 

All  night  he  worked  in  the  serene  moonshine ; 
But  when  the  light  of  day  was  spread  abroad, 
He  sought  his  natal  mountain  peaks  divine. 
On  his  long  wandering,  neither  man  nor  god 
Had  met  him,  smce  he  killed  Apollo's  kine, 
Nor  had  a  housedog  barked  upon  his  road, 
Now  he  obliquely  through  the  key-hole  pass'd 
Like  a  thin  mist,  or  an  autumnal  blast. 
Right  through  the  temple  of  the  spacious  cave 
He  went  with  soft  light  feet — as  if  his  tread 
Fell  not  on  earth — no  sound  their  falling  gave ; 
Then  to  his  cradle  he  crept  quick,  and  spread 
The  swaddling  clothes  about  him  and  the  knave 
Lay  playing  with  the  covering  of  his  bed 
With  his  right  hand  about  his  knees — the  left 
Held  his  beloved  lyre. 

His  mother  suspects  him  of  some  roguish  ad- 
venture, and  predicts  that  Apollo  will  discover 
and  punish  him  severely ;  to  all  which  expostu- 
lation he  answers  that  he  is  determined  to  pro- 
vide, by  a  due  exercise  of  his  talents,  for  the 
comfortable  maintenance  of  his  mother  and  him- 
self; and  as  for  Apollo,  if  he  should  make  any 
disturbance  about  the  cows,  Mercury  declares  he 
will  immediately  go  and  commit  a  burglary  on 
the  Pythian  temple,  and  steal  twice  the  value  in 
tripods,  and  robes,  and  gold ;  and  adds,  that  his 
mother  might  come  and  see  him  do  it  if  she  liked. 

Meantime  Apollo  goes  about  in  search  of  his 
cattle,  and  meeting  with  the  old  labouring  man, 
says, 


•  The  author  of  this  theft 


Has  stolen  the  fatted  heifers  every  one ; 

But  the  four  dogs  and  the  black  bull  are  left : — 

Stolen  last  night  they  were  at  set  of  sun." 

He  then,  by  inquiries  and  help  of  auguries, 
discovers  that  his  brother  of  the  half  blood  is  the 
thief.  He  flies  to  Cyllene,  though  he  is  some- 
thing puzzled  by  the  extraordinary  foot-marks  in 
the  sand  at  Pylos,  and  enters  the  cave.  Mercury 
rolls  himself  up  into  a  little  ball,  puts  his  head 
under  the  clothes,  and  pretends  to  be  asleep. 
However,  Apollo,  after  searching  every  hole  and 
corner  in  the  cave,  and  looking  into  Maia's  ward- 
robe and  store-room,  lights  upon  our  little  friend. 

Where  like  an  infant  who  had  sucked  his  fill, 
And  now  was  newly  washed,  and  put  to  bed, 
Awake,  but  courting  sleep  with  weary  will, 
And  gathered  in  a  lump,  hands,  feet,  and  head, 
He  lay. 

Apollo  taxes  him  with  the  theft,  saying, 

"  Little  cradled  rogue  declare 

Of  my  illustrious  heifers — where  they  are! 

Speak  quickly !  or  a  quarrel  straight  'twixt  us 

Must  rise  ;  and  the  event  will  be  that  I 

Shall  hurl  you  into  dismal  Tartarus, 

In  fiery  gloom  to  dwell  eternally: 

Nor  shall  your  father,  nor  your  mother  loose 


28 


HOMER. 


The  bars  of  that  black  dungeon — utterly 
You  shall  be  cast  out  from  the  light  of  day 
To  rule  the  ghosts  of  men — unblest  as  they !" 

To  whom  thus  Hermes  slily  answered: — "Son 
Of  great  Latona,  what  a  speech  is  this ! 
Why  come  you  here  to  ask  me  what  is  done 
With  the  wild  oxen  which  it  seems  you  miss  ? 
I  have  not  seen  them,  nor  from  any  one 
Have  heard  a  word  of  the  whofe  business ; 
If  you  should  promise  an  immense  reward, 
I  could  not  tell  more  than  you  now  have  heard. 
An  ox-stealer  should  be  both  tall  and  strong, 
And  I  am  but  a  little  new-born  thing, 
Who,  yet  at  least,  can  think  of  nothing  wrong : 
My  business  is  to  suck,  and  sleep,  and  fling. 
The  cradle  clothes  about  me  all  day  long, 
Or,  half  asleep,  hear  my  sweet  mother  sing, 
And  to  be  washed  in  water  clear  and  warm, 
And  hushed,  and  kissed,  and  kept  secure  from 

harm. 

0 !  let  not  e'er  this  quarrel  be  averred ! 
Th'  astounded  gods  would  laugh  at  you  if  e'er 
You  should  allege  a  story  so  absurd, 
As  that  a  new-born  infant  forth  could  fare 
Out  of  his  house  after  a  savage  herd ! 
I  was  born  yesterday ;  my  small  feet  are 
Too  tender  for  the  roads  so  hard  and  rough ; 
And  if  you  think  that  this  is  not  enough, 
I  swear  a  great  oath,  by  my  father's  head, 
That  I  stole  not  your  cows,  and  that  I  know 
Of  no  one  else  who  might,  or  could,  or  did ; 
Whatever  things  cows  are,  I  do  not  know, 
For  I  have  only  heard  the  name."     This  said, 
He  winked  as  fast  as  could  be,  and  his  brow 
Was  wrinkled,  and  a  whistle  loud  gave  he, 
Like  one  who  hears  some  strange  absurdity. 
Apollo  gently  smiled  and  said  : — "  Aye,  aye, — 
You  cunning  little  rascal,  you  will  bore 
Many  a  rich  man's  house,  and  your  array 
Of  thieves  will  lay  their  siege  before  his  door 
Silent  as  night,  in  night ;  and  many  a  day 
In  the  wild  glens  rough  shepherds  will  deplore 
That  you  or  yours,  having  an  appetite, 
Met  with  their  cattle,  comrade  of  the  night ! 
And  this  among  the  gods  shall  be  your  gift, 
To  be  considered  as  the  lord  of  those 
Who  swindle,  house-break,  sheep-steal,  and  shop- 

lift,      . 

But  now  if  you  would  not  your  last  sleep  doze, 
Crawl  out !" — Thus  saying,  Phoebus  did  uplift 
The  subtle  infant  in  his  swaddling  clothes, 
And  in  his  arms,  according  to  his  wont, 
A  scheme  devised  the  illustrious  Argiphont, 
And  sneezed  and  shuddered — Phosbus  on  the 

grass 

Him  threw,  and  whilst  all  that  he  had  designed 
He  did  perform — eager  although  to  pass, 
Apollo  darted  from  his  mighty  mind 
Towards  the  subtle  babe  the  following  scoff: 
"Do  not  imagine  this  will  get  you  off, 
You  little  swaddled  child  of  Jove  and  May !" 
And  seized  him : — "  By  this  omen  I  shall  trace 
My  noble  herds,  and  you  shall  lead  the  way." 
Cyllenian  Hermes  from  the  grassy  place, 
Like  one  in  earnest  haste  to  get  away, 
Rose,  and  with  hands  lifted  towards  his  face. 


Round  both  his  ears,  up  from  his  shoulders  drew 
His  swaddling  clothes,  and — "What  mean  you 

to  do 

With  me,  you  unkind  god1?"  said  Mercury : 
"  Is  it  about  these  cows  you  tease  me  so  ? 
I  wish  the  race  of  cows  were  perished ! — I 
Stole  not  your  cows — I  do  not  even  know 
What  things  cows  are." 

They  both  go  to  Olympus,  where  Apollo  lays 
his  complaint  before  Jupiter,  and  where  Mercury 
makes  the  following  defence : — 

"  Great  Father !  you  know  clearly  beforehand, 
That  all  which  I  shall  say  to  you  is  soothe ; 
I  am  a  most  veracious  person,  and 
Totally  unacquainted  with  untruth. 
At  sun-rise  Phoebus  came,  but  with  no  band 
Of  gods  to  bear  him  witness,  in  great  ruth, 
To  my  abode,  seeking  his  heifers  there, 
And  saying  I  must  show  him  where  they  are, — • 
Or  he  would  hurl  me  down  the  dask  abyss ! 
I  know  that  every  Apollonian  limb 
Is  clothed  with  speed,  and  might,  and  manliness. 
As  a  green  bank  with  flowers :  but  unlike  him, 
I  was  born  yesterday,  and  you  may  guess 
He  well  knew  this,  when  he  indulged  the  whim 
Of  bullying  a  poor  little  new-born  thing 
That  slept,  and  never  thought  of  cow-driving. 
Am  I  like  a  strong  fellow  that  steals  kine? 
Believe  me,  dearest  father!  (such  you  are) 
This  driving  of  the  herds  is  none  of  mine; 
Across  my  threshold  did  I  wander  ne'er, 
So  may  I  thrive!  I  reverence  the  divine 
Sun  and  the  gods,  and  I  love  you,  and  care 
Even  for  this  hard  accuser,  who  must  know 
I  am  as  innocent  as  they  or  you ! 
I  swear  by  these  most  gloriously-wrought  portals, 
(It  is,  you  will  allow,  an  oath  of  might !) 
Through  which  the  multitude  of  the  immortals 
Pass  and  repays  for  ever,  day  and  night, 
Devising  schemes  for  the  affairs  of  worlds — 
That  I  am  guiltless ;  and  I  will  requite, 
Although  my  enemy  be  great  and  strong, 
His  cruel  threat !  Do  thou  defend  the  young !" 

Mercury  accompanies  this  speech  with  divers 
winkings  of  the  eye,  and  nods  of  the  head  to 
Jupiter,  to  let  him  know  the  exact  state  of  the 
case.  The  end  is,  that  Jove  bursts  into  a  violent 
fit  of  laughter,  at  hearing  the  roguish  child  "  give 
such  a  plausible  account,  arid  every  word  a  lie  ;" 
but  intimates  by  a  sign  to  Hermes,  that  he  has 
done  enough  to  establish  his  reputation,  and  that 
it  is  time  he  should  now  really  discover  the 
truth.  Mercury  obeys,  leads  Apollo  to  the  place 
where  the  cows  were  concealed,  and  gratifies 
him  with  the  gift  of  the  lyre.  Apollo  is  trans- 
ported with  delight  at  the  possession  of  this  in- 
strument, and  thereupon  they  swear  eternal 
friendship. 

HTMIf  TO  VEJOTS. 

{(Br  far  the  most  beautiful  of  the  Homeric 
Hymns,  (says  Mr.  Coleridge)  —  indeed  for  its 
length  equal  in  beauty  to  any  part  of  the  Homeric 
poems — is  the  Hymn  to  Venus.  No  poet  eve:: 


HOMER. 


29 


surpassed  the  richness  and  elegance,  the  warmth 
and  delicacy,  the  dignity  and  tenderness  of  this 
exquisite  composition.  It  has  always  seemed  to 
me  to  be  conceived  in  an  older  and  more  Homeric 
spirit  than  any  of  the  other  Hymns ;  and  it  is  re- 
markable for  being  founded  entirely  on  the  loves 
of  Venus  and  Anchises,  and  for  containing  a 
repetition  of  the  prophecy  of  the  Iliad,  that  ^Eneas 
and  his  posterity  should  reign  over  Troy.  It  is, 
indeed,  quite  Trojan  in  its  subject  and  sentiments, 
and  there  is  one  passage  in  it,  by  which  we 
learn  that  the  Phrygians  spoke  a  language  en- 
tirely different  from  the  Trojans,  and  by  which 
may  infer  that  the  Trojans,  as  has  often  been 
conjectured,  were  Greeks  in  speech  and  blood, 
as  they  certainly  were  in  religion.  Lucretius 
seems  to  have  borrowed  the  thought  of  his  fa- 
mous invocation  of  Venus  from  the  opening  lines 
of  the  Hymn.  The  following  passage  is  by  no 
means  the  most  poetical  in  the  poem ;  arid  yet  I 
think  few  persons  can  read  it,  without  feeling  its 
genuine  beauty.  It  is  where  Venus, having  won 
the  heart  of  Anchises  in  the  form  of  a  Sylvan 
maid,  now  appears  to  him  in  her  own  proper 
character. 

"  Anchises,  wake  ; 

Thy  fond  repose  and  lethargy  forsake ! 
Look  on  the  nymph  who  late  from  Phrygia  came, 
Behold  me  well — say  if  I  seem  the  same !" 
At  her  first  call  the  chains  of  sleep  were  broke, 
And,  starting  from  his  bed,  Anchises  woke : 
But  when  he  Venus  view'd  without  disguise, 
Her  shining  neck  beheld,  and  radiant  eyes, — 
Awed  and  abash'd,  he  turn'd  his  head  aside, 
Attempting  with  his  robe  his  face  to  hide. 
Confus'd  with  wonder,  and  with  fear  oppress'd, 
In  winged  words  he  thus  the  queen  address'd  : 

-When  first,  O  goddess!  I  thy  form  beheld, 
Whose  charms  so  far  humanity  excell'd, 
To  thy  celestial  power  my  vows  I  paid, 
And  with  humility  implor'd  thy  aid. 
But  thou,  for  secret  cause  to  me  unknown, 
Didst  thy  divine  immortal  state  disown. 
But  now,  I  beg  thee,  by  the  filial  love 
Due  to  thy  father,  segis-bearing  Jove, 
Compassion  on  my  human  state  to  show, 
Nor  let  me  lead  a  lift'  infirm  below! 
Defend  me  from  the  woes  that  mortals  wait, 
Nor  let  me  share  of  men  the  common  fate  ! 
Since  never  man  with  length  of  days  was  bless'd, 
Who  in  delights  of  love  a  deity  possess'd." 

To  him  Jove's  beauteous  dauirhtrr  thus  replied : 
"Be  bold,  Anchises!  in  my  love  confide; 
Nor  me,  nor  other  god,  thou  need'st  to  fear, 
For  thou  to  all  the,  heavenly  host  are  dear. 
Know,  from  our  love,  thou  shalt  a  son  obtain, 
Who  over  the  proud  realm  of  Troy  shall  reign  ; 
From  whom  a  race  of  monarchs  shall  descend, 
And  whose  posterity  shall  know  no  end: 
To  him  thou  shalt  the  name  ^Eneas  give. 
As  one,  for  whose  conception  I  must  grieve !" 

"After  telling  the  story  of  Tithonus,  Venus  goes 
on  in  a  strain  of  real  human  affection  for  An- 
chises : — 


"On  terms  like  these,  I  never  can  desire 
Thou  should'st  to  immortality  aspire. 
Could'st  thou,  indeed,  as  now  thou  art,  remain — 
Thy  strength,  thy  beauty,  and  thy  youth  retain ; 
Could'st  thou  for  ever  thus  my  husband  prove, 
I  might  live  happy  in  thy  endless  love ; 
Nor  should  I  e'er  have  cause  to  dread  the  day, 
When  I  must  mourn  thy  loss  and  life's  decay : 
But  thou,  alas !  too  soon  and  sure  must  bend, 
Beneath  the  woes  which  painful  age  attend ; 
Inexorable  age !  whose  wretched  state 
All  mortals  dread,  and  all  immortals  hateF' 

"In  no  Greek  or  Latin  classical  poem,  that  I 
remember,  is  Venus  represented  wjth  such  con- 
summate dignity,  tenderness  and  passion,  as  in 
this  Hymn;  and  in  this  particular  it  certainly 
differs  a  great  deal  from  the  more  popular  con- 
ception of  the  goddess  of  love  in  the  Iliad.  Dif- 
ficult as  the  story  was  to  tell,  it  is  told  with  un- 
broken decorum,  and  constitutes  a  striking  ex- 
ample of  that  intuitive  propriety  of  manner  and 
words,  in  the  display  of  which  the  Greek  poets 
set  all  others  at  defiance." 


HTMK  TO  CERES. 

"THE  manuscript  of  the  Hymn  to  Ceres,  which, 
in  some  parts,  is  in  a  very  fragmentary  state,  was 
discovered  in  the  last  century  by  C.  F.  Mathaei, 
in  the  library  of  the  Holy  Synod  at  Moscow,  aud 
communicated  by  him,  together  with  a  few  lines 
in  a  lost  Hymn  to  Bacchus,  to  David  Ruhnken,  a 
professor  at  the  University  of  Leyden,  by  whom 
it  was  published.  There  has  been  much  diversity 
of  opinion  concerning  the  genuineness  of  this 
poem,  or  I  should  rather  say,  its  identity  with 
the  Homeric  Hymn  to  Ceres,  which  is  so  often 
quoted  by  Pausanias.  Now,  without  absolutely 
allowing  this,  we  may  consider  the  poem  in  the 
same  point  of  view,  as  we  do  the  other  hymns 
commonly  attributed  to  Homer ;  and  though  it  is 
not  equal  in  vigour  and  beauty  to  the  hymns  be- 
fore mentioned,  it  is  still  a  very  lively  and  pictur- 
esque poem,  smooth  and  flowing  in  its  language, 
and  curious  and  peculiar  in  some  of  its  incidents. 

"  The  story  is,  that  Pluto  being  enamoured  of 
Proserpine,  the  daughter  of  Ceres,  carries  her  off 
secretly,  with  the  connivance  and  the  aid  of  Ju- 
piter. Ceres  wanders  over  the  earth  with  blaz- 
ing torches,  in  search  of  Proserpine.  Having 
learned  from  Hecate  of  the  sun,  that  the  maiden 
had  been  carried  away  by  Pluto,  she  assumes 
the  shape  of  a  woman,  goes  to  Eleusis,  and  is  in- 
troduced into  the  house  of  Celeus,  the  king,  by 
his  daughters,  whom  she  had  met  at  a  fountain, 
where  they  had  gone  with  their  pitchers  to  fetch 
water. — Meantime,  she  has  blasted  the  earth 
with  sterility,  and  Jupiter  sends  repeated  mes- 
sages to  induce  her  to  remit  her  anger  and  return 
to  Olympus;  she,  however,  refuses  all  reconcilia- 
tion, till  Jupiter  despatches  Mercury  to  Hades  to 
order  Pluto  to  give  up  Proserpine.  Pluto  obeys, 
but  gives  her  a  pomegranate  seed  to  eat,  and  the 
conclusion  is,  that  Ceres  is  pacified  upon  an  un- 
derstanding that  Proserpine  is  to  pass  two-thirds 
c2 


30 


HOMER. 


of  the  year  with  her,  and  the  remaining  third 
only  with  her  husband.* 

The  poet  says  that  Pluto  seized  her,  whilst — 

In-  Nysia's  vale,  with  nymphs  a  lovely  train 
Sprung  from  the  hoary  father  of  the  main, 
Fair  Proserpine  consum'd  the  fleeting  hours, 
In  pleasing  sports  and  plucking  gaudy  flowers.f 
Around  them  wide  the  flaming  crocus  glows, 
Through  leaves  of  verdure  blooms  the  opening 

rose; 

The  hyacinth  declines  his  fragrant  head, 
And  purple  violets  deck  the  enamell'd  mead ; 
The  fair  Narcissus,  far  above  the  rest, 
By  magic  for^'d,  in  beauty  rose  confest, 
So  Jove  to  insure  the  virgin's  thoughtless  mind, 
And  please  the  Ruler  of  the  Shades  design'd, 
He  caus'd  it  from  the  opening  earth  to  rise, 
Sweet  to  the  scent,  alluring  to  the  eyes. 
Never  did  mortal  or  celestial  power 
Behold  such  vivid  tints  adorn  a  flower; 
From  the  deep  root  a  hundred  branches  sprung, 
And  to  the  winds  ambrosial  odours  flung, 
Which,  lightly  wafted  on  the  wings  of  air, 
The  gladden'd  earth  and  heaven's  wide  circuit 

share ; 

The  joy-dispensing  fragrance  spreads  around, 
And  Ocean's  briny  swell  with  smiles  is  crown'd. 

Pleased  with  the  sight,  nor  deeming  danger 

nigh, 

The  fair  beheld  it  with  desiring  eye ; 
Her  eager  hand  she  stretch 'd  to  seize  the  flower, 
(Beauteous  illusion  of  the  ethereal  power!) 
When,  dreadful  to  behold !  the  rocking  ground 
Disparted — widely  yawn'd  a  gulf  profound ! 
Forth  rushing  from  the  black  abyss  arose 
The  gloomy  monarch  of  the  realm  of  woes, 
Pluto,  from  Saturn  sprung; — the  trembling  maid 
He  seized,  and  to  his  golden  car  convey'd ; 
Borne  by  immortal  steeds  the  chariot  flies,  &c. 

In  the  fictitious  account  which  Ceres  gave  of 
herself  to  the  daughters  of  Celeus,  she  said  that 
she  had  come  over  the  sea  from  Crete :  and  it  is 
worth  remarking,  (continues  Mr.  Coleridge,)  that 
thrice,  in  the  Odyssey,  Ulysses,  when  fabricating 
a  history  of  his  birth  and  parentage,  declares  he 


*  Preface  to  Hole's  translation  of  the  Hymn  to  Ceres. 

f —       gathering  flowers, 

Herself,  a  fairer  flower,  by  gloomy  Dis 
Was  gathered. — Milton. 


was  born  in  Crete.     This  brings  the  KpjjT1?  ?  d« 
'     —  "the  Cretans  are  always  liars,"  of  Epi- 


menides,  quoted  by  St.  Paul,  (Titus  i.  12,)  to  our 
recollection,  and  may  induce  us  to  believe  that 
Cretan  mendacity  was  of  so  ancient  a  date  as  to 
have  become  a  subject  of  satirical  allusion  even 
in  the  time  of  Homer. 

The  change  in  the  person  of  Ceres,  when  over- 
looked by  Metanira,  the.  wife  of  Celeus,  (whose 
child  she  had  nursed  in  her  disguise,)  and  the 
effects  of  the  manifestation  of  her  divinity,  are 
told  in  the  following  fine  lines:  — 

This  said  ;  the  front  of  age,  so  late  assum'd, 
Dissolv'd;  —  her    face    with    charms    celestial 

bloom'd  ; 

The  sacred  vesture,  that  around  her  flew, 
Through  the  wide  air  ambrosial  odour  threw; 
Her  lovely  form  with  sudden  radiance  glow'd  ; 
Her  golden  locks  in  wreaths  of  splendour  flow'd  ; 
Through  the  dark  palace  stream'd  a  flood  of  light, 
As  cloud-engender  'd  fires  illume  the  night 
With  sudden  blaze  ;  —  then,  swiftly  from   their 

view, 
Urg'd  by  indignant  rage  the  goddess  flew. 

In  Metanira's  breast  amazement  reign'd  ; 
Silent  she  stood,  nor  long  her  knees  sustain'd 
Their  tottering  weight  ;  she  sunk  in  grief  profound; 
Her  child  neglected,  shrieking  on  the  ground, 
Beside  her  lay  ...... 

When  Proserpine  is  about  to  leave  Pluto  for 
the  upper  world,  he  gives  her,  as  before  men- 
tioned, or  rather  forces  her,  to  eat  a  pomegranate 
seed,  thereby,  as  Ovid  says,  to  preclude  her  from 
availing  herself  of  his  promise  that  he  would  re- 
store her  to  her  mother,  provided  she  (Proser- 
pine) had  eaten  nothing  in  his  domain. 

In  this  Hymn  we  have  probably  the  earliest 
mention  of  the  Eleusinian  mysteries  now  extant: 

Those  sacred  mysteries,  for  the  vulgar  ear 
Unmeet,  and  known,  most  impious  to  declare! 
Oh  !  let  due  reverence  for  the  gods  restrain 
Discourses  rash,  and  check  inquiries  vain! 

Thrice  happy  he,  among  the  favour'd  few, 
To  whom  'tis  given  those  glorious  rites  to  view! 
A  fate  far  different  the  rejected  share  ; 
Unblest,  unworthy  her  protecting  care, 
They   perish,    and,    with    chains    of    darkness 

bound, 
Are  plung'd  for  ever  in  the  dark  profound. 


HESIOD. 


[Placed  by  Newton  at  870,  and  by  the  Arundelian  Marble,  at  914  B.  C.] 


FROM  various  passages  in  his  "Works  and 
Days,"  we  learn  that  Hesiod  was  born  at  Ascra, 
a  village  at  the  foot  of  Mount  Helicon,  in  Bceotia; 
that  he  was  left  by  his  father  joint  heir  to  an  un- 
divided estate,  his  share  of  which  he  lost  through 
the  frauds  of  his  brother  Perses,  and  the  bribed 
decision  of  unjust  judges;  that  he  rose  to  opu- 
lence, notwithstanding,  by  his  own  active  in- 
dustry and  talent,  living  to  see  his  brother  reduced 
to  poverty,  and  a  dependant  for  bread  on  the 


FROM  THE  WORKS  AND  DAYS. 

CREATION  OF  PANDOBA. 

THE  food  of  man  in  deep  concealment  lies, 
The  angry  Gods  have  veil'd  it  from  our  eyes. 
Else  had  one  day  bestow'd  sufficient  cheer, 
And,  though  inactive,  fed  thee  through  the  year. 
Then  might  thy  hand  have  laid  the  rudder  by, 
In  blackening  smoke  for  ever  hung  on  high ; 
Then  had  the  labouring  ox  foregone  the  soil, 
And  patient  mules  had  found  relief  from  toil. 
But  Jove  conceal'd  our  food,  incens'd  at  heart 
Since  mock'd  by  wise  Prometheus'  wily  art. 
Sore  ills  to  man  devised  the  Heavenly  Sire, 
And  hid  the  shining  element  of  fire. 
Prometheus  then,  benevolent  of  soul, 
In  hollow  reed  the  spark  recovering  stole, 
Cheering  to  man,  and  mock'd  the  God,  whose 

gaze 

Serene  rejoices  in  the  lightning's  rays. 
"Oh  son  of  Japhet!"  with  indignant  heart 
Spake   the  Cloud-gatherer,    "Oh,   unmatch'd  in 

art! 

Exultest  thou  in  this  the  flame  retriev'd, 
And  dost  thou  triumph  in  the  God  deceiv'd? 
But  thou,  with  the  posterity  of  man, 
Shalt  rue  the  fraud  whence  mightier  ills  began : 
I  will  send  evil  for  thy  stealthy  fire, 
Evil,  which  all  shall  love,  and  all  admire." 
Thus  spoke  the  Sire,  whom  Heaven  and  Earth 

obey, 

And  bade  the  Fire-God  mould  his  plastic  clay  5 
Inbreathe  the  human  voice  within  her  breast, 
With  firm-strung  nerves  th'  elastic  limbs  invest. 
Her  aspect  fair  as  Goddesses  above, 
A  virgin's  likeness  with  the  brows  of  love. 
He  bade  Minerva  teach  the  skill  that  dyes 
The  web  with  colours  as  the  shuttle  flies: 
He  call'd  the  magic  of  love's  charming  queen 
To  breathe  around  a  witchery  of  mien : 


bounty  of  him  he  had  injured ; — further,  that  on 
one  occasion  he  crossed  the  strait  of  Euripus  for 
the  purpose  of  attending  a  poetical  contest  at  the 
funeral  solemnity  of  Amphidamas,  and  that  he 
won  a  tripod  as  the  prize,  which"  he  dedicated 
to  the  muses  of  Helicon. — This  is  all  that  we 
authentically  know  of  Hesiod.  The  works  at- 
tributed to  him  and  descending  to  posterity,  are — 
THE  WORKS  AND  DATS — THE  THEOGONY — AKD 
THE  SHIELD  OF  HERCULES. 


Then  plant  the  rankling  stings  of  keen  desire, 
And  cares  that  trick  the   limbs    with   prank'd 

attire : 

Bade  Hermes  last  impart  the  craft  refin'd 
Of  thievish  manners  and  a  shameless  mind. 

He  gives  command,  the  inferior  powers  obey, 
The  crippled  artist  moulds  the  temper'd  clay: 
A  maid's  coy  image  rose  at  Jove's  behest; 
Minerva  clasp'd  the  zone,  diffus'd  the  vest, 
Adored  Persuasion,  and  the  Graces  young, 
Her  taper'd  limbs  with  golden  jewels  hang; 
Round  her  smooth  brow  the  beauteous-tressed 

Hours 

A  garland  twin'd  of  Spring's  purpereal  flowers ; 
The  whole  attire  Minerva's  graceful  art 
Dispos'd,  adjusted,  form'd  to  every  part; 
And  last  the  winged  herald  of  the  skies, 
Slayer  of  Argus,  gave  the  gift  of  lies ; 
Gave  trickish  manners,  honeyed  words  instill'd, 
As  he,  that  rolls  the  deepening  thunder,  will'd: 
Then,  by  the  feather d  messenger  of  Heaven, 
The  name  PANDORA  to  the  maid  was  given: 
For  all  the  Gods  conferr'd  a  gifted  grace 
To  crown  this  mischief  of  the  mortal  race. 
The  Sire  commands  the  winged  herald  bear 
The  finish 'd  nymph,  th'  inextricable  snare  : 
ToEpimetheus  was  the  present  brought; 
Prometheus'  warning  vanish'd  from  his  thought, 
That  he  disdain  each  offering  from  the  skies, 
And  straight  restore,  lest  ill  to  man  arise. 
But  he  received,  and  conscious  knew  too  late 
Th'  insidious  gift,  and  felt  the  curse  of  fate. 
On  earth,  of  yore,  the  sons  of  men  abode 
From  evil  free  and  labour's  galling  load; 
Free  from  diseases,  that,  with  racking  rage, 
Precipitate  the  pale  decline  of  age. 
Now  swift  the  days  of  manhood  haste  away, 
And  misery's  pressure  turns  the  temples  gray. 
The  Woman's  hands  an  ample  casket  bear; 
She  lifts  the  lid — she  scatters  ills  in  air. 

31 


32 


HESIOD. 


Hope  sole  remain'd  within,  nor  took  her  flight, — 
Beneath  the  vessel's  verge  conceal'd  from  light. 
Issued  the  rest,  in  quick  dispersion  hurl'd, 
And    woes    innumerous   roam'd   the    breathing 

world : 

With  ills  the  land  is  full,  with  ills  the  sea, 
Diseases  haunt  our  frail  humanity; 
Self-wandering  through  the  noon,  the  night  they 

glide, 

Voiceless — a  voice  the  power  all-wise  denied: 
Know  then  this  awful  truth — it  is  riot  given 
T'  elude  the  wisdom  of  omniscient  Heaven. 


DISPENSATIONS  OF  PROVIDENCE  TO  THE  JUST 
AND  THETTNJUST. 

WITH  crooked  judges,  lo !  the  oath's  dread  God 
Avenging  runs  and  tracks  them  where  they  trod, 
Rough  are  the  ways  of  Justice  as  the  sea, 
Dragg'd  to  and  fro  by  men's  corrupt  decree ; 
Bribe-pamper'd  men!  whose  hands   perverting 

draw 

The  right  aside,  and  warp  the  wrested  law. 
Though,  while  corruption  on  their  sentence  waits, 
They  thrust   pale   Justic^    from   their   haughty 

gates ; 

Invisible  their  steps  the  Virgin  treads, 
And  musters  evils  o'er  their  sinful  heads. 
She  with  the  dark  of  air  her  form  arrays, 
And  walks  in  awful  grief  the  city  ways ; 
Her  wail  is  heard,  her  tear  upbraiding  falls 
O'er  their  stain'd  manners,  their  devoted  walls. 
But  they,  who  never  from  the  right  have  stray'd, 
Who,  as  the  citizen,  the  stranger  aid; 
They  and  their  cities  flourish  ;  genial  peace 
Dwells  in  their  borders,  and  their  youth  increase ; 
Nor  Jove,  whose  radiant  eyes  behold  afar, 
Hangs  forth  in  Heaven  the  signs  of  grievous  war. 
Nor  scath,  nor  famine  on  the  righteous  prey, 
Peace  crowns  the  night,  and  plenty  cheers  the 

day. 

Rich  are  their  mountain-oaks :  the  topmost  tree 
The  acorns  fill ;  its  trunk,  the  hiving  bee : 
Their  sheep  with  fleeces  pant;  their  women's 

race 

Reflect  both  parents  in  the  infant  face ; 
Still  flourish  they,  nor  tempt  with  ships  the  main; 
The  fruits  of  earth  are  pour'd  from  every  plain. 

But  o'er  the  wicked  race,  to  \vhom  belong 
The  thought  of  evil  and  the  deed  of  wrong, 
Saturnian  Jove,  of  wide-beholding  eyes, 
Bids  the  dark  signs  of  retribution  rise : 
And  oft  the  crimes  of  one  destructive  fall, 
The  crimes  of  one,  are  visited  on  all. 
The  God  sends  down  his  angry  plagues  from  high, 
Famine  and  pestilence ;  in  heaps  they  die : 
He  smites  with  barrenness  the  marriage  bed, 
And  generations  moulder  with  the  dead : 
Again  in  vengeance  of  his  wrath  he  falls 
On  their  great  hosts,  and  breaks  their  tottering 

walls ; 

Scatters  their  ships  of  war;  and  where  the  sea 
Heaves  high  its  mountain-billows,  there  is  he ! 

Ponder,  0  judges!  in  your  inmost  thought 
The  retribution  by  his  vengeance  wrought. 


Invisible,  the  Gods  are  ever  nigh, 

Pass  through  the  midst  and  bend  th'  all-seeing 

eye: 
The  man  who  grinds  the  poor,  who  wrests  the 

right, 
Aweless  of  Heaven's  revenge,  stands  naked  to 

their  sight. 

For  thrice  ten  thousand  holy  Demons  rove 
This  breathing  world,  the  delegates  of  Jove, 
Guardians  of  man,  their  glance  alike  surveys 
The  upright  judgments  and  the  unrighteous  ways. 
A  virgin  pure  is  Justice,  and  her  birth 
August  from  him,  who  rules  the  Heavens  and 

earth ; 

A  creature  glorious  to  the  Gods  on  high, 
Whose  mansion  is  yon  everlasting  sky. 
Driven  by  despiteful  wrong,  she  takes  her  seat, 
In  lowly  grief,  at  Jove's  eternal  feet. 
There  of  the  soul  unjust  her  plaints  ascend; 
So  rue  the  nations  when  their  kings  offend: 
When,  uttering  wiles  and  brooding  thoughts  of  ill, 
They  bend  the  laws  and  wrest  them  to  their 

will. 

Oh !  gorg'd  with  gold,  ye  kingly  judges,  hear ! 
Make  straight  your  paths;  your  crooked  judg- 
ments fear; 

That  the  foul  record  may  no  more  be  seen, 
Eras'd,  forgot,  as  though  it  ne'er  had  been. 
****** 
Let  no  fair  woman,  robed  in  loose  array, 
That  speaks  the  wanton,  tempt  thy  feet  to  stray: 
Who  soft  demands  if  thy  abode  be  near, 
And  blandly  lisps  and  murmurs  in  thine  ear. 
The  slippery  trust  the  charmer  shall  beguile, 
For  lo!  the  thief  is  ambush'd  in  her  smile. 

When  full  matureness   crowns  thy  manhood's 

pride, 

Lead  to  thy  mansion  the  consenting  bride ; 
Thrice  ten  thy  sum  of  years,  the  nuptial  prime ; 
Nor  fall  far  short,  nor  far  exceed  the  time, 
Four  years  the  ripening  virgin  should  consume, 
And  wed  the  fifth  of  her  expanded  bloom. 
Some  known  and  neighbouring  damsel  be  thy 

prize, 

And  wary  bend  around  thy  cautious  eyes; 
Lest  by  a  choice  imprudent  thou  be  found 
The  merry  mock  of  all  the  dwellers  round. 
No  better  lot  has  Providence  assign'd 
Than  a  fair  woman  with  a  virtuous  mind ; 
Nor  can  a  worse  befall,  than  when  thy  fate 
Allots  a  worthless,  feast-contriving  mate. 


BEWARE  the  January  month,  beware 
Those  hurtful  days,  that  keenly-piercing  air, 
Which  flays  the  herds ;  when  icicles  are  cast 
O'er  frozen  earth,  and  sheathe  the  nipping  blast. 
From   courser-breeding   Thrace   comes   rushing 

forth 

O'er  the  broad  sea  the  whirlwind  of  the  North, 
And  moves  it  with  his  breath :  the  ocean  floods 
Heave,  and  earth  bellows  through  her  wild  of 

woods. 


HESIOD. 


33 


Full  many  an  oak  of  lofty  leaf  he  fells 
And  strews  with  thick-branck'd  pines  the  moun- 
tain dells: 

He  stoops  to  earth;  the  crash  is  heard  around; 
The  depth  of  forests  rolls  the  roar  of  sound. 
The  beasts  their  cowering  tails  with  trembling 

fold, 

And  shrink  and  shudder  at  the  gusty  cold ; 
Thick  is  the  hairy  coat,  the  shaggy  skin, 
But  that  all-chilling  breath  shall  pierce  within. 
Not  his  rough  hide  can  then  the  ox  avail ; 
The  long-hair'd  goat,  defenceless,  feels  the  gale : 
Yet  vain  the  north-wind's  rushing  strength   to 

wound 

The  flock  with  sheltering  fleeces  fenced  around. 
He  bows  the  old  man  crook'd  beneath  the  storm ; 
But  spares  the  soft-skinn'd  virgin's  tender  form. 
Screened  by  her  mother's  roof  on  wintry  nights, 
And  strange  to  golden  Venus'  mystic  rites, 
The  suppling  wateis  of  the  bath  she  swims, 
With  shiny  ointment  sleeks  her  dainty  limbs: 
Within  her  chamber  laid  on  downy  bed, 
While  winter  howls  in  tempest  o'er  her  head. 

Now  gnaws  the  boneless  polypus  his  feet, 
Starved  midst  bleak  rocks,  his  desolate  retreat ; 
For  now  no  more  the  sun  with  gleaming  ray 
Through    seas   transparent   lights    Him    to    his 

prey. 

And  now  the  horned  and  unhorned  kind, 
Whose  lair  is  in  the  wood,  sore-famished,  grind 
Their  sounding  jaws,  and,  chilled  and  quaking, 

fly 
Where  oaks  the  mountain    dells    imbranch  on 

high : 

They  seek  to  couch  in  thickets  of  the  glen, 
Or  lurk,  deep  sheltered,  in  some  rocky  den. 
Like  aged  men,  who,  propp'd  on  crutches,  tread 
Tottering  with  broken  strength  and  stooping  head ; 
So  move  the  beasts  of  earth,  and,  creeping  low, 
!|    Shun  the  white  flakes  and  dread  the  drifting 

snow. 

: 


SUMMER  EXJOYMEXTS. 


WHEX  blooms  the  thistle,  and  from  leafy  spray 
The  shrill  cicada  pours  her  sounding  lay, 
Her  wings  all  quivering  in  the  summer  bright ; — 
When  goats  are  fat,  when  wine  yields  most  de- 
light, 
And  heat  hath  parch'd  the  skin; — 0!  then  be 

mine 

The  rock's  deep  shadow,  and  the  Byblian  wine — 
With  milky  cakes,  and  milk  itself  most  sweet 
Of  goats  not  giving  suck,  and  dainty  meat 
Of  kids  and  heifers  upon  green  leaves  fed, 
The  while  we  drink  the  wine  so  darkly  red! 
Then,  sitting  in  the  shade,  I'll  eat  my  fill, 
Breathed  on  by  zephyr,  freshened  by  some  rill, 
Whose  ever-flowing  waves  >h;ill  brightly  shim-. 
While  in  three  parts  of  water  glows  my  wine! 


HONEST  POVERTT. 

FOOLS  !  not  to  know  how  better,  for  the  soul, 
An  honest  half  than  an  ill-gotten  whole ; 
5 


How    richer    he,    who    dines    on    herbs,    with 

health 
Of  heart, — than  knaves  with  all  their  wines  and 

wealth. 


VICE  AXi)  VIRTUE;  WISDOM  AND  FOLLY. 

To  Vice  with  ease  may  all  mankind  resort, 
Hard  by  her  dwelling,  and  the  way  is  short: 
But  Virtue  have  the  Gods  immortal  fenced 
With  labour,  and  a  long,  steep  road  dispensed, 
Whereby  to  seek  her ;  but.  the  summit  won, 
Right  easy  seems  what  wearily  begun. 
He  all  surpasses,  who  doth  all  things  see 
Himself,  and  what  in  after  time  shall  be 
Foreseeing,  can  provide  for;  not  unblest 
Who  wisely  can  observe  a  wise  behest; 
But  who,  nor  knows  himself,  nor  will  take  rule 
From  those  who  do,  is  either  knave  or  fool.* 


FROM  THE  THEOGONY. 

THE   BATTLE  OF  THE  GIAXTS. 

ATSTD  now — the  Titans  in  close  ranks  arrayed — 
What  hands  and  force  could  do,  each  host  dis- 
played. 

The  illimitable  ocean  roared  around; 
Earth  wailed ;  the  shaken  Heaven  sent  forth  a 

sound 

Of  groans ;  while  huge  Olympus,  from  his  base, 
Rocked  with  the  onset  of  the  immortal  race  ; 
E'en  shadowy  hell  perceived  the  horrid  blows, 
And  trembled  'neath  the  tumult  as  it  rose ; — 
Such  rushing  of  quick  feet,  such  clanging  jar 
Of  javelins  hurl'd  impetuous  from  afar, 
As  soar'd  the  din  of  conflict  to  the  skies, 
And  hosts  join'd  battle  with  astounding  cries. 
Now  Jove,  incens'd,  no  longer  brook'd  control; 
He  put  forth  all  his  might, — full  filled  his  soul 
With  valiance,  and,  at  once,  from  Heaven's  bright 

road 

And  dark  Olympus'  top  he  thundering  strode: 
Lightnings  and  bolts  terrific  from  his  hand 
Flew  swift  and  frequent,  wrapping  sea  and  land 
In  sacred  flames; — all-bounteous  earth  amazed, 
Howled  burning,  while  her  mighty  forests  blazed. 
Forthwith  began  the  land  and  sea  to  steam ; 
The  fiery  breath  of  ocean's  boiling  stream 
Involved  the  Titans;   flames  rose   through    the 

skies 

To  blast  with  splendour  dire  the  Titans'  eyes: 
And  when  at  last  the  light  through  chaos  gleam'd, 
Such  the  concussion,  such  the  uproar  seem'd, 
As  if  the  earth  and  Heavens  together  blending — 
The  one  torn  up,  the  other  down  descending — 
Hud  met;  whereat  upsprang  the  winds  of  air, 
And  whirl'd  the  dust-clouds  mid  the  lightning's 
glare : 


*A  similar  sentiment  may  be  found  amongst  the 
maxims  of  the  Chinese.  "  The  highest  order  of  men  (say 
they)  are  virtuous  and  wise,  independently  of  instruc- 
tion ;  the  middle  class  are  so  after  instruction;  the  lowest 
order  are  vicious  in  spite  of  instruction." — Quarterly 
Review,  Vol.  XLL  p.  90. 


34 


HESIOD. 


Winds,  thunder,  lightnings,  from  the  hand  of  Jove 
Their  track  of  ruin  through  mid  battle  drove. 
Loud  and  stupendous  thus  the  raging  fight, 
Whilst  warr'd  the  Titans  with  an  equal  might: 
At  length  the  battle  turns; — Cottus  the  fierce, 
Gyges,  and  Briareus,  through  mid  ranks  pierce ; 
From  their  strong  arms  three  hundred  rocks  they 

throw, 

And  with  these  monstrous  darts  o'ercloud  the  foe 
Then  forc'd  the  Titans  deep  beneath  the  ground 
And  with  afflictive  chains  the  rebels  bound  ; 
Despite  their  pride,  beneath  the  earth  they  lie, 
Far  as  that  earth  is  distant  from  the  sky. 


THE  CONFLICT  OF  JUPITER  WITH  TYPH03US. 

BUT  when  from  Heaven  Jove  had  his  foes  exil'd 

Great  Earth  Typhoeus  bore,  her  latest  child, 

In  Hell's  embrace;  strong  were  the  hands  for 

fight, 

And  feet  unwearied,  of  this  fiend  of  night. 
An  hundred  serpent  heads  his  shoulders  crown'd, 
A  hundred  swarthy  tongues  lick'd  all  around; 
Fire  from  his  eyes  a  light  terrific  shed, 
And  sounds  unnumbered  issued  from  each  head ; 
Sometimes  of  Gods  the  articulate  language  full, 
Sometimes  the  bellowing  of  an  untamed  bull. 
Sometimes  a  ruthless  lion's  roar  it  seem'd, 
Sometimes    as    though    a    lion's    whelps    had 

scream'd ; 

Sometimes  a  dragon's  hissing  rose  around, 
Till  the  high  hills  re-echoed  to  the  sound. — 
And  now  an  awful  deed  had  marked  that  day, 
Whilst   he   o'er  men   and  Gods   had  won  the 

sway, 

Had  not  the  Almighty  Father  seen  the  birth, 
And  forthwith  thundered  terribly ;  the  Earth 
Roared  with  the  shock — the  wide  Heaven  roared 

as  well — 

Roared  Sea  and  Ocean,  and  the  abysmal  Hell. 
Olympus  shook  around  the  rising  God, 
And  the  Earth  groan'd  beneath  him,  as  he  trod. 
Blazed  Earth,  and  Heaven,  and  Sea  with  dread- 
ful roar, 

And  burning  billows  raged  along  the  shore. 
Such  conflagration,  such  dire  tumult,  rose 
Around  the  struggle  of  the  immortal  foes — 
Grim  Pluto  trembled,*  monarch  of  the  dead, 
The    Titans,  chained    around   their  vanquish'd 

head, 

In  nether  Hades  trembled  with  affright, 
Under  the  din  of  their  tremendous  fight. — 
Then  Jove,  at  length,  up-towering  in  his  ire, 
Grasped    all    his    thunder-bolts    and    lightning- 
fire— 

And,  from  Olympus  plunging  on  his  foe, 
Blasted  the  monster's  heads  with  one  consuming 
blow. 


*  Deep  in  the  dismal  regions  of  the  dead, 
The  infernal  monarch  rear'd  his  horrid  head, 
Leap'd  from  his  throne,  lest  Neptune's  arm  should  lay 
His  dark  dominions  open  to  the  day, 
And  pour  in  light  upon  his  drear  abodes, 
Abhorr'd  by  men,  and  dreadful  e'en  to  gods. 

Homer's  Battle  of  the  Oods,  II.  xx. 


FROM  THE  SHIELD  OF  HERCULES. 

But  next  arose 

A  well-tower'd  city,  by  seven  golden  gates 
Enclos'd,  that  fitted  to  their  lintels  hung. 
There,  men  in  dances  and  in  festive  joys 
Held  revelry.     Some  on  the  smooth-wheel'd  car 
A  virgin  bride  conducted  :  then  burst  forth 
Aloud  the  marriage-song ;  and  far  and  wide 
Long  splendours  flash'd  from  many  a  quivering 

torch 
Borne  in  the  hands  of  slaves.      Gay-blooming 

girls 

Preceded,  and  the  dancers  followed  blithe : 
These,  with  shrill  pipe  indenting  the  soft  lip, 
Breath'd  melody,  while  broken  echoes  thrill'd 
Around  them  ;  to  the  lyre  with  flying  touch 
Those  led  the  love-enkindling  dance. 

A  group 

Of  youths  was  elsewhere  imag'd,  to  the  flute 
Disporting ;  some  in  dances  and  in  song, 
In  laughter  others.     To  the  minstrel's  flute 
So  pass'd  they  on :  and  the  whole  city  seem'd 
As   fill'd  with  pomps,  with  dances,  and  with 

feasts. 

Others  again,  without  the  city  walls, 
Vaulted  on  steeds,  and  madden'd  for  the  goal. 
Others  as  husbandmen  appear'd,  and  broke 
With  coulter  the  rich  glebe,  and  gathered  up 
Their  tunics  neatly  girded. 

Next  arose 

A  field  thick  set  with  depth  of  corn ;  where  some 
With  sickle  reap'd  the  stalks,  their  spiry  heads 
Bent,  as  with  pods  weigh'd  down  of  swelling 

grain, 
The  fruits  of  Ceres. 

Others  into  bands 
Gather'd,  and  threw  upon  the  thrashing  floor 
The  sheaves. 

And  some  again  hard-by  were  seen 
Holding  the  vine-sickle,  who  clusters  cut 
From  the  ripe  vines,  which  from  the  vintagers 
Others  in  pails  receiv'd,  or  bore  away 
In  baskets  thus  up-piled  the  cluster'd  grapes, 
Or  black,  or  pearly  white,  cut  from  deep  ranks 
Of  spreading  vines,  whose  tendrils  curling  twin'd 
In  silver,  heavy-foliag'd :  near  them  rose 
The  ranks  of  vines,  by  Vulcan's  curious  craft 
Figur'd  in  gold.     The  vines  leaf-shaking  curl'd 
Round  silver  props.    They  therefore  on  their  way 
Pass'd  jocund,  to  one  minstrel's  flageolet, 
Burthen'd  with  grapes  that  blacken'd  in  the  sun. 
Some  also  trod  the  wine-press,  and  some  quaff 'd 
The  foaming  must. 

But  in  another  part 

Were  men  who  wrestled,  or  in  gymnic  fight 
Wielded  the  ctEstus. 

Elsewhere  men  of  chase 
Were  taking  the  fleet  hares ;  two  keen-too tli'd 

dogs 

Bounded  beside :  these  ardent  in  pursuit, 
Those  with  like  ardour  doubling  on  their  flight. 
Next  them  were  knights,  who  painful  effort 

made 

To  win  the  prize  of  contest  and  hard  toil. 
:Iigh  o'er  the  well-compacted  chariots  hung 


CALLINUS. 


35 


The  charioteers;  the  rapid  horses  loos?d 
At  their  full  stretch,  and  shook  the  floating  reins. 
Rebounding  from  the  ground,  with  many  a  shock, 
Flew  clattering  the  firm  cars,  and  creak'd  aloud 
The  naves  of  the  round  wheels.  They,  there- 
fore, toiled 

Endless ;  nor  conquest  yet  at  any  time 
Achiev'd  they ;  but  a  doubtful  strife  maintain'd. 
In  the  mid  course  the  prize,  a  tripod  huge, 
Was  plac'd  in  open  sight,  insculpt  with  gold : — 
These  glorious  works  had  Vulcan  artful  wrought. 

CERBERUS. 

A  grisly  dog 

Implacable,  holds  watch  before  the  gates ; 
Of  guile  malicious.     Them  who  enter  there, 
With  tail  and  bended  ears  he  fawning  soothes: 
But  suffers  not  that  they  with  backward  step 
Repass :  whoe'er  would  issue  from  the  gates 
Of  Pluto  strong,  and  stern  Persiphone, 
For  them,  with  marking  eye,  he  lurks ;  on  them 
Springs  from  his  couch,  and  pitiless  devours. 

A   BATTLE-PIECE. 

Warrior  men 

Waged  battle,  grasping  weapons  in  their  hands. 
Some  from  their  city  and  their  sires  repelled 
Destruction— others  hastened  to  destroy ; 
And  many  press'd  the  plain ;  but  more  still  held 
The  combat.     On  the  strong-constructed  towers 
Stood  women   shrieking    shrill,  and   tore    their 
cheeks 


In  very  life,  by  Vulcan's  glorious  craft. 

The  old  men,  hoar  with  age,  assembled  stood 

Without  the  gates,  and  to  the  blessed  gods 

Their  hands  uplifted,  for  their  fighting  sons 

Fear-stricken. 

Behind  them  stood  the  Fates,  of  aspect  black, 

Grim,  slaughter-breathing,  stern,  insatiable, 

Their  white  fangs  gnashing,  and  strange  conflict 

held 

For  those  who  fell ; — each  fiercely  thirsting  sought 
To  drink  the    sable   blood.     Whom   first   they 

snatched, 
Prostrate,   or    staggering   with    the    fresh-made 

wound, 

On  him  their  talons  huge  they  stuck — the  soul 
Went  down  the  cold  abyss. — To  th'  heart  they 

glutted 

With  dead  men's  gore ;  behind  them  cast  the  corse, 
And  back,  with  hurrying  rage,  they  turned  to  seek 
The  throng  of  battle.     And  hard  by  there  stood 
Clotho,  and  Lachesis,  and  Atropos. — 
They  all  around  one  man  in  savage  fight 
Were  mixed,  and  on  each  other  turned  in  wrath 
Their  glaring  eyes  and  homicidal  hands. 
Unspeakable  that  strife  !  And  close  beside 
Stood    the    War-Misery,    wan   and    worn   with 

woe, 

Ghastly  and  withered,  and  with  hunger-pains 
Convulsed ; — her  cheeks  dropped  blood  to  earth ; 

— with  teeth 

All  wide  disclosed,  in  grinning  agony 
She  stood  ; — a  cloud  of  dust  her  shoulders  spread, 
And  her  eyes  ran  with  tears ! 


CALLINUS. 


[About  782  B.  C.] 

OF  this  poet  we  know  nothing  more  than  that  he  was  the  supposed  inventor  of  the  Elegiac  Couplet. 


A  FRAGMENT. 

How  long  will  ye  slumber?  when  will  ye  take 

heart, 
And  fear  the  reproach  of  your  neighbours  at 

hand  ? 

Fy !  comrades,  to  think  ye  have  peace  for  your  part. 
Whilst  the  sword  and  the  arrow  are  wasting 

our  land  ! 
Shame!  grasp  the  shield  close!  cover  well  the 

bold  breast ! 

Aloft  raise  the  spear  as  ye  march  on  the  foe ! 
With  no  thought  of  retreat — with  no  terror  con- 

fess'd, 
Hurl  your  last  dart  in  dying,  or  strike  your  last 

blow! 

Oh !  'tis  noble  and  glorious  to  fight  for  our  all — 
For  our  country — our  children — the  wife  of 
our  love! 


Death  comes  not  the  sooner! — no  soldier  shall  fall 
Ere    his    thread    is    spun   out  by  the  sisters 
above! 

Once  to  die  is  man's  doom !  rush,  rush  to  the 

fight  !— 
He  cannot  escape  though  his  blood  were  Jove's 

own; — 
For  awhile  let  him  cheat  the  shrill  arrow  by 

flight : 

Fate  will  catch  him  at  last  in  his  chamber 
alone  ! 

Unlamented  he  dies — unregretted  ? — not  so, 
When,  the  tower  of  his  country,  in  death  falls 

the  brave ; 
Thrice  hallowed  his  name  amongst  all,  high  or 

low, 

As  with  blessings  alive,  so  with  tears  in  the 
grave. 


ARCHILOCHUS. 


[About  688  B.  C.] 


OF  a  noble  family  in  the  isle  of  Paros,  and 
equally  famed  for  his  genius  and  his  malignity. 
Touch  me  who  dare — Apzito%ov  rtaf  et$ — was  his 
motto,  and  various  stories  are  told  concerning 
his  obscenities  and  defamations,  by  the  infliction 
of  which,  on  one  occasion,  he  is  said  to  have 
driven  Lycambes  and  his  daughter  to  self-de- 


EQUANIMITY. 

MY  soul,  my  soul,  though  cureless  seem 

the  ills  that  vex  thy  rest ; 
Bear  up ;  subdue  the  hostile  crew, 

with  right  opposing  breast. 
Take  thou  thy  stand  within  spear-reach, 

and  if  thou  win  the  day, 
Boast  not;  nor,  beaten  once,  at  home 

with  vain  repining,  stay ; 
But,  in  misfortune  wisely  mourn ; 

in  joy  rejoice  with  heed, 
And  bear  in  mind,  to  all  mankind, 

the  measure  that's  decreed. 

ON  AN  ECLIPSE  OF  THE  SUN. 
NOUGHT  now  can  pass  belief;  in  nature's  ways 
No  strange  anomaly  our  wonder  raise. 
The  Olympic  father  hangs  a  noon-day  night 
O'er  the  sun's  disk,  and  veils  its  glittering  light. 
Fear  falls  on  man.     Hence  miracles,  before 
Incredible,  are  counted  strange  no  more. 
Stand  not  amazed,  if  beasts  exchange  the  wood 
With  dolphins,  and  exist  amidst  the  flood ; 
These  the  firm  land  forsake  for  sounding  waves, 
And  those  find  pleasure  in  the  mountain  caves. 

PATIENCE  UNDER  SUFFERING. 
OH,  Pericles !  in  vain  the  feast  is  spread : 
To  mirth  and  joy  the  afflicted  soul  is  dead. 
The  billows  of  the  deep-resounding  sea 
Burst  o'er  our  heads,  and  drown  our  revelry ; 
Grief  swells  our  veins  with  pangs  unfelt  before  ; 
But  Jove's  high  clemency  reserves  in  store 
All-suffering  patience  for  his  people's  cure  : 
The  best  of  healing  balms  is — TO  ENDURE. 

ON  THE  LOSS  OF  HIS  SHIELD  IN  A 
BATTLE  WITH  THE  SAIANS. 

Relictd.  non  bene  parmula. 
THAT  shield  some   Saian  decks,  which  'gainst 

my  grain 

I  left — fair,  flawless  shield ! — beside  the  wood. 
Well,  let  it  go !  I  and  my  purse  remain : 
To-morrow's  bull-skin  may  be  just  as  good. 
36 


struction.  His  lampoons  are  lost,  and  nothing 
remains  of  him  but  some  few  fragments  of  a 
grave  and  philosophic  cast.  He  is  celebrated 
by  Horace,  as  the  inventor  of  the  Iambic  foot, 
and  by  Cicero,  as  being  one  of  the  greatest  poets 
that  ever  lived,  and  only  equalled  by  Homer, 
Pindar,  and  Sophocles. 


A  PAIR  OF  MILITARY  PORTRAITS. 
BOAST  me  not  your  valiant  captain, 

strutting  fierce  with  measur'd  stride, 
Glorying  in  his  well-trimm'd  beard,  and 

wavy  ringlets'  clustered  pride. 
Mine  be  he  that's  short  of  stature, 

firm  of  foot,  with  curved  knee  ; 
Heart  of  oak  in  limb  and  feature, 

and  of  courage  bold  and  free. 

THE  MIND  OF  MAN. 
THE  mind  of  man  is  such  as  Jove 

Ordains  by  his  immortal  will ; 
Who  moulds  it,  in  the  courts  above, 

His  heavenly  purpose  to  fulfil. 


THE  STORM. 
BEHOLD,  my  Glaucus,  how  the  deep 

Heaves,  while  the  sweeping  billows  howl, 
And  round  the  promontory-steep 

The  big  black  clouds  portentous  scowl, 
With  thunder  fraught,  and  lightning's  glare, 
While  Terror  rules,  and  wild  Despair. 


FRAGMENT. 
LEAVE  the  gods  to  order  all  things : 

Often  from  the  gulf  of  woe 
They  exalt  the  poor  man  grov'ling 

In  the  gloomy  shades  below. 
Often  turn  again,  and  prostrate 

Lay  in  dust  the  loftiest  head, 
Dooming  him  through  life  to  wander, 

Reft  of  sense,  and  wanting  bread. 

LIFE  AND  DEATH. 

JOYE  sits  in  highest  heaven,  and  opes  the  springs, 
To  man,  of  monstrous  and  forbidden  things. 
Death  seals  the  fountains  of  reward  and  fame : 
Man  dies,  and  leaves  no  guardian  of  his  name. 
Applause  awaits  us  only  while  we  live, 
While  we  can  honour  take,  and  honour  give  : 
Yet,  were  it  base  for  man  of  woman  born, 
To  mock  the  naked  ghost  with  jests  or  scorn. 


TYRT^US. 


[About  681  B.  C.] 


TYIIT.EUS  was  the  son  of  Archimbrotus,  and  Pausanias,  however,  does  not  call  him  General, 
presided  over  a  school  of  some  kind — probably  of ,  but  Counsellor,  (2 iytj3ou?w>$,)  adding,  that  his  exer- 
tions were  confined  to  composing  the  dissensions 
and  rousing  the  fallen  spirits  of  his  new  allies. 
He  left  three  kinds  of  poems ; — first,  his  Military 
Elegies ; — second,  his  Eunomia,  or  political  ones ; 


music  and  poetry — at  Athens.  The  further  tra- 
dition concerning  him  is  (as  all  know,)  that  the 
Spartans,  being  worsted  in  their  war  with  the 
Messenians,  were  directed  by  the  oracle  to  apply 
to  the  Athenians  for  a  general,  who,  in  ridicule, 
presented  them  with  their  lame  poet,  Tyrtaeus. 


COURAGE  AND  PATRIOTISM. 

NE'ER  would  I  praise  that  man,  nor  deign  to  sing, 
First  in  the  race,  or  strongest  at  the  ring, 
Not  though  he  boast  a  ponderous  Cyclop's  force, 
Or  rival  Boreas  in  his  rapid  course; 
Not  tho'  Aurora  might  his  name  adore, 
Tho'  eastern  riches  swell  his  countless  store, 
Tho'  power  and  splendour  to  his  name  belong, 
And  soft  persuasion  dwell  upon  his  tongue, 
Tho'  all  but  god-like  valour,  were  his  own: 

My  muse  is  sacred  to  the  brave  alone ; 
Who  can  look  carnage  in  the  face,  and  go 
Against  the  foremost  warriors  of  the  foe. 

By  heaven  high  courage  to  mankind  was  lent, 
Best  attribute  of  youth,  best  ornament. 
The  man  whom  blood  and  danger  fail  to  daunt, 
Fearless  who  fights,  and  ever  in  the  front, 
Who  bids  his  comrades  barter  useless  breath 
For  a  proud  triumph,  or  a  prouder  death, 
He  is  my  theme — He  only,  who  can  brave 
With  single  force  the  battle's  rolling  wave, 
Can  turn  his  enemies  to  flight,  and  fall 
Beloved,  lamented,  deified  by  all. 
His  household  gods,  his  own  parental  land 
High  in  renown,  by  him  exalted  stand ; 
Alike  the  heirs  and  founders  of  his  name 
Share  his  deserts  and  borrow  from  his  fame 
He,  pierced  in  front  with  many  a  gaping  wound, 
Lies,  great  and  glorious,  on  the  bloody  ground, 
From  every  eye  he  draws  one  general  tear, 
And  a  whole  nation  follows  to  his  bier ; 
Illustrious  youths  sigh  o'er  his  early  doom, 
And  late  posterity  reveres  his  tomb. 
Ne'er  shall  his  memorable  virtue  die, 
Tho'  cold*in  earth,  immortal  as  the  sky; 
He  for  his  country  fought,  for  her  expired : 
Oh  would  all  imitate  whom  all  admired ! 
But  if  he  sleep  not  with  the  mighty  d. 
And  living  laurels  wreathe  his  honour'd  head, 
By  old,  by  young,  adored,  he  gently  goes 
Down  a  smooth  pathway  to  his  long  repose, 


and  third,  his  Embateria  or  marching  songs.   Only 
a  few  of  the  first  have  descended  to  our  times. 


Unaltering  friends  still  love  his  hairs  of  snow, 
And  rising  elders  in  his  presence  bow. 
Would  ye,  like  him,  the  woiid'ring  world  engage, 
Draw  the  keen  blade,  and  let  the  battle  rage ! 
******* 
Yes,  it  is  sweet  in  death's  first  ranks  to  fall 
Where  our  loved  country's  threatening  dangers 

call! 

But  he  who  flies  dishonour'd  from  his  home, 
And  foully  driven  in  beggary  to  roam, 
His  wife  and  children  shrieking  in  his  ears, 
His  sire  with  shame  abash'd,  his  mother  drown'd 

in  tears, 

— What  indignation  at  his  cowardice 
Shall  flash  upon  him  from  all  honest  eyes! 
How  shall  he  stain,  for  ever  stain  his  blood, 
Rich  tho'  it  flow,  descended  from  the  good  ! 
How  shall  he  brand  with  infamy  his  brow! 
(Fair  tho'  it  was,  'ts  fair  no  longer  now :) 
— An  outcast  wanderer  through  a  scoffing  world 
Till  to  an  ignominous  grave  he's  hurl'd ; 
Known  to  all  future  ages  by  his  shame, 
A  blot  eternal  on  the  rolls  of  fame ! 

But  let  us  firmly  stand,  and  scorn  to  fly, 
Save  all  we  love,  or  with  our  country  die, 
Knit  in  indissoluble  files,  a  band 
Of  brothers  fighting  for  our  native  land; 
Ne'er  let  us  see  the  veteran  soldier's  arm 
Than  ours  more   forward,  or    his   heart   more 

warm ; 

Let  us  not  leave  him  in  the  midst  of  foes, 
Feeble  with  age,  to  deal  unequal  blows; 
Or  in  the  van  lie  slain,  with  blood  besmear'd 
His  wrinkled  forehead  and  his  snowy  beard, 
Stript  of  his  spoils  through  many  a  battle  worn. 
And  gay  assumed,  that  inauspicious  morn, 
Brentliing  his  soul  out  bravely  at  our  feet — 
Ne'er  may  our  eyes  a  sight  so  shameful  meet! 
But,  oh,  be  ours,  while  yet  our  pulse  beats  high 
For  gory  death,  or  glorious  victory, 
Be  ours,  if  not  an  honourable  grave, 
Smiles  of  the  fair,  and  friendships  of  the  brave. 
D  37 


ALCMAN   OR   ALCM^ON. 


[About  680  B.  C.] 


ALCMAN  is  said  to  have  been  born  at  Sardis, 
and  numbered  amongst  the  fathers  of  lyric  poetry. 
His  Partheriia,  composed  in  praise  of  women, 
and  sung  by  chorusses  of  virgins,  were  very 
popular  amongst  the  Spartans,  and  procured  for 


him  the  title  of  rhvxv$ — the  sweet.  Nothing 
but  a  few  scattered  sentences,  and  disjointed 
lines — affording  the  most  inadequate  materials 
for  any  judgment  of  his  merits — have  come 
down  to  us. 


MEGALOSTRATA. 

AGAIN  sweet  Love,  by  Venus  led, 

Hath  all  my  soul  possess'd; 
Again  delicious  rapture  shed 

In  torrents  o'er  my  breast. 
Now  Megalostrata,  the  fair, — 

Of  all  the  virgin  train 
Most  blessed — with  her  yellow  hair — 

Hath  brought  me  to  the  Muse's  fane. 


FRAGMENT. 

THE  mountain  summits  sleep,  glens,  cliffs,  and 

caves, 

Are  silent ; — all  the  black  earth's  reptile  brood, 
The  bees,  the  wild  beasts  of  the  mountain  wood ; 
In  depths  beneath  the  dark  red  ocean's  waves 
Its  monsters  rest;  whilst,  wrapt  in  bower  and 

spray, 

Each  bird  is  hush'd,  that  stretch'd  its  pinions 
to  the  day. 


STESICHORUS. 


[Born  633— Died  556,  B.  C.] 


A  NATIVE  of  Himera  in  Sicily,  and  contem- 
porary with  Sappho  and  Alcaeus.  It  is  said  that 
his  original  name  was  Tisias,  and  that  he  ac- 
quired the  more  expressive  one  by  which  he  is 
known,  from  having  first  established,  and  gene- 
rally arranged  the  movements  of  the  Chorus,  or 
from  having  first  introduced  the  episode  or  sta- 
tionary union  of  the  two  parts  or  divisions. 
Whatever  may  be  thought  of  this  (says  Mr. 
Coleridge,)  certain  it  is,  that  the  Strophe,  Anti- 
strophe,  and  Epode  of  the  Chorus,  became 
associated  throughout  Greece,  with  the  name  of 
Stesichorus.  His  principal  poems  were  the  "  De- 
struction of  Troy," — the  "Orestea," — the  "Rha- 
dine,"— the  «  Scylla,"— and  the  «  GeryonSis,"*— 
of  which  the  titles,  with  a  few  scattered  frag- 


ments, are  all  that  have  descended  to  us.  He 
was  the  inventor  of  the  fable  of  "  the  Horse  and 
the  Stag,"  which  has  been  imitated  by  Horace 
and  other  poets,  and  which  he  wrote  in  order  to 
prevent  his  countrymen  from  making  an  alliance 
with  the  tyrant,  Phalaris.  His  poems  have  been 
highly  extolled  by  ancient  writers,  and  there  are 
few  who  will  not  join  in  the  regret  expressed  by 
a  modem  one  for  the  loss  of  them.  "  Utinam 
profecto  (says  Lowth,)  Stesichorum  non  invidis- 
set  nobis  vetustas,  cujus  gravitatem  et  magnifi- 
centiam  omnes  prsedicant;  quern  prse  caeteris 
laudat  Dionysius  quod  et  argumenta  sumeret 
grandia  imprimis  et  splendide,  et  in  iis  tractan- 
dis  mores  et  personarum  dignitatem  egregie 
servaret." 


FROM  "THE  GERYONEIS." 

VOYAGE  OF  THE  SUN. 

BUT  now  the  sun,  great  Hyperion's  child, 
Embarked  again  upon  his  golden  chalice, 


*The  GeryonSis  was  a  poem  on  the  story  of  the  expe- 
dition of  Hercules  against  the  Spanish  monster  Geryon, 
who  lived  in  Cadiz ;  in  the  fragment  which  remains  of  it, 
is  the  earlist  mention  of  that  ancient  mystic  legend  of  the 
38 


And  westward  steered  where,  far  o'er  ocean  wild, 
Sleeps  the  dim  Night  in  solitary  valleys, 

Where  dwell  his  mother  and  his  consort  mild, 
And  infant  sons,  in  his  sequestered  palace ; 


sun's  passing  over  the  sea  in  a  golden  cup,  which  was 
lent  to  Hercules  for  his  voyage  through  the  Mediterra- 
nean, and  which  has  given  occasion  to  more  let.rned 
criticism,  than  any  other  cup,  heathen  or  Christian,  {,'lass, 
metal,  or  wood,  ever  fabricated  or  dreamed  of. 


jESOP.— SOLON. 


39 


Whilst  onward  through  the  laurel-shaded  grove, 
Moved,  with  firm  step,  the  hew  son  of  Jove. 


FROM  "THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  TROY." 

THE  SACRIFICE  OF  TYXDARUS. 

....  For  whereas  Tyndarus, 
Midst  all  his  rites  to  all  the  gods  above, 

Alone  forgot 

That  giver  of  sweet  gifts,  the  Queen  of  Love, — 
Wroth  with  the  daughters  for  the  father's  sake, 

The  goddess  caused  them  straight, 
Thrice,  thrice,  their  nuptial  bonds  to  break, 
And  each  desert  her  mate. 


THE  PROCESSION. 

BEFORE  the  regal  chariot,  as  it  past, 

Were  bright  Cydonian  apples  scattered  round, 
And  myrtle  leaves,  in  showers  of  fragrance  cast, 

And  many  a  wreath  was  there,  with  roses 

bound, 

And  many  a  coronal,  wherein  were  set, 
Like  gems,  rich  rows  of  purple  violet. 


FRAGMENT. 
VAIJT  it  is  for  those  to  weep 
Who  repose  in  death's  last  sleep. 
With  Man's  life  ends  all  the  story 
Of  his  wisdom,  wit,  and  glory. 


.ESOP. 


[About  620  B.  C.] 


A  PHRYGIAN"  and  of  servile  origin. — After 
having  passed  by  sale  from  master  to  master,  he 
at  length  fell  into  the  hands  of  ladmon  of  Samos, 
who,  in  admiration  of  his  genius  and  acquire- 
ments, gave  him  his  freedom.  JEso?  now  turned 
his  attention  to  foreign  travel,  partly  to  extend 
the  sphere  of  his  own  knowledge,  and  partly  to 


DEATH  THE  SOVEREIGN  REMEDY. 

WHO,  but  for  death,  could  find  repose 
From  life,  and  life's  unnumbered  woes  ? 
From  ills  that  mock  our  art  to  cure, 
As  hard  to  fly  as  to  endure? 
Whate'er  is  sweet  without  alloy, 
And  sheds  a  more  exalted  joy, 


communicate  that  knowledge  to  others.  The 
latter  he  did  by  means  of  those  Fables  for  which 
he  is  so  celebrated,  and  which  have  associated  his 
name  with  that  pleasing  branch  of  composition 
through  all  succeeding  ages.  The  following  is 
the  only  elegiac  strain  of  his  that  has  come 
down  to  us. 


Yon  glorious  orb  that  gilds  the  day, 
Or,  placid  moon,  thy  silver  ray, 
Earth,  sea,  whatever  we  gaze  upon, 
Is  thine,  O  Nature,  thine  alone ; 
But  gifts,  which  to  ourselves  we  owe, 
What  are  they  all,  but  fear  and  woe  ? 
Chance-pleasure,  hardly  worth  possessing, 
Ten  curses  for  a  single  blessing ! 


SOLON. 


[Born  638,  Died  559,  B.  C.] 


IT  was  the  opinion  of  Plato,  that  if  Solon  hml 
seriously  applied  himself  to  poetry,  neither  He- 
siod,  nor  Homer,  nor  any  other,  would  have  been 
more  celebrated.  His  verses,  for  the  most  part, 
seem  to  have  been  of  the  gnomic  or  sententious 
kind,  and  illustrative  of  the  constitution  and  laws 
framed  by  himself  for  the  Athenians.  They  are 


distinguished  (says  an  eminent  scholar.)  by  a 
predominant  political  direction,  and  by  a  regard- 
ing of  men  rather  as  citizens  and  members  of  a 
municipality,  than  as  individual  agents  in  simply 
social  life.  There  is,  accordingly,  a  dignity  of 
manner — a  plain  grandeur  in  his  sentiment — that 
seems  to  flow  from  a  mind  reposing  in  conscious 


40 


ALC^EUS. 


satisfaction  after  an  honest  performance  of  the 
most  difficult  and  solemn  duty,  which  can  fall  to 
the  lot  of  man — the  new-modelling  of  a  political 
constitution  for  his  country;  in  doing  which  he 
had  not  been  unmindful  of  the  genius  and  utility 
of  the  ancient  institutions  of  the  state,  nor  played 
any  base  game  for  personal  power;  but,  alike 
imseduced  by  aristocratic  influence  or  mob  adu- 
lation, had  impartially  assigned  to  all  orders  such 
measures  of  power  as  reason  and  experience 


taught  him  to  believe  most  conducive  to  a  total 
result  of  good : — "  I  gave,"  (says  he,) 

"  I  gave  the  people  freedom  clear 
But  neither  flattery  nor  fear ; 
I  told  the  rich  and  noble  race 
To  crown  their  state  with  modest  grace, 
And  placed  a  shield  in  either's  hand, 
Wherewith  in  safety  both  might  stand." — 

"  The  people  love  their  rulers  best, 
When  neither  cringed  to  nor  opprest." 


JUSTICE. 

SHORT  are  the  triumphs  to  injustice  given, — 
Jove  sees  the  end  of  all ;  like  vapours  driven 
By  early  Spring's  impetuous  blast,  that  sweeps 
Along  the  billowy  surface  of  the  deeps, 
Or  passing  o'er  the  fields  of  tender  green, 
Lays  in  sad  ruin  all  the  lovely  scene, 
Till  it  reveals  the  clear  celestial  blue 
And  gives  the  palace  of  the  gods  to  view; 
Then  bursts  the  sun's  full  radiance  from  the  skies, 
Where  not  a  cloud  can  form  or  vapour  rise.* 
— Such  is  Jove's  vengeance  :  not  like  human  ire, 
Blown  in  an  instant  to  a  scorching  fire, 
But  slow  and  certain;  though  it  long  may  lie, 
Wrapt  in  the  vast  concealment  of  the  sky ; 
Yet  never  does  the  dread  Avenger  sleep, 
And  though  the  sire  escape,  the  son  shall  weep. 


THE  CONSTITUTION  OF  ATHENS. 

THE  force  of  snow  and  furious  hail  is  sent 
From  swelling  clouds  that  load  the  firmament. 


*  Sudden,  as  when  the  wings  of  Spring 
Rush  forth  at  once  with  hurrying  wing; 
Scatter  the  stagnant  fogs,  and  urge 
To  foam  and  storm  the  ocean  surge; 
Lay  waste  the  farmer's  toil  and  rise 
Through  the  dense  cloudage  to  the  skies ; 
Lit  by  the  sun  outshine  again 
The  sinking  billows  of  the  main, 
And  the  blue  ether  fair  to  see, 
Sleepeth  in  deep  tranquillity. 

H.  JV.  Coleridge. 


Thence  the  loud  thunders  roar,  and  lightnings  glare 
Along  the  darkness  of  the  troubled  air. 
Unmoved  by  storms,  old  ocean  peaceful  sleeps 
Till  the  loud  tempest  swells  the  angry  deeps ; 
And  thus  the  state,  in  fell  distraction  tost, 
Oft  by  its  noblest  citizens  is  lost; 
And  oft  a  people,  once  secure  and  free, 
Their  own  imprudence  dooms  to  tyranny. 
My  laws  have  arm'd  the  crowd  with  useful  might, 
Have  banish'd  honours  and  unequal  right, 
Have  taught  the  proud  in  wealth,  and  high  in 

place, 

To  reverence  justice,  and  abhor  disgrace ; 
And  given  to  both  a  shield,  their  guardian  tower, 
Against  ambitious  aims  and  lawless  power. 

REMEMBRANCE  AFTER  DEATH. 
LET  not  a  death,  unwept,  unhonour'd,  be 
The  melancholy  fate  allotted  me ! 
But  those  who  loved  me  living,  when  I  die, 
Still-  fondly  keep  some  cherish'd  memory. 

A  FRAGMENT. 

THE  man  that  boasts  of  golden  stores, 
Of  grain,  that  loads  his  groaning  floors, 
Of  fields  with  freshening  herbage  green, 
Where  bounding  steeds  and  herds  are  seen, 
I  call  not  happier  than  the  swain, 
Whose  limbs  are  sound,  whose  food  is  plain, 
Whose  joys  a  blooming  wife  endears, 
Whose  hours  a  smiling  offspring  cheers. 


ALC^EUS. 


[About  620  B.  C.] 


ALCJEUS  was  a  native  of  Mitylene,  and  a  con- 
temporary and  lover  of  Sappho.  Having  bitterly 
satirized  Pittacus  for  his  apostasy  in  usurping 
the  very  powers,  from  which,  in  conjunction  with 
himself,  he  had  deposed  a  former  tyrant,  Alcseus 
was  driven  into  exile.  He  endeavoured  to  return 
by  force  of  arms,  but  was  unsuccessful,  and  fell 
into  the  hands  of  his  former  friend,  but  now  ex- 
asperated conqueror,  who,  however,  granted  him 
his  liberty,  observing  that  forgiveness  was  better 
than  revenge.  Alcseus  was  the  inventor  of  the 


metre  which  bears  his  name,  and  sung  of  various 
subjects, — now  celebrating  the  praises  of  Bacchus 
and  Venus  ;  now  inveighing  against  tyrants;  now 
deploring  tlae  evils  of  exile  and  war, 

"Dura  navis, 
Dura  fugae  mala,  dura  belli." 

Antiquity  is  full  of  his  praises ;  but  a  few  frag- 
ments only  of  his  poetry  remain,  though  its  echo 
may  be  sometimes  heard  in  the  strains  of  his 
successful  imitator  and  admirer,  Horace. 


ALC^EUS. 


41 


THE  SPOILS  OF  WAR. 
GLITTERS  with  brass  my  mansion  wide ) 
The  roof  is  deck'd,  on  every  side, 

In  martial  pride, 

With  helmets  rang'd  in  order  bright, 
And  plumes  of  horse-hair  nodding  white, 

A  gallant  sight — 

Fit  ornament  for  warrior's  brow — 
And  round  the  walls,  in  goodly  row, 

Refulgent  glow 

Stout  greaves  of  brass,  like  burnish'd  gold, 
And  corselets  there  in  many  a  fold 

Of  linen  roll'd ; 

And  shields  that  in  the  battle  fray, 
The  routed  losers  of  the  day 

Have  cast  away. 
Euboean  falchions  too  are  seen, 
With  rich-embroidered  belts  between 

Of  dazzling  sheen : 
And  gaudy  surcoats  piled  around, 
The  spoils  of  chiefs  in  war  renown'd, 

May  there  be  found — 
These,  and  all  else  that  here  you  see, 
Are  fruits  of  glorious  victory, 

Achieved  by  me. 


CONVIVIAL. 
GLAD  your  hearts  with  rosy  wine, 

Now  the  dog-star  takes  his  round ; 
Sultry  hours  to  sleep  incline  ; 

Gapes  with  heat  the  sultry  ground. 
Crickets  sing  on  leafy  boughs, 

And  the  thistle  is  in  flower ; 
Melting  minds  forget  their  vows 

To  the  moon  in  colder  hours. 


THE  POOR  FISHERMAN. 
THE  fisher  Diotimus  had,  at  sea 
And  shore,  the  same  abode  of  poverty — 
His  trusty  boat; — and  when  his  days  were  spent, 
Therein  self-rowed,  to  ruthless  Dis  he  went ; 
For  that,  which  did  through  life  his  woes  beguile, 
Supplied  the  old  man  with  a  funeral  pile. 

CONVIVIAL. 

To  be  bowed  by  grief  is  folly ; 
Nought  is  gained  by  melancholy ; 
Better  than  the  pain  of  thinking, 
Is  to  steep  the  sense  in  drinking. 

POVERTY. 

THE  worst  of  ills,  and  hardest  to  endure, 

Past  hope,  past  cure, 
Is  Penury,  who,  with  her  sister  mate 
Disorder,  soon  brings  down  the  loftiest  state, 

And  makes  it  desolate. 
This  truth  the  sage  of  Sparta  told, 

Aristodemus  old, — 

"Wealth  makes  the  man.'' — On  him  that's  poor, 
Proud  worth  looks  down,  and  honour  shuts  the 

door. 


CONVIVIAL. 

WHY  wait  we  for  the  torches'  lights? 
Now  let  us  drink,  while  day  invites. 
In  mighty  flagons  hither  bring 

The  deep-red  blood  of  many  a  vine, 
That  we  may  largely  quaff  and  sing 

The  praises  of  the  God  of  wine — 

The  son  of  Jove,  and  Semele, 
Who  gave  the  jocund  grape  to  be 
A  sweet  oblivion  to  our  woes. 

Fill,  fill  the  goblet— one  and  two: 
Let  every  brimmer,  as  it  flows, 

In  sportive  chase,  the  last  pursue. 


THE  CONSTITUTION  OF  A  STATE. 

WHAT  constitutes  a  state  ? 

Not  high-raised  battlement  or  laboured  mound, 
Thick  wall  or  moated  gate  : 

Not  cities  fair,  with  spires  and  turrets  crown'd : 
No : — Men,  high-minded  men — 

With  powers  as  far  above  dull  brutes  endued 
In  forest,  brake,  or  den, 

As  beasts  excel  cold  rocks  and  brambles  rude- 
Men,  who  their  duties  know,    I 

Know  too  their  rights,  and,  knowing,  dare  main- 
tain ; 
Prevent  the  long-aimed  blow, 

And  crush  the  tyrant,  while  they  rend  the  chain. 


CONVIVIAL. 

JOVE  descends  in  sleet  and  snow, 
Howls  the  vexed  and  angry  deep ; 

Every  stream  forgets  to  flow, 
Bound  in  winter's  icy  sleep. 

Ocean  wave  and  forest  hoar, 

To  the  blast  responsive  roar. 

Drive  the  tempest  from  your  door, 

Blaze  on  blaze  your  hearthstone  piling, 

And  unmeasured  goblets  pour, 
Brimful  high  with  nectar  smiling. 

Then  beneath  your  poet's  head 

Be  a  downy  pillow  spread. 


THE  STORM. 

Now  here,  now  there,  the  wild  waves  sweep, 

Whilst  we,  betwixt  them,  o'er  the  deep, 

In  shatter'd  tempest-beaten  bark, 

With  labouring  ropes  are  onward  driven, 

The  billows  dashing  o'er  our  dark 

Upheaved  deck — in  tatters  riven 

Our  sails — whose  yawning  rents  between 

The  raging  sea  and  sky  are  seen. 


Loose  from  their  hold  our  anchors  burst, 
And  then  the  third,  the  fatal  wave 

Comes  rolling  onward  like  the  first, 
And  doubles  all  our  toil  to  save. 

D2 


SAPPHO. 


[About  620  B.  C.] 


THIS  "tenth  Muse"  was  a  native  of  Mitylene 
in  the  island  of  Lesbos.  The  name  of  her  father 
is  said  to  have  been  Scamandronomus,  and  that 
of  her  mother,  Cleis.  She  was  married  to  Cer- 
colas,  a  wealthy  inhabitant  of  the  isle  of  Andros, 
by  whom  she  was  left  early  a  widow,  with  an 
only  child  called  Cleis.  Out  of  nine  books  of 
lyric  verse,  besides  numerous  epigrams,  epitha- 
lamia,  and  other  kinds  of  jpoetry,  very  little  re- 
mains to  us  except  the  Hymn  to  Venus,  and  her 
Ode  to  the  Beloved ;  but  these  alone  suffice  to 
justify  the  high  praises  so  universally  awarded 
to  her  by  all  Greece,  and  to  place  her  in  the  very 
first  rank  of  lyric  poets.  Her  unaffected  grace 


and  sweetness,  her  concentrated  force,  passion, 
and  beauty  of  expression,  are  unsurpassed  in  the 
Greek  tongue,  arid  can  be  transfused  into  no  other. 
There  seems  to  be  but  little  doubt  of  the  tender 
reverence  and  admiration  wherein  she  was  held 
by  the  poet  Alcseus,  who,  in  a  sweet,  though  un- 
connected line,  (found  in  one  of  his  few  remain- 
ing fragments,)  addresses  her  as  his  'lortTiox', d/yva, 
jUftko^o^fi&x  2a7t<j>oi — his  violet-wreathed,  pure, 
sweetly-smiling  Sappho. — As  to  the  tales  about 
her  loves  and  death, — about  Phaon  and  the  Leu- 
cadian  rock, — they  seem  to  have  been  utterly  des- 
titute of  all  foundation. — See  Welcker's  "Sappho 
von  einem  herrschenden  Vorurtheil  befreyt." 


HYMN  TO  VENUS. 
O  VENUS,  beauty  of  the  skies  ! 
To  whom  a  thousand  altars  rise, 
Gaily  false  in  gentle  smiles, 
Full  of  love-perplexing  wiles, 
0  goddess,  from  my  heart  remove 
The  wasting  cares  and  pains  of  love. 
If  ever  thou  hast  kindly  heard 
A  song  in  soft  distress  preferr'd, 
Propitious  to  my  tuneful  vow, 

0  gentle  goddess,  hear  me  now. 
Descend,  thou  bright  immortal  guest, 
In  all  thy  radiant  charms  confest. 
Thou  once  did  leave  almighty  Jove, 
And  all  the  golden  roofs  above : 
The  car  thy  wanton  sparrows  drew ; 
Hovering  in  air  they  lightly  flew  ; 

As  to  my  bower  they  winged  their  way, 

1  saw  their  quivering  pinions  play, 
The  birds  dismiss'd  (while  you  remain,) 
Bore  back  the  empty  car  again : 

Then  you,  with  looks  divinely  mild, 
In  every  heavenly  feature  smil'd, 
And  ask'd  what  new  complaints  I  made, 
And  why  I  call'd  you  to  my  aid  1 

What  frenzy  in  my  bosom  raged, 
And  by  what  care  to  be  assuaged? 
What  gentle  youth  I  would  allure, 
Whom  in  my  artful  toils  secure  ? 
Who  does  thy  tender  heart  subdue  ? 
Tell  me,  my  Sappho,  tell  me  who  ? 
Though  now  he  shuns  thy  longing  arms, 
He  soon  shall  court  thy  slighted  charms ; 
Though  now  thy  offerings  he  despise, 
He  soon  to  thee  shall  sacrifice ; 
Though  now  he  freeze,  he  soon  shall  burn, 
And  be  thy  victim  in  his  turn. 
42 


Celestial  visitant,  once  more 
Thy  needful  presence  I  implore ! 
In  pity  come  and  ease  my  grief,  ' 
Bring  my  distempered  soul  relief: 
Favour  thy  suppliant's  hidden  fires, 
And  give  me  all  my  heart  desires. 

Another  translation  of  the  Same. 
IMMORTAL  Venus,  throned  above, 
In  radiant  beauty  !  Child  of  Jove ! 
0  skilled  in  every  art  of  love 

And  playful  snare ; 

Dread  power,  to  whom  I  bend  the  knee, 
Release  my  soul,  and  set  it  free 
From  bonds  of  piercing  agony, 

And  gloomy  care. 

Yea,  come  thyself! — If  e'er,  benign, 
Thy  listening  ear  thou  didst  incline, 
To  my  rude  lay,  the  starry  shine 

Of  Jove's  court  leaving, 
In  chariot  yoked  with  coursers  fair, 
Thine  own  immortal  birds,  that  bear 
Thee  swift  to  earth,  the  middle  air 

With  bright  wings  cleaving. 

Soon  were  they  sped — and  thou,  most  blest, 
In  thine  own  smiles  ambrosial  drest, 
Didst  ask  what  griefs  my  mind  opprest — 

What  meant  my  song — 
What  end  my  frenzied  thoughts  pursue — 
For  what  loved  youth  I  spread  anew 
My  amorous  nets — "  Who,  Sappho,  who 

Hath  done  thee  wrong? 

What  though  he  fly,  he'll  soon  return — 
Himself  shall  give,  though  now  he  spurn ; 
Heed  not  his  coldness — soon  he'll  burn, 
E'en  though  thou  chide." 


SAPPHO. 


43 


And  said/st  thou  this,  dread  goddess  1 — 0, 
Come  thou  once  more  to  ease  my  woe ! 
Grant  all ! — and  thy  great  self  bestow, 
My  shield  and  guide ! 


TO  THE  BELOVED. 

BLEST  as  the  immortal  gods  is  he, 
The  youth,  who  fondly  sits  by  thee, 
And  hears  and  sees  thee  all  the  while 
Softly  speak  and  sweetly  smile. 

'Twas  this  deprived  my  soul  of  rest, 
And  raised  such  tumults  in  my  breast; 
For,  while  I  gazed  in  transport  tost, 
My  breath  was  gonr,  my  voice  was  lost. 

My  bosom  glowed;  a  subtle  flame 
Ran  quick  through  all  my  vital  frame; 
O'er  my  dim  eyes  a  darkness  hung; 
My  ears  with  hollow  murmurs  rung. 

In  dewy  damps  my  limbs  were  chill'd, 
My  blood  with  gentle  horrors  thrill'd; 
My  feeble  pulse  forgot  to  play, 
I  fainted,  sunk,  and  died  away.* 

THE  DESERTED  WIFE. 

THE  moon  has  set,  and  o'er  the  seas 
Throw  their  last  glance  the  Pleiades  ; 
The  weary  night  is  waning  fast, 
The  promised  hour  is  come  and  past;  — 
Yet  sleepless  and  alone  I  lie, 
Alone  —  ah,  false  one,  tell  me  why. 

ON  A  BELOVED  COMPANION. 

DEEP  in  the  dreary  chambers  of  the  dead, 
Asteria's  ghost  hath  made  her  bridal  bed. 
Still  to  this  stone  her  fond  compeers  may  turn 
And  shed  their  cherish'd  tresses  on  her  urn. 

ON  AN  ILLITERATE  WOMAN. 


f,  unheeded,  shalt  thou  die, 
And  no  memorial  shall  proclaim, 
That  once,  beneath  the  upper  sky, 
Thou  hadst  a  being  and  a  name. 

For  never  to  the  Muses'  bowers 

Didst  thou,  with  glowing  heart  repair, 

Nor  ever  intertwine  the  flowers, 

That  Fancy  strews  unnumbered  there. 

Doomed  o'er  that  dreary  realm,  alone 
And  shunned  by  gentler  shades,  to  go, 

Nor  friend  shall  soothe  nor  parent  own 
The  child  of  sloth,  the  Muses'  foe.f 


*  Longinus,  to  whom  posterity  is  indebted  for  the  pre- 
servation of  this  ode,  attributes  much  of  its  beauty  to  the 
judicious  choice  which  sh«:  has  made  of  the  various  feel 
ings  attendant  on  jealous  love,  and  the  skilful  manner  in 
which  she  has  brought  and  connected  them  together. 

Long.  a.  x. 

t  The  fire  and  enthusiasm  of  Sappho's  character  (says 
Mr.  Bland)  appear  in  none  of  her  works  more  unequivo- 
cally than  in  this  little  fragment.    It  is  the  burst  of  in 
dignation  at  some  home-spun,  mighty-good  sort  of  woman 


FRAGMENTS. 

i. 

I  HAVE  a  child — a  lovely  one — 
In  beauty  like  the  golden  sun, 
Or  like  sweet  flowers,  of  earliest  bloom, 
And  Cleis  is  her  name : — for  whom 
I  Lydia's  treasures,  were  they  mine, 
Would  glad  resign. 


COME,  gentle  Youth,  and  in  thy  flowing  locks 
With  delicate  fingers  weave  a  fragrant  crown 
Of  aromatic  anise;  for  the  gods 
Delight  in  flowery  wreaths,  nor  lend  an  ear 
Propitious  to  their  suit,  who  supplicate 
With    brows    unbound    with    sweetly  smelling 
flowers. 


in. 

CLIITG  to  the  brave  and  good — the  base  disown — 
Whose  best  of  fortunes  is  to  live  unknown. 


IV. 

THROUGH  orchard  plots,  with  fragrance  crown'd, 
The  clear,  cold  fountain  murmuring  flows : 

And  forest  leaves,  with  rustling  sound, 
Invite  to  soft  repose. 


WEALTH,  without  Virtue,  is  a  dangerous  guest ; 
Who  holds  them  mingled,  is  supremely  blest. 


HESPER!  every  gift  is  thine — 
Thou  bring'st  the  kidling  from  the  rock; 
Thou  bring'st  the  damsel  with  the  flock; 

Thou  bring'st  us  rosy  wine. 


BEAUTY,  fair  flower,  upon  the  surface  lies; 
But  Worth  with  Beauty  soon  in  aspect  vies. 


MAIDEN  LOVE. 

[THE  following  fragment,  as  Warton  remarks, 
well  represents  "  the  languor  and  listlessness 
of  one  deeply  in  love!"] 
OH,  my  sweet  mother, — 'tis  in  vain— 

I  cannot  weave  as  once  I  wove; 
So  wildered  are  my  heart  and  brain 

With  thinking  of  that  youth  I  love. 


who  had  neither  a  soul  susceptible  of  poetry  herself,  nor 
the  sense  to  admire,  nor  the  candour  to  allow  of  it  in 
others.  This  is  a  description  of  persons,  which  has  been 
always  severely  handled  by  the  poets,  and  the  stigma  of 
contempt  with  which  they  are  branded  by  Sappho,  is 
mercy  to  what  they  are  sentenced  to  undergo  by  Dante — 
"Questi  sciaurati,  che  mai  non  fur  vivi,"  &c. 
"Those  miserables,  who  never  truly  loved. 

No  record  of  their  names  is  left  on  high  ; 

Mercy  and  Justice  spurn  them  and  refuse. 
Take  we  no  note  of  them— look,  and  pass  by  I" 


44 


ERINNA.— PITTACUS. 


YES,  yes,  I  own  it  true — 
Pleasure's  the  good  that  I  pursue. 

How  blest  is  then  my  destiny, 
That  I  may  love  and  honour  too — 

So  bright,  so  brave,  a  love  is  that  allotted  me ! 

*  #*  Mr.  H.  N.  Coleridge,  in  speaking  of  the 
genius  of  Sappho,  observes,  that  "the  very  shreds 
remaining  of  her  works,  seem  enough  to  prove 
her  the  greatest  of  lyric  poets  after  Pindar.  As 
compared  with  Alcseus,  Stesichorus,  &c.,  her  pre- 
eminence in  every  lyric  quality,  is  incontestable ; 
her  music,  her  passion,  her  imagery,  her  truth, 


are  all  transcendant;  and,  after  reading  what  ex- 
ists of  her,  we  can  never  think  of  the  other  poets 
who  preceded,  or  were  coeval  with  her,  without 
applying  to  them  her  own  beautiful  stanza  :  — 


xahav 

fy&tvvbv  tlSoj, 
av  rt^otcra 
Fay 


The  stars,  that  round  the  beauteous  moon 

Attendant  wait,  cast  into  shade 
Their  ineffectual  lustres,  soon 
As  she,  in  full-orbed  majesty  array'd, 
Her  silver  radiance  showers 
Upon  this  world  of  ours. 


ERINNA. 


[About  610  B.  C.] 


a  native  of  Lesbos,  and  friend  of 
Sappho,  died  at  the  early  age  of  nineteen.  She 
is  described  as  a  girl  of  extraordinary  beauty 
and  genius,  but  her  works,  all  except  two  or 


three  epigrams,  have  unfortunately  perished. 
The  ode  to  Rome,  or  to  Fortitude,  as  some  will 
translate  it,  which  has  been  attributed  to  her,  is 
evidently  the  production  of  a  much  later  age. 


ON  A  VIRGIN  OF  MITYLENE,  WHO  DIED 
ON  HER  WEDDING-DAY. 

THE  virgin  Myrtis'  sepulchre  am  I ; 

Creep  softly  to  the  pillared  mount  of  woe, 

And  whisper  to  the  grave,  in  earth  below, 
«  Grave !  thou  art  envious  in  thy  cruelty !" — 
To  thee  now  gazing  here,  her  barbarous  fate 

These  bride's  adornments  tell;  that,  with  the 

fire 
Of  Hymen's  torch,  which  led  her  to  the  gate, 

Her   husband   burned   the    maid    upon    her 
pyre: 


Yes,  Hymen!  thou  didst  change  the  marriage-song 
To  the  shrill  wailing  of  the  mourners'  throng. 

On  the  Same. 

PILLARS  of  death!  carv'd  syrens!  tearful  urns! 

In  whose  sad  keeping  my  poor  dust  is  laid; 
To  him,  that  near  my  tomb  his  footstep  turns, 

Stranger  or  Greek,  say  to  him  that  a  maid 
Rests,  in  her  bloom,  below :  her  sire  the  name 

Of  Myrtis  gave:  her  birth  and  lineage  high: 
Say,  too,  her  bosom  friend  Erinna  came 

And  on  this  marble  graved  her  elegy. 


PITTACUS. 

[About  610  B.  C.] 
OSTE  of  the  Seven  Sages  of  Greece,  and  Tyrant  of  Mitylene. 


FORESIGHT  AND  COURAGE. 


THE  Wise  with  prudent  thought  provide 
Against  misfortune's  coming  tide ; 


The  Valiant,  when  the  surge  beats  high, 
Undaunted  brave  its  tyranny. 


MIMNERMUS. 


[About  590  B.  C.] 


MIMNERMUS  was  a  native  of  Colophon,  in 
Ionia,  and  eminent  both  as  a  musician  and  a 
poet.  Judging  of  him  from  the  few  fragments 
of  his  writings  which  have  descended  to  us,  he 
was  anything  but  the  joyous  spirit  described  by 
Horace,  Propertius,  and  others.  He  complains 
of  the  transiency  of  human  enjoyment,  of  the 
briefness  of  youth,  and  the  vanity  and  wretched- 
ness of  life.  But  such  was  the  prevailing  creed 
of  Greece, — of  her  gayest  poets,  no  less  than  of 
her  gravest  philosophers. — 


YOUTH  AND  AGE. 

WHAT  were  life,  and  where  its  treasure, 
Golden  Venus,  wert  thou  flown  ? 

Nerer  may  I  outlive  the  pleasure 
Given  to  man  by  thee  alone, — 
Honied  gifts  and  secret  love, 
Joys  all  other  joys  above. 

Quickly,  stripling!  quickly,  maiden! 
Snatch  life's  blossoms  ere  they  fall ; 

Age  with  hate  and  sorrow  laden, 
Soon  draws  nigh  to  level  all, — 
Makes  the  man  of  comeliest  mien, 
Like  the  most  ill-favoured  seen. 

Youth  and  grace  his  path  declining, 
Gloomy  thoughts  his  bosom  tear; 

Seems  the  sun,  in  glory  shining, 
Now  to  him  no  longer  fair, — 


"  Who,  therefore,  seeks  in  these 
True  wisdom,  finds  her  not;  or,  by  delusion, 
Far  worse,  her  false  resemblance  only  meets, 
An  empty  cloud." 

In  the  Love  Elegy,  Mimnermus  is  said  to  have 
reigned  supreme,  throughout  all  antiquity;  (plus 
in  amore  valet  Mimnermi  versus  Homero.)  But 
his  great  work  on  the  subject,  (inscribed  to  his 
beloved  Nanno,)  or  all  but  a  shred  of  it,  is  lost — 
destroyed  by  the  Byzantine  Inquisitors. 


Joys  no  more  his  soul  engage, 
Such  the  power  of  dreary  age. 

THE  EVILS  OF  MORTALITY. 
LIKE  blossoms,  which  the  sun's  creative  ray 
And  florid  spring  have  fostered  into  day, 
Our  May  of  youth,  a  stranger  yet  to  pain 
And  new  to  pleasure,  wantons  o'er  the  plain, 
While  the  dark  Parcoe  watch  our  every  breath, 
And  weave  the  fatal  web  of  age  and  death. 
A  gay  but  transitory  course  we  run 
Of  youth,  departing  with  the  summer  sun : 
This  past,  the  season  comes  of  care  and  strife, 
When  death  is  better  than  the  dregs  of  life. 
Sorrow,  in  various  forms,  on  all  descends, 
Disaster,  poverty,  or  loss  of  friends : 
One  with  protracted  hope  and  vain  desires 
For  children  longs  and,  as  he  longs,  expires; 
Another  groans  in  sickness;  sufferers  all, 
Condemn'd  alike  to  drink  the  cup  of  gall. 


IBYCUS. 


[About  561  B.  C.] 


IBTCUS  was  a  native  of  Rhegium  in  Italy,  but 
chiefly  resided  at  the  court  of  Polycrates  in  Sa- 
moa. He  is  styled  by  Suidas  the  most  love-mad 
(fputfouavfatatos)  of  poets,  and  the  short  frag- 
ments of  his  writings,  that  remain  to  us,  seem 
fully  to  bear  out  the  character  thus  given  him. 
It  is  not  so  much,  however,  on  account  of  his  life 
or  writings,  as  of  the  circumstances  related  of  his 
death,  and  of  the  deathless  interest  which  has 


been  attached  to  them  by  a  later  and  far  greater 
bard,  that  he  is  here  introduced.*  The  story 
(according  to  ^Elian)  is,  that,  being  attacked  and 
wounded  to  death  by  robbers,  and  seeing,  in  his 
dying  moments  a  flight  of  cranes,  he  cried  out: — 
"Those  birds  will  be  my  avengers!"  And  so 
they  were  ;  for  one  of  the  murderers  happening 


*  See  Schiller's 


'Kraniche  des  Ibykus." 
45 


46 


THEOGNIS. 


soon  afterwards  to  see  a  flock  of  the  same  birds 
flying  over  the  market  place  of  Corinth,  inad- 
vertently exclaimed  to  his  comrades :  "  Behold 
the  avengers  of  Ibycus !"  His  words  were  over- 
heard, suspicions  arose,  inquiry  followed,  truth 


came  to  light,  and  Ibycus'  dying  prophecy  was 
accomplished  in  the  execution  of  his  murderers. 
Hence  the  proverb  of  'l&xov  sxSixoi,  in  cases  of 
criminals  unexpectedly  found  out  and  brought  to 
justice. 


TO  EURYALE. 

0  THOU,  the  bright-haired  Graces'  bud  and  care, 
Euryale!     Sure  Venus  fair 
And  sweet  Persuasion,  with  her  eyelids  mild, 
In  rose-flower  cradle  nourished  thee  a  child. 

THE  INFLUENCE  OF  SPRING. 

IN-  Spring,  bedewed  with  river-streams, 
From  where,  for  everlasting,  gleams 
-  The  garden  of  th'  Hesperides, 
Blossom  Cydonian  apple-trees; — 
In  Spring  the  saplings  freshly  shine, 


Beneath  the  parent-vine 

In  shadow  and  in  breeze  ; 
But  me  Love's  mighty  power, 
That  sleepeth  never  an  hour, 
From  Venus  rushing,  burneth  with  desire, 

As  with  the  lightning  fire ; 
Black,  as  the  Thracian  wind, 
He  seizes  on  my  mind, 
With  dry  delirious  heat 
Inflames  my  reason's  seat, 
And,  in  the  centre  of  my  soul, 
Keeps  empire  for  a  child,  and  holds 
uricheck'd  control. 


THEOGNIS. 


[About  544  B.  C.] 


THEOGXIS  was  born  in  the  city  of  Megara  or 
Alcathoe  in  Achaia,  and  was  a  traveller,  a  poli- 
tician, and  a  man  of  pleasure,  and  of  the  world. 
He  has  been  accused  by  ancient  writers,  of  dis- 
seminating voluptuousness,  under  the  guise  of 
morality,  but  nothing  of  the  kind  is  perceptible 


in  those  relics  of  his  poetry  which  have  descended 
to  us.  He  lived  to  be  eighty-eight  years  of  age, 
the  greater  portion  of  which  period  was  passed 
by  him  and  his  brother- nobles  in  one  perpetual 
struggle  with  the  democracy.  All  his  composi- 
tions are  in  the  elegiac  metre. 


YOUTH  AND  AGE. 

AH  me !  alike  o'er  youth  and  age  I  sigh, 
Impending  age,  and  youth  that  hastens  by; 
Swift  as  a  thought  the  flowing  moments  roll, 
Swift  as  a  racer  speeds  to  reach  the  goal. 
How  rich,  how  happy  the  contented  guest, 
Who  leaves  the  banquet  soon,  and  sinks  to  rest. 
Damps  chill  my  brow,  my  pulses  flutt'ring  beat, 
Whene'er  the  vigorous  pride  of  youth  I  meet 
Pleasant  and  lovely ;  hopeful  to  the  view 
As  golden  visions,  and  as  transient  too : 
But  ah !  no  terrors  stop,  nor  vows,  nor  tears 
Life's  mournful  evening,  and  the  gloom  of  years. 


EXHORTATION  TO  ENJOYMENT. 

MAT  peace  and  riches  crown  my  native  towers, 
Nor  war  nor  tumults  break  our  festive  hours ; 
May  glorious  Jove,  embracing  earth  and  sky, 
Exulting  view  our  mortal  harmony ; 


Thou,  sweet  Apollo,  touch  the  happy  crew, 
And  warm  our  hearts   to  raptures  strange  and 

new ; 

With  shell  and  lute  high  raise  the  strain  divine, 
And  rich  libations  pour  on  every  shrine ! 
While  to  the  powers  above  our  praises  flow, 
Inspiring  wine  shall  make  us  gods  below  : 
In  pleasant  converse  wrapt,  the  social  soul 
Heeds  not  the  wars  that  shake  the  northern  pole. 
Thus  to  be  ever  charm'd  were  sure  the  best, 
With  every  fretful  feverish  pulse  at  rest, 
In  joy  and  mirth  to  drown  the  din  of  arms, 
The  frost  of  years  to  come,  and  death's  alarms. 
Sweet  youth  is  mine — I  revel  in  her  bloom ; 
(How  soon  condemned  to  wither  in  the  tomb !) 
Tho'  fair  in  fame,  for  noble  lineage  known, 
Mute,  cold,  and  dull,  as  yon  neglected  stone, 
Soon  shall  I  leave  the  whisp'ring  air  and  sky, 
And  darkly  slumber  through  futurity. 
Be  soothed,  my  soul — how  soon  another  race. 
Shall  claim  whate'er  is  mine  of  power  or  place ; 


THEOGNIS. 


47 


And  o'er  the  mournful  spot  regardless  go, 
Where  my  bones  mingle  with  the  earth  below ! 
But  ever  shall  my  conscious  heart  rejoice 
At  Pleasure's  breath,  and  Music's  heavenly  voice 
Pleased  will  I  sport,  while  fragrant  draughts  in- 
spire, 

Or  sing  symphonious  to  the  minstrel's  lyre  : 
Death's  horrid  realm  no  sense  of  bliss  pervades 
Nor  wine,  nor  lyre,  nor  beauty  please  the  shades 
Then,  while  on  earth  my  winged  pulses  beat, 
While  throbs  my  heart  with   youth's   delicious 

heat, 

Charm'd  will  I  yield  to  every  new  delight, 
Ere  mournful  age  shall  tear  it  from  my  sight. 

REASONABLE  EXPECTATIONS. 
COULD  wealth  with  sorrow  unalloy'd  be  mine, 
Oh  might  my  board  with  varied  plenty  shine! 
But  since  just  Fortune  doles  to  each  his  share, 
Be  mine  a  poorer  lot,  but  free  from  care. 

TEST  OF  TRUTH. 

In  vino  veritas. 

FIRE  proves  the  treasures  of  the  mine, 
The  soul  of  man  is  proved  by  wine. 

TO  JUPITER. 

JOVE,  much  I  marvel  at  the  way 
In  which  this  world  thou'rt  pleased  to  sway; 
No  difference — none,  for  aught  I  see — 
"J'wixt  knave  and  honest  man  with  thee. 
Nay,  if  the  truth  must  be  confess'd. 
Full  oft,  I  fear,  Vice  fares  the  best, 
Of  gold,  and  land,  and  title  brags, 
And  quaffs  his  wine,  and  drives  his  nags, 
Whilst  toil-worn  Virtue  dies  in  rags. 

LIFE'S  FIRST  BLESSING. 

KTRXUS  !  of  all  good  things  in  life, 
There's  nought  can  equal  a  good  wife ; 
And  we.  I  am  sure,  may  prove  it  true — 
You'll  vouch  for  me,  and  I  for  you. 

TO  KYRXI'S. 

I'VE  given  thee  wings  o'er  boundless  earth  and  sea 

To  speed  thy  easy  flight : 
And  thou,  for  ever  dear,  shall  voiced  be 

f  delight. 
The  mellow  flute,  by  fairest  youths  inspired, 

Shall  sweetly  breathe  thy  name; 
And  when  within  earth's  covert  dim  retired, 
Thou'rt  lost  to  heaven's  pun.-  flame. 
Glory  shall  wait  thee  in  thy  native  home — 

Alive  though  in  th.-  trravr! 

Through  Greece  and  all  her  islands  thou  shalt 
roam, 

Above  the  oroan  wave — 
Nor  borne  on  steed-,  but  by  the  Mn-es  led. 

Wln.se  temples  violets  wr- 
For  whilst  earth  lasts,  and  day's  glad  light  is  shed, 

This  SOUL;  all  breathe. — 

Yet — yet  by  thee  I'm  treated  like  a  child, 
With  fond,  vain  words,  for  ever  thus  beguiled. 


GENERAL  CORRUPTION  OF  THE  PEOPLE. 
STIR  not  a  step  !  Risk  nothing;  but  believe 
That  vows  and  oaths  are  snares  meant  to  deceive ! 
Jove  is  no  warrant  for  a  promise  given — 
Not  Jove  himself,  nor  all  the  gods  in  heaven. 
Nothing  is  safe ;  no  character  secure, 
No  conduct,  the  most  innocent  and  pure  ; 
All  are  corrupt,  the  commons  and  the  great, 
Alike  incapable  to  serve  the  state. 
The  ruin  of  the  noblest  and  the  best 
Serves  for  an  idle  ballad  or  a  jest : 
Shame  is  abolished;  and  in  high  command, 
Rage,  Impudence,  and  Rapine  rule  the  land. 


APPROACH  OF  THE  ENEMY. 

A  SPEECHLESS  messenger !  the  beacon's  light 
Announces  danger  from  the  mountain's  height ! 
Bridle  your  horses,  and  prepare  to  fly ! 
The  final  crisis  of  our  fate  is  nigh. 
A  momentary  pause,  a  narrow  space 
Detains  them, — but  the  foes  approach  apace. — 
We  must  abide  what  fortune  has  decreed, 
And  hope  that  heaven  will  help  us  at  our  need. 
Make  your  resolve!   at  home  your  means  are 

great ; 

Abroad  you  will  retain  a  poor  estate. 
Unostentatious,  indigent,  and  scant, 
You  live  secure,  at  least,  from  utter  want. 


POVERTY. 

FOR  noble  minds,  the  worst  of  miseries, 
Worse  than  old  age,  or  wearisome  disease, 
Is  Poverty.     From  Poverty  to  flee, 
From  some  tall  precipice  into  the  sea, 
It  were  a  fair  escape  to  leap  below ! 
In  Poverty,  dear  Kyrnus,  we  forego 
Freedom  in  word  and  deed,  body  and  mind  ; 
Action  and  thought  are  fetter'd  and  confin'd. 
Let  me  then  fly,  dear  Kyrnus,  once  again ! 
Wide  as  the  limits  of  the  land  and  main, 
From  these  entanglements ;  with  these  in  view, 
Death  is  the  lighter  evil  of  the  two. 

TO  THE  CHIEF  OF  A  FACTIOUS  RABBLE. 
LASH  your  obedient  rabble!  Cast  and  load 
The  burden  on  their  backs!    Spur  them   and 

goad! 

They'll  bear  it  all ! — by  patience  and  by  birth 
The  most  submissive,  humble  slaves  on  earth. 


PRAYER  FOR  GOOD  TO  HIS  FRIENDS, 
AND  REVENGE  ON  HIS  FOES. 

MAT  Jove  assist  me  to  discharge  a  debt 

Of  kindness  to  my  friends — and  grant  me  yet 

A  further  boon — revenge  upon  my  foes ! 

With  tip  ilished,  I  n.uld  gladly  close 

My  term  of  life — a  fair  requital  made — 

My  friends  rewarded,  and  my  wrongs  repaid! 

Gratitude  and  revenge,  before  I  die, 

Might  make  me  deemed  almost  a  deity. 

Yet  hear,  O  mighty  Jove  !  and  grant  my  prayer, 

Relieve  me  from  affliction  and  despair ! 


48 


ANACREO.N. 


0  take  my  life— or  grant  me  some  redress, 
Some  foretaste  of  returning  happiness. 
Such  is  my  state — I  cannot  yet  descry 
A  chance  of  vengeance  on  mine  enemy, 
The  rude  despoiler  of  my  property. 
Yet  my  full  wish,  to  drink  their  very  blood, 
Some  power  divine,  that  watches  for  my  good, 
May  yet  accomplish.     Soon  may  he  fulfil 
My  righteous  hope,  my  just  and  hearty  will. 


ENJOYMENT. 

EXJOT  your  time,  my  soul !  another  race 
Shall  shortly  fill  the  world,  and  take  your  place 
With   their   own  hopes   and   fears,  sorrow  and 

mirth ; 

I  shall  be  dust  the  while,  and  crumbled  earth. 
But  think  not  of  it.     Drink  the  racy  wine 
Of  rich  Taygetus,  pressed  from  the  vine 
Which  Theotimus  in  the  sunny  glen 
(Old  Theotimus,  loved  of  gods  and  men,) 
Planted  and  watered  from  a  plenteous  source, 
Teaching  the  wayward  stream  a  better  course : 
Drink  it,  and  cheer  your  heart,  and  banish  care, 
A  load  of  wine  will  lighten  your  despair. 


ON  RETURNING  TO  HIS  NATIVE  LAND. 
WIDE  have  I  wandered,  far  beyond  the  sea, 
Even  to  the  distant  shores  of  Sicily ; 
To  broad  Euboea's  plentiful  domain, 
With  the  rich  vineyards  in  its  planted  plain; 
And  to  the  sunny  wave  and  winding  edge 
Of  fair  Eurotas  with  its  reedy  sedge — 
Where  Sparta  stands  in  simple  majesty : 
Among  her  manly  rulers  there  was  I, — 
Greeted  and  welcomed  there  and  everywhere, 
With  courteous  entertainment,  kind  and  fair ; 
Yet  still  my  weary  spirit  would  repine, 
Longing  again  to  view  this  land  of  mine. 
Henceforward,  no  design  nor  interest 
Shall  ever  move  me,  but  the  first  and  best, 
With  learning's  happy  gift  to  celebrate, 
Adorn,  and  dignify  my  native  state. 
The  song,  the  dance,  music  and  verse  agreeing, 
Will  occupy  my  life  and  fill  my  being ; 
Pursuits  of  elegance  and  learned  skill 
(With  good  repute,  and  kindness,  and  good-will 
Among  the  wiser  sort,)  will  pass  my  time 
Without  an  enemy,  without  a  crime ; 
Harmless  and  just  with  every  rank  of  men, 
Both  the  free  native  and  the  denizen. 


ANACREON, 


[Born,  554— Died,  469  B.  C.] 


I  see  Anacreon  smile  and  sing; 

His  silver  tresses  breathe  perfume, 
His  cheek  displays  a  second  spring 

Of  roses,  taught  by  wine  to  bloom. 
Away,  deceitful  cares,  away! 
And  let  me  listen  to  his  lay. 


AWACREON  was  born  at  Teos  in  Ionia;  but  on 
the  invasion  of  that  country  by  Harpagus,  the 
general  of  the  elder  Cyrus,  he  migrated  to  Ab- 
dera  in  Thrace.  He  afterwards  resided  at  the 
court  of  Polycrates  in  Samos,  whence  he  was  in- 
vited to  Athens  by  Hipparchus,  who  sent  a  fifty 
oared  galley  to  convey  him  over  the  JEgean.  On 
the  death  of  the  usurper  he  returned  to  Teos,  but 
was  again  driven  thence  by  the  revolt  of  His- 


tseus.  He  finally  settled  in  Abdera,  and  died  in 
the  eighty-fifth  year  of  his  age,  choked  (it  is 
said)  by  a  grape-stone  which  he  swallowed  in  a 
draught  of  new  wine. 

A  small  portion,  only,  of  his  works  has  de- 
scended to  us,  the  remainder,  like  those  of 
Alcoeus,  Sappho,  Mimnermus,  and  others,  having 
fallen  a  sacrifice  to  the  bigotted  zeal  or  hypocrisy 
of  the  Byzantine  Inquisitors. 


LOVE. 

I'LL  sing  of  heroes  and  of  kings, 
In  mighty  numbers,  mighty  things. 
Begin,  my  Muse  ! — but  lo !  the  strings 
To  my  great  song  rebellious  prove  ; 
The  strings  will  sound  of  nought  but  love. 
— I  broke  them  all,  and  put  on  new ; 
— 'Tis  this,  or  nothing,  now  will  do. 
"  These,  sure,"  said  I,  "  will  me  obey ; 


These,  sure,  heroic  notes  will  play." 
Straight  I  began  with  thundering  Jove 
And  all  th'  immortal  powers;  but  Love, 
Love  smil'd;  and  from  my  enfeebled  lyre 
Came  gentle  airs,  such  as  inspire 
Melting  love  and  soft  desire. — 
Farewell  then,  heroes !  farewell,  kings ! 
And  mighty  numbers,  mighty  things ! 
Love  tunes  my  heart  just  to  my  strings. 


ANACREON. 


49 


BEAUTY. 

To  all  that  breathe  the  air  of  heaven 
Some  boon  of  strength  has  Nature  given. 
In  forming  the  majestic  bull, 
She  fenced  with  wreathed  horns  his  skull ; 
A  hoof  of  strength  she  lent  the  steed, 
And  winged  the  timorous  hare  with  speed; 
She  gave  the  lion  fangs  of  terror, 
And  o'er  the  ocean's  crystal  mirror, 
Taught  the  unnumbered  scaly  throng 
To  trace  the  liquid  path  along ; 
While  for  the  umbrage  of  the  grove 
She  plumed  the  warbling  world  of  love. 
To  Man  she  gave,  in  that  proud  hour, 
The  boon  of  intellectual  power ; 
Then  what,  O  Woman,  what  for  thee 
Was  left  in  Nature's  treasury  ? 
She  gave  thee  beauty — mightier  far 
Than  all  the  pomp  and  power  of  war. 
Nor  steel,  nor  fire  itself  hath  power 
Like  Woman  in  her  conquering  hour, 
Be  thou  but  fair, — mankind  adore  thee ! 
Smile, — and  a  world  is  weak  before  thee ! 


TO  A  PAINTER. 
THOU,  whose  soft  and  rosy  hues 
Mimic  form  and  soul  infuse, 
Best  of  painters !  come,  portray 
The  lovely  Maid,  that's  far  away. 
Paint  her  jetty  ringlets  playing, 
Silky  locks,  like  tendrils  straying; 
And,  if  painting  hath  the  skill 
To  make  the  spicy  balm  distil, 
Let  every  little  lock  exhale 
A  sigh  of  perfume  on  the  gale. 
Where  her  tresses'  curly  flow 
Darkles  o'er  the  brow  of  snow, 
Let  her  forehead  beam  to  light 
Burnished  as  the  ivory  bright. 
Let  her  eyebrows  smoothly  rise 
In  jetty  arches  o'er  her  eyes, 
Each  a  crescent  gently  gliding, 
Just  commingling,  just  dividing. 

But  hast  thou  any  sparkles  warm 
The  lightning  of  her  eyes  to  form  ? 
Let  them  effuse  the  azure  rays 
That  in  Minerva's  glances  blaze, 
Mixed  with  the  liquid  light,  that  lies 
In  Cytherea's  languid  eyes. 
O'er  her  nose  and  cheek  be  shed 
Flushing  white  and  softened  red ; 
Mingling  tints,  as  when  there  glows 
In  snowy  milk  the  bashful  rose. 
Then  her  lip,  so  rich  in  blisses, 
Sweet  petitioner  for  ki 
Rosy  nest,  where  lurks  Persuasion, 
Mutely  courting  Love's  invasion. 
Next,  beneath  the  velvet  chin, 
Whose  dimple  hides  a  Love  within, 
Mould  her  neck  with  grace  descending, 
And  in  a  heaven  of  beauty  ending ; 
While  countless  charms,  above,  below 
Sport  and  flutter  round  its  snow. 
Now  let  a  floating,  lucid  veil 
Shadow  her  form,  but  not  conceal ; 
7 


A  charm  may  peep,  a  hue  may  beam, 
And  leave  the  rest  to  Fancy's  dream. 
— Enough — 'tis  she !  'tis  all  I  seek ; 
It  glows,  it  lives,  it  soon  will  speak ! 


ANACREON'S  DOVE. 

LOVELY  courier  of  the  sky, 
Whence  and  whither  dost  thou  fly  ? 
Scattering,  as  thy  pinions  play, 
Liquid  fragrance  all  the  way. 
Is  it  business  ?     Is  it  love  ? 
Tell  me,  tell  me,  gentle  Dove." — 
'  Soft  Anacreon's  vows  I  bear, 
Vows  to  Myrtale  the  fair ; 
Graced  with  all  that  charms  the  heart, 
Blushing  nature,  smiling  art, 
Venus,  courted  by  an  ode, 
On  the  Bard  her  Dove  bestow'd. 
Vested  with  a  master's  right, 
Now  Anacreon  rules  my  flight : 
As  the  letters  that  you  see, 
Weighty  charge  consign'd  to  me : 
Think  not  yet  my  service  hard, 
Joyless  task  without  reward  : 
Smiling  at  my  master's  gates, 
Freedom  my  return  awaits : 
But  the  liberal  grant  in  vain 
Tempts  me  to  be  wild  again. 
Can  a  prudent  Dove  decline 
Blissful  bondage  such  as  mine^ 
Over  hills  and  fields  to  roam, 
Fortune's  guest  without  a  home ; 
Under  leaves  to  hide  one's  head, 
Slightly  shelter 'd,  coarsely  fed ; 
Now  my  better  lot  bestows 
Sweet  repast,  and  soft  repose ; 
Now  the  generous  bowl  I  sip 
As  it  leaves  Anacreon's  lip ; 
Void  of  care,  and  free  from  dread 
From  his  fingers  snatch  his  bread, 
Then  with  luscious  plenty  gay 
Round  his  chambers  dance  and  play ; 
Or,  from  wine  as  courage  springs, 
O'er  his  face  expand  my  wings ; 
And,  when  feast  and  frolic  tire, 
Drop  asleep  upon  his  lyre. 
This  is  all ;  be  quick  and  go, 
More  than  all  thou  can'st  not  know ; 
Let  me  now  my  pinions  ply, — 
I  have  chatter'd  like  a  pye.'r* 


CURE  FOR  CARE. 

WHEW  my  thirsty  soul  I  steep, ^ 
Every  sorrow's  lulled  to  sleep. 
Talk  of  monarchs !  I  am  then 
Richest,  happiest,  first  of  men ; 


*  "  As  I  was  never  struck  with  any  thing  in  the  Greek 
language,  (says  Dr.  Johnson,)  till  I  read  Anacreon's 
Dove,  so  have  I  never  read  any  thing  in  the  same  lan- 
guage since,  that  pleased  me  more."  He  then  added 
that  the  above  verses  "were  planned  and  even  begun," 
when  he  was  sixteen  years  old,  yet  had  he  never  found 
"time  to  make  an  end  of  them  before  he  was  sixty- 
eight." 

E 


50 


ANACREON. 


Careless  o'er  my  cup  I  sing, 
Fancy  makes  me  more  than  king ; 
Gives  me  wealthy  Croesus'  store, — 
Ought  I,  can  I,  wish  for  more  1 
On  my  velvet  couch  reclining, 
Ivy-leaves  my  brow  entwining, 
All  my  soul  elate  with  glee, — 
What  are  kings  and  crowns  to  me 
Arm  ye,  arm  ye,  men  of  might, 
Hasten  to  the  sanguine  fight ; 
But  let  me,  my  budding  Vine  ! 
Spill  no  other  blood  but  thine. 
Yonder  brimming  goblet  see, 
That  alone  shall  vanquish  me, — 
Who  think  it  better,  wiser  far, 
To  fall  in  banquet  than  in  war. 


DRINKING. 

OBSERVE,  when  mother  Earth  is  dry, 

She  drinks  the  droppings  of  the  sky ; 

And  then  the  dewy  cordial  gives 

To  every  thirsty  plant  that  lives. 

The  vapours,  which  at  evening  sweep, 

Are  beverage  to  the  swelling  Deep  ; 

And  wljen  the  rosy  sun  appears, 

He  drinks  the  Ocean's  misty  tears. 

The  Moon,  too,  quaffs  her  paly  stream 

Of  lustre  from  the  solar  beam. 

Then  hence  with  all  your  sober  thinking, 

Since  Nature's  holiest  law  is  drinking; 

I'll  make  the  laws  of  Nature  mine, 

And  pledge  the  universe  in  wine.* 


GOLD. 

YES. — loving  is  a  painful  thrill 

And  not  to  love -more  painful  still ; 

But  oh,  it  is  the  worst  of  pain 

To  love,  and  not  be  loved  again ! 

Affection  now  has  fled  from  earth, 

Nor  fire  of  genius,  noble  birth, 

Nor  heavenly  virtue,  can  beguile 

From  beauty's  cheek  one  favouring  smile. 

Gold  is  the  woman's  only  theme, 

Gold  is  the  woman's  only  dream. 

Oh!  never  be  that  wretch  forgiven — 

Forgive  him  not,  indignant  heaven ! 

Whose  grovelling  eyes  could  first  adore, 

Whose  heart  could  pant  for  sordid  ore. 

Since  that  devoted  thirst  began, 

Man  has  forgot  to  feel  for  man  ; 

The  pulse  of  social  life  is  dead, 

And  all  its  fonder  feelings  fled ! 

War  too  has  sullied  Nature's  charms, 

For  gold  provokes  the  world  to  arms: 

And  oh !  the  worst  of  all  its  arts, 

It  rends  asunder  loving  hearts. 


*  Cowley,  who  has  translated,  or  rather  paraphrased, 
this  ode,  ends  with  the  following  lines  :— 

Nothing  in  Nature  's  sober  found, 
But  an  eternal  health  goes  round. 
Fill  up  the  bowl,  then,  fill  it  high, 
Fill  all  the  glasses  there  ;  for  why 
Should  every  creature  drink  but  1 ? 
Why,  man  of  morals,  tell  me  why? 


CUPID  BENIGHTED. 
'TWAS  noon  of  night,  and  round  the  pole, 
The  sullen  Bear  was  seen  to  roll ; 
And  mortals,  wearied  with  the  day, 
Were  slumbering  all  their  cares  away ; 
An  infant,  at  that  dreary  hour, 
Came  weeping  to  my  silent  bower, 
And  waked  "me  with  a  piteous  prayer, 
To  shield  him  from  the  midnight  air. 
"And  who  art  thou,"  I  waking  cry, 
"That  bid'st  my  blissful  visions  fly?" 
"Ah,  gentle  sire," — the  infant  said, — 
"In  pity  take  me  to  thy  shed ; 
Nor  fear  deceit ;  a  lonely  child, 
I  wander  o'er  the  gloomy  wild. 
Chill  drops  the  rain,  and  not  a  ray 
Illumes  my  drear  and  misty  way." 

I  heard  the  baby's  tale  of  woe ; 
I  heard  the  bitter  night-winds  blow  ; 
And,  sighing  for  his  piteous  fate, 
I  trimm'd  my  lamp,  and  op'd  the  gate. 
'Twas  Love !  the  little  wandering  sprite, 
His  pinion  sparkled  through  the  night. 
I  knew  him  by  his  bow  and  dart ; 
I  knew  him  by  my  fluttering  heart. 
Fondly  I  take  him  in,  and  raise 
The  dying  embers'  cheering  blaze  ; 
Press  from  his  dark  and  clinging  hair 
The  crystals  of  the  freezing  air, 
And  in  my  hand  and  boaorn  hold 
His  little  fingers,  thrilling  cold. 

And  now  the  ember's  genial  ray 
Had  warm'd  his  anxious  fears  away  : 
"  I  pray  thee,"  said  the  wanton  child, 
(My  bosom  trembled  as  he  smil'd) 
"I  pray  thee,  let  me  try  my  bow, 
For  through  the  rain  I've  wandered  so, 
That  much  I  fear,  the  midnight  shower 
Has  injur'd  its  elastic  power." — 
His  fatal  bow  the  urchin  drew ; 
Swift  from  the  string  the  arrow  flew ; 
As  swiftly  flew  as  glancing  flame, 
And  to  mine  inmost  spirit  came  ! 
And  "  fare  thee  well," — I  heard  him  say, 
As,  laughing  wild,  he  wing'd  his  way  ; 
"Fare  thee  well,  for  now,  I  know, 
The  rain  has  not  relaxed  my  bow  ; 
It  still  can  send  a  thrilling  dart, 
As  thou  shalt  own  with  all  thy  heart !" 

THE  EPICURE. 
UNDERNEATH  this  myrtle  shade, 
On  flowery  beds  supinely  laid, 
With  odorous  oils  my  head  overflowing, 
And  around  it  roses  growing, 
What  should  I  do  but  drink  away 
The  heat  and  troubles  of  the  day  ? 
In  this  more  than  kingly  state, 
Love  himself  shall  on  me  wait. 
Fill  to  me,  Love ;  nay,  fill  it  up ; 
And  mingled  cast  into  the  cup 
Wit,  and  mirth,  and  noble  fires, 
Vigorpus  health,  and  gay  desires. 
The  wheel  of  life  no  less  will  stay 
In  a  smooth  than  rugged  way : 


ANACREON. 


Since  it  equally  doth  flee, 
Let  the  motion  pleasant  be. 
Why  do  we  precious  ointments  shower? 
Nobler  wines  why  do  we  pour? 
Beauteous  flowers  why  do  we  spread 
Upon  the  monuments  of  the  dead  ? 
Nothing  they  but  dust  can  show. 
Or  bones  that  hasten  to  be  sd. 
Crown  me  with  roses  whilst  I  live, — 
Now  your  wines  and  ointments  give ; 
After  death  I  nothing  crave, 
Let  me  alive  my  pleasures  have ! 
All  are  Stoics  in  the  grave. 


THE  ROSE. 

Bens  of  roses,  virgin  flowers, 
Culled  from  Cupid's  balmy  bowers, 
In  the  bowl  of  Bacchus  steep, 
Till  with  crimson  drops  they  weep. 
Twine  the  ro^fi,  the  garland  twine, 
Every  leaf  distilling  wine; 
Drink  and  smile,  and  learn  to  think, 
That  we  were  born  to  smile  and  drink. 
Rose !  them  art  the  sweetest  flower, 
That  ever  drank  the  amber  shower  5 
Rose !  thou  art  the  fondest  child 
Of  dimpled  Spring,  the  wood-nymph  wild ! 
Even  the  Gods,  who  walk  the  sky, 
Are  amorous  of  thy  scented  sigh. 
Cupid,  too,  in  Paphian  shades, 

ir  with  rosy  fillets  braids, 
When  with  the  blushing  sister  Graces, 
The  wanton,  winding  dance  he  traces. — 
Then  bring  me,  showers  of  roses  bring, 
And  shed  them  o'er  me  while  I  sing ; 
Or,  while,  great  Bacchus,  round  thy  shrine, 
Wreathing  my  brow  with  rose  and  vine, 
I  lead  some  bright  nymph  through  the  dance, 
Commingling  soul  with  every  glance.       / 


AGE. 

OFT  am  I  by  the  women  told, 
"Poor  Anacreon!  thou  grow'st  old  ; 
Look!  how  thy  hairs  are  falling  all; 
Poor  Anacreon,  how  they  fall!'' — 
Whether  I  grow  old  or  no, 
By  the  effects  I  do  not  know ; 
But  this  I  know,  without  being  told, 
•ne  tf>  live,  if  I  grow  old; 

i.ort  pleasures  now  to  take, 
Of  little  life  the  be-t  tn  make, 
And  manage  widely  the  last  stake. 


SPRI 

DKHOLD  the  y<>ui  y  Spring, 

i ted  wing; 

While  virgin  Graces,  warm  with  .May. 
Fling  ro:.i-s  o'er  her  dewy  way. 
The  murmuring  !)ill"W-  «f  the  deep 
Have  'ito  >ilent 

AIL!  mark !  the  flittinj  lave 

Their  plumes  in  the  relleeting  wave; 


While  cranes  from  hoary  winter  fly, 
To  ilutter  in  a  kinder  sky. 
N«iw  the  genial  star  of  day 
Dissolves  the  murky  clouds  away; 
And  cultured  field  and  winding  streajg,. 
Are  freshly  glittering  in  his  beam. 

Now  the  earth  prolific  swells 
With  leafy  buds  and  flowery  bells ; 
Gemming  shoots  the  olive  twine, 
Clusters  bright  festoon  the  vine; 
All  along  the  branches  creeping, 
Through  the  velvet  foliage  peeping, 
Little  infant  fruits  we  see 
Nursing  into  luxury. 


THE  GRASSHOPPER. 
HAPPY  insect!  what  can  be 
In  happiness  compar'd  to  thee  ? 
Fed  with  nourishment  divine, 
The  dewy  morning's  gentle  wine!  « 

Nature  waits  upon  thee  still, 
And  thy  verdant  cup  does  fill ; 
'Tis  filled  wherever  thou  dost  tread, 
Nature's  self's  thy  Ganymede. 
Thou  dost  drink,  and  dance,  and  sing;  • 

Happier  than  the  happiest  king! 
All  the  fields  which  thou  dost  see, 
All  the  plants  belong  to  thee ; 
All  that  summer  hours  produce ;        • 
Fertile  made  with  early  juice. 
Man  for  thee  does  sow  and  plough; 
Farmer  he,  and  landlord  thou  ! 
Thou  dost  innocently  joy ; 
Nor  does  thy  luxury  destroy ; 
The  shepherd  gladly  heareth  thee, 
More  harmonious  than  he. 
Thee  country-hinds  with  gladness  hear, 
Prophet  of  the  ripen'd  year! 
Thee  Phoebus  loves,  and  does  inspire ; 
Phcebus  is  himself  thy  sire. 
To  thee,  of  all  things  upon  earth, 
Life's  no  longer  than  thy  mirth. 
Happy  insect,  happy,  thou 
Dost  neither  age  nor  winter  know ; 
But,  when  thou'st  drunk,  and  danc'd  and  sung 
Thy  fill,  the  flowery  leaves  among, 
(Voluptuous  and  wise  withal, 
Epicurean  animal !) — 

I  with  thy  summer  feast, 
Thou  retir'st  to  endless  rest. 


ON  THE  NUMBER  OF  HIS  MISTRESSES. 

IF  thou  canst  number  o'er  to  me . , 

Every  leaf  on  every, tree, 

Or  count  the  ce  tves  that  roar 

,-t  the  billow-beaten  shore, 
Thou  sufficient  skill  hast  proved, 
Thou  shalt  count  the  name-,  I've  loved. 
At  Athens  first,  Minerva's  town, 
Full  five-and-thirty  write  me  down; 
Bnt  oh!  at  Corinth,  rieh  and  fair, 
What  hosts  of  loved  ones  1  had  there! 
For  1.  'lears  the  sway, 

~o  beauteous  sure  as  they! 


52 


ANACREON. 


Next,  my  lovely  Lesbians  tell, 

lonians,  Carians,  those  that  dwell 

In  far-famed  Rhodes — you  may,  in  all, 

The  trifling  sum  two  thousand  call. 

What!  think'st  thou  that  I  yet  have  done? 

Resume  thy  tablets : — One  by  one, 

I'll  count  thee  o'er  my  Syrian  fair ; 

And  Egypt  too  must  claim  a  share ; 

And  fertile  Creta  yet  remains, 

Where  Love  his  empire  still  maintains 

The  dark-eyed  nymphs,  that  shared  my  flame, 

In  Spain,  in  Afric,  shall  I  name  ? 

To  sultry  India's  farthest  pole, 

Whose  dusky  charms  have  fired  my  soul  ? 

CUPID  AND  THE  BEE. 

CUPID  once  upon  a  bed 

Of  roses  laid  his  weary  head ; 

Luckless  urchin,  not  to  see 

Within  the  leaves  a  slumbering  bee ! 

The  bee  awaked — with  anger  wild 

The  bee  awaked,  and  stung  the  child. 

Loud  and  piteous  are  his  cries ; 

To  Venus  quick  he  runs,  he  flies ; 

"  Oh  mother ! — I  am  wounded  through — 

I  die  with  pain — what  shall  I  do  ? 

Stung  by  some  little  angry  thing, 

Some  serpent  on  a  tiny  wing — 

A  bee  it  was— for  once,  I  know, 

I  heard  a  peasant  call  it  so." 

Thus  he  spoke,  and  she  the  while 

Heard  him  with  a  soothing  smile ; 

Then  said  :  "  My  infant,  if  so  much 

Thou  feel  the  little  wild-bee's  touch, 

How  must  the  heart,  ah,  Cupid,  be, 

The  hapless  heart,  that's  stung  by  thee?" 

FOLLY  OF  AVARICE. 
IF  hoarded  gold  possessed  the  power 
To  lengthen  life's  too  fleeting  hour, 
And  purchase  from  the  hand  of  death 
A  little  space,  a  moment's  breath, 
How  I  would  love  the  precious  ore, 
And  every  hour  should  swell  my  store ; 
That  when  Death  came,  with  shadowy  pinion, 
To  waft  me  to  his  black  dominion, 
I  might,  by  bribes,  my  doom  delay, 
And  bid  him  call  another  day. — 
But  since  not  all  earth's  golden  store 
Can  buy  for  us  one  bright  hour  more, 
Why  should  we  vainly  mourn  our  fate, 
Or  sigh  at  life's  uncertain  date  ? 
Nor  wealth  nor  grandeur  can  illume 
The  silent  midnight  of  the  tomb. 
No— give  to  others  hoarded  treasures, — 
Mine  be  the  brilliant  round  of  pleasures  j 
The  goblet  rich,  the  board  of  friends, 
Whose  social  souls  the  goblet  blends; 
And  mine,  while  yet  I've  life  to  live, 
Those  joys  which  love  alone  can  give. 

A  VERNAL  WALK. 
WHEN  Spring  adorns  the  dewy  scene, 
How  sweet  to  walk  the  velvet  green, 


And  hear  the  west-wind's  gentle  sighs, 
As  o'er  the  gentle  mead  it  flies ! 
How  sweet  to  mark  the  pouting  vine, 
Ready  to  burst  in  tears  of  wine  ; 
And  with  some  maid,  who  breathes  but  love, 
To  walk,  at  noontide,  through  the  grove, 
Or  sit  in  some  cool,  green  recess, — 
Oh,  is  not  this  true  happiness  ? 

HAPPY  LIFE. 

FILL  the  bowl  with  rosy  wine ! 
Around  our  temples  roses  twine ! 
And  let  us  cheerfully  awhile 
Like  the  Wine  and  Roses,  smile. 
Crown'd  with  roses,  we  contemn 
Gyges'  golden  diadem. 
To-day  is  ours ;  what  do  we  fear? 
To-day  is  ours  ;  we  have  it  here  : 
Let's  treat  it  kindly,  that  it  may 
Wish,  at  least,  with  us  to  stay. 
Let's  banish  business,  banish  sorrow  j 
To  the  gods  belongs  to-morrow. 

TO  HIS  MISTRESS. 

SAD  Niobe  on  Phrygian  shore, 

Was  turned  to  marble  by  despair  ; 
And  hapless  Progne  learned  to  soar . 

On  swallow's  wings,  through  liquid  air. 
But  I  would  be  a  mirror, 

So  thou  may'st  pleased  behold  me ; 
Or  robe,  with  close  embraces 

About  thy  limbs  to  fold  me. 
A  crystal  fount  to  lave  thee ; 

Sweet  oils  thy  hair  to  deck, 
A  zone  to  press  thy  bosom, 

Or  pearl  to  gem  thy  neck. 
Or  might  I  worship  at  thy  feet, 

A  sandal  for  thy  feet  I'd  be, 
Ev'n  to  be  trodden  on  were  sweet, 

If  trodden  on  by  thee. 

ON  TIMOCRITUS. 

TIMOCIUTUS  adorns  this  humble  grave — 
Mars  spares  the  coward,  but  destroys  the  brave. 


ON  CLEANOR. 

THEE  too,  Cleanor,  strong  desire  laid  low — 
Desire,  that  wretched  exiles  only  know, 
Of  thy  loved  native  'land.     The  tyrant  sway 
Of  Winter  had  no  force  to  make  thee  stay : 
Thy  fatal  hour  was  come ;  and,  tempest-sped, 
The  wild  waves  closed  around  thy  cherish'd  head. 


CONVIVIAL. 

NE'ER  shall  that  man  my  comrade  be, 

Or  drink  a  generous  glass  with  me, 

Who,  o'er  his  bumpers,  brags  of  scars, 

Of  noisy  broils  and  mournful  wars. 

But  welcome  thou,  congenial  soul, 

And  share  my  purse  and  drain  my  bowl, 

Who  canst,  in  social  knot,  combine 

The  Muse,  Good-humour,  Love,  and  Wine. 


SIMONIDES. 


[Bora  53&-Died  467,  B.  C.J 


SIMOITIDES,  "the  wise  and  divine,"  (as  he  is 
called  by  Plato,)  was  the  son  of  Leopres,  and  a 
native  of  Ceos,  where  he  presided  over  a  school 
for  the  instruction  of  the  Tragic  Chorus.  He 
afterwards  removed  to  Syracuse,  where  he  was 
high  in  favour  with  King  Hiero,  and  is  said  to 
have  died  in  the  ninety-first  year  of  his  age.  To 
him  is  attributed  the  invention,  or,  at  least,  the 
establishment  of  the  Funeral  Elegy.  But  it  was 
for  his  Epigrams,  written  chiefly  on  those  who 
fell  in  battle  against  the  Persians,  that  he  was 
most  renowned.  These  are  all  characterized, 
(as  Mr.  Coleridge  truly  says,)  "by  force,  down- 
rightness,  and  terse  simplicity — otyeteiu — in  the 
highest  degree  of  any  to  be  found  in  the  Antho- 


logy." In  one  of  them,  (that  of  "  the  three  hundred 
who  died  at  Thermopylae") — he  bore  away  the 
prize  from  ^Eschylus. 

An  anecdote  has  been  related  of  him  by  Cicero, 
that,  having  found  and  buried  the  corpse  of  some 
unknown*person  washed  up  by  the  sea,  and  being 
afterwards  about  to  embark  on  a  voyage,  he  was 
warned  by  a  vision  of  the  dead  man  to  postpone 
it,  lest  he  should  suffer  shipwreck.  He  obeyed 
the  warning  and  stayed  at  home,  while  those, 
who  sailed  without  him,  were  shipwrecked  and 
lost. 

Our  poet  is  not  to  be  confounded  with  his  re- 
lative and  namesake,  the  author  of  a  satiric  poem 
on  Woman.* 


ON  ARCHEDICE,  THE  DAUGHTER  OF 

HIPPIAS. 

DAUGHTER  of  him,  who  ruled  the  Athenian  plains, 
This  honoured  urn  Archedice  contains ; 
Of  tyrants  mother,  daughter,  sister,  wife, 
Her  soul  was  humble,  and  unstained  her  life. 

ON  TIMOCREON  OF  RHODES. 

AFTER  cramming,  and  swilling,  and  damning 

my  neighbours, 
I,  Timocreon  of  Rhodes,  here  repose  from  my 

labours. 

ON  MEGISTIAS  THE  SOOTHSAYER, 

WHO   PERISHED   WITH  LEONIDAS  AT   THE  PASS 
OF  THERMOPYLAE. 

THIS  tomb  records  Megistias'  honoured  name, 
Who  bravely  fighting  in  the  ranks  of  fame, 

Fell  by  the  Persians,  near  Sperchius'  tide. 
Both  past  and  future  well  the  prophet  knew ; 
And  yet,  though  death  was  open  to  his  view, 

He  chose  to  perish  at  his  general's  side. 


ON  THOSE  WHO  FELL  AT  THERMOPYLAE. 

IJT  dark  Thermopylae  they  lie ; 

Oh  death  of  glory  thus  to  die ! 

Their  tomb  an  altar  is,  their  name 

A  mighty  heritage  of  fame: 

Their  dirge  is  triumph;  cankering  rust, 

And  time,  that  turneth  all  to  dust, 


*  He  wrote  an  apologue  on  women,  in  which  he  repre- 
sents them  as  having  been  formed  from  elements  and 
animals  of  supposed  correspondent  natures. 


That  tomb  shall  never  waste  nor  hide, — 
The  tomb  of  warriors  true  and  tried. 
The  full- voiced  praise  of  Greece  around 
Lies  buried  in  that  sacred  mound ; 
Where  Sparta's  king,  Leonidas, 
In  death  eternal  glory  has. 

On  the  Same. 
GREATLY  to  die,  if  this  be  glory's  height, 

For  the  fair  meed  we  own  our  fortune  kind ; 
For  Greece  and  Liberty  we  plunged  to  night, 

And  left  a  never-dying  name  behind. 

On  the  Same* 

Go,  stranger,  and  to  Lacedaemon  tell, 
That  here,  obedient  to  her  laws,  we  fell. 

Another  translation  of  the  Same. 

STRANGER,  to  Sparta  say,  that  here  we  rest 
In  death,  obedient  to  her  high  behest. 

Another. 

Go,  tell  the  Spartans,  thou  who  passest  by, 
That  here,  obedient  to  their  laws  we  lie. 


*  Q  |fif',  ayytfottv  AaxtSai/jiovioif,  oft,  iffie 


tots  xfivuv  pjjjucwt 
Christopher  North,  in  one  of  his  delightful  articles  on 
the  Greek  Anthology,  has  given  us  no  less  than  twenty- 
three  translations  of  this  celebrated  epitaph,  which  he 
thus  prefaces  :  "The  oldest  and  best  inscription  is  that 
on  the  altar-tomb  of  the  Three  Hundred.  Do  you  re- 
member it?  Here  it  Is—  the  Greek—  with  three  Latin 
and  eighteen  English  versions.  Start  not:  it  is  but  two 
lines—  and  all  Greece,  for  centuries,  had  them  by  heart. 
She  forgot  them,  and  'Greece  was  living  Greece  no 
more.'  "—Blackwood,  Vol.  xxxiv,  p.  970. 

E2  53 


54 


SIMONIDES. 


ON  CIMOIi'S  LAND  AND  SEA  VICTORY. 

NE'ER  since  the  olden  time,  when  Asia  stood 
First  torn  from  Europe  by  the  ocean-flood, 
Since  horrid  Mars  thus  poured  on  either  shore 
The  storm  of  battle  and  the  wild  uproar, 
Hath  Man  by  land  and  sea  such  glory  won, 
Ne'er  seen  such  deeds,  as  thou,  this  day,  hast 

done. 
By   land,   the   Medes   in   thousands   press    the 

ground ; 

By  sea,  an  hundred  Tyrian  ships  are  drown'd 
With  all  their  martial  host ;  while  Asia  stands 

Deep  groaning  by,  and  wrings  her  helpless  hands. 

• 

ON  THOSE  WHO  FELL  AT  EURYMEDON. 

THESE  by  the  streams  of  famed  Eurymedon 
Their  short,  but  brilliant,  race  of  life  have  run ; 
In  winged  ships  and  on  the  embattled  field 
Alike,  they  forced  the  Median  bows  to  yield, 
Breaking  their  foremost  ranks.     Now  here  they 

lie, 
Their  names  inscribed  on  rolls  of  victory. 

THE  UNCERTAINTY  OF  LIFE. 

THERE'S  naught  on  earth  but  flits  or  fades  away, 
And  well  indeed  the  Chian  bard  might  say: — 
"  The  race  of  Men  is  as  the  race  of  leaves !" 
Yet  who — though  many  an   ear  this  truth  re- 
ceives,— 

Imprints  it  on  his  heart  ?   For  Hope's  fond  tongue 
Can  dupe  the  old,  as  it  has  dup'd  the  young. 
Oh,  as  we  tread  on  Youth's  unfolding  flowers, 
What  wild,  impracticable  schemes  are  ours ! 
Oh,  how  we  chase  the  shadows,  as  they  fly; 
No  dread,  midst  health,  of  pain  or  troubles  nigh, 
No  thought,  that  Man  is  born  to  suffer  and  to  die. 
Fools!  dreamers!  not  to  know  how   small  the 

span 

Of  youth  and  life  allowed  to  mortal  man ! 
But  thou, — let  wiser  thoughts  thy  soul  employ, 
Nor  fear,  while  life  endures,  life's  pleasures  to 
enjoy.* 


ON  ANACREON. 

THE  deathless  Bard,  to  every  Muse  so  dear, 
Lies  buried,  in  his  native  Teos,  here — 
Ariacreon — whose  lays,  all  lays  above, 
Breathed  of  the  Graces,  breathed  of  every  Love. 
And  now  by  Lethe's  streams,  in  realms  of  night, 
He  sighs;  but  'tis  not  for  the  sun's  sweet  light, — 
'Tis  for  the  graceful  loves  he  left  behind, — 
Megistia  fair,  and  Smerdia  ever  kind. 
And  still  his  strains  in  honied  accents  flow, 
Nor  sleeps  his  lyre  amongst  the  shades  below. 


*  Contrast  with  the  above  Elegy  Dr.  Doddridge's  para- 
phrase of  "Dum  vivimus  vivamus." 

"Live  while  you  live"— the  Epicure  will  say— 
"And  give  to  pleasure  every  passing  day  :" 
"Live  while  you  live" — the  sacred  Preacher  cries — 
"And  give  to  God  each  moment  as  it  flies :" 
Lord,  in  my  views,  let  both  united  be — 
I  live  to  pleasure,  while  I  live  to  Thee  ! 


FRAGMENTS. 

i. 

MORTAL,  dost  thou  dare  to  say, 
What  may  chance  another  day  ? 
Or  thy  fellow  mortal  seeing, 
Circumscribe  his  term  of  being? 
Swifter  than  the  insect's  wings 
Is  the  change  of  mortal  things. 


WHATE'ER  of  virtue  or  of  power, 
Or  good,  or  great,  we  vainly  call, 

Each  moment  eager  to  devour, 
One  vast  Charybdis  swallows  all. 

in. 

THE  first  of  human  joys  is  Health ; 
Next,  Beauty ;  and  then,  honest  Wealth ; 
The  fourth,  youth's  fond  delights  to  prove 
With  those — [but  most  with  Her] — we  love. 

IV. 

HUMAN  strength  is  unavailing; 
Boastful  tyranny  unfailing ; 
All  in  life  is  care  and  labour ; 
And  our  unrelenting  neighbour, 
Death,  for  ever  hovering  round ; 
Whose  inevitable  wound, 
When  he  comes  prepar'd  to  strike, 
Good  and  bad  will  feel  alike. 


DANAE. 

WHEN  the  wind,  resounding  high, 
Blustered  from  the  northern  sky, 
When  the  waves,  in  stronger  tide, 
Dashed  against  the  vessel's  side, 
Her  care-worn  cheek  with  tears  bedewed, 
Her  sleeping  infant  Daniie  viewed  ; 
And,  trembling  still  with  new  alarms, 
Around  him  cast  a  mother's  arms. 
"  My  child,  what  wrongs,  what  woes,  are 

mine ! 

But  thy  young  limbs  in  sleep  recline. 
In  this  poor  nook  all  sad  and  dark, 
While  lightnings  play  around  our  bark, 
Thy  quiet  bosom  only  knows 
The  heavy  sigh  of  deep  repose. — 
The  howling  wind,  the  raging  sea, 
No  terror  can  excite  in  thee ; 
The  angry  surges  wake  no  care, 
That  burst  above  thy  long  deep  hair : 
But  couhTst  thou  feel  what  I  deplore, 
Then  would  I  bid  thee  sleep  the  more ! 
Sleep  on,  sweet  boy ;  still  be  the  deep ; — 
Oh,  could  I  lull  my  woe  to  sleep ! 
Jove,  let  thy  mighty  hand  o'erthrow 
The  baffled  malice  of  my  foe ; 
And  may  this  child,  in  future  years, 
Avenge  his  mother's  wrongs  and  tears !" 

Another  translation  of  the  Same. 
WHILST,  around  her  lone  ark  sweeping, 
Wailed  the  winds  and  waters  wild, 


SIMONIDES. 


55 


Her  young  cheeks  all  wan  with  weeping, 

Daniie  clasped  her  sleeping  child  ; 
And  "alas"  (cried  she)  "my  dearest, 

What  deep  wrongs,  what  woes,  are  mine ; 
But  nor  wrongs  nor  woes  thou  fearest, 

In  that  sinless  rest  of  thine. 
Faint  the  moonbeams  break  above  thee, 

And,  within  here,  all  is  gloom; 
But  fast  wrapt  in  arms  that  love  thee, 

Little  reck'st  thou  of  our  doom. 
Not  the  rude  spray,  round  thee  flying, 

Has  e'en  damped  thy  clustering  hair, — 
On  thy  purple  mantlet  lying, 

0  mine  Innocent,  my  Fair. 
Yet,  to  thee  were  sorrow  sorrow, 

Thou  would'st  lend  thy  little  ear, 
And  this  heart  of  thine  might  borrow, 

Haply  yet  a  moment's  cheer. 
But,  no ;  slumber  on,  Babe,  slumber ; 

Slumber,  Ocean-waves ;  and  you, 
My  dark  troubles,  without  number, — 

0,  that  ye  would  slumber  too ! 
Though  with  wrongs  they've  brimmed  my 
chalice, 

Grant,  Jove,  that,  in  future  years, 
This  Boy  may  defeat  their  malice, 

And  avenge  his  Mother's  tears." 

THE  MISERIES  OF  LIFE. 

JOVE  rules  the  world,  and,  with  resistless  sway, 
Demands  to-morrow  what  he  gave  to-day ; 
In  vain  our  thoughts  to  future  scenes  we  cast, 
Or  only  read  them  darkly  in  the  past; 
For  Hope  enchanting  points  to  new  delights, 
And  charms  with  dulcet  sounds  and  heavenly 

sights ; 

Expecting  yet  some  fancied  bliss  to  share, 
We  grasp  at  bubbles,  that  dissolve  in  air, 
And  some  a  day,  and  some  whole  years,  await 
The  whims  and  chances  of  capricious  fate ; 
Nor  yet  the  lovely  visions  are  possest — 
Another  year  remains  to  make  them  blest, 
While  age  steals  on  to  sweep  their  dreams  away, 
And  grim  diseases  hover  round  their  prey; 
Or  war,  with  iron  hold,  unlocks  the  grave, 
Devouring  myriads  of 'the  young  and  brave. 
Some  on  the  billows  rocked,  that  roll  on  high, 
Cling  to  the  plank  in  vain,  and  wasted  die; 
Some  by  the  halter  lay  their  miseries  down 
And  rush,  unsummoned,  to  the  world  unknown. 
Our  very  sweets  possess  a  secret  harm, 
Teem  with  distress,  and  poison  while  they  charm. 
The  fatal  Sisters  hover  round  our  birth, 
And  dash  with  bitter  dregs  our  cup  on  earth: 
Yet  cease  to  murmur  at  thy  fate  in  vain, 
And  in  oblivion  steep  the  shaft  of  pain. 

ON  ORTHRYADES. 

O  NATIVE  Sparta!  when  we  met  the  host, 

In  equal  combat,  from  the  Inachian  c< 

Thy  brave  three  hundred  m:\vr  turu'd    • 

But  where  our  feet  t,  'here  we  died. 

The  words,  in  blood,  which  brave  Orthryades 

Wrought  on  his  herald  shield,  were  only  these — 


"Thyrea  is  Lacedamion's!" — If  there  fled 
One  Argive  from  the  slaughter,  be  it  said, 
Of  old  Adrastus  he  hath  learn'd  to  fly ; — 
We  count  it  death  to  falter, — not  to  die. 


ON  A  STATUE  OF  CUPID  BY  PRAXITELES. 

WELL  has  the  sculptor  felt  what  he  exprest; 
He  drew  the  living  model  from  his  breast. 
Will  not  his  Phryne  the  rare  gift  approve, 
Me  for  myself  exchanging,  love  for  love "? 
Lost  are  my  fabled  bow  and  magic  dart; 
But,  only  gazed  upon,  I  win  the  heart. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HIPPARCHUS. 

FAIR  was  the  light,  that  brighten'd  as  it  grew, 
Of  Freedom,  on  Athena's  favour'd  land, 

When  him,  the  Tyrant,  bold  Harmodius  slew, 
Link'd  with  Aristogeiton,  hand  in  hand. 


VIRTUE. 

ENCIRCLED  by  her  heaven-bright  band, 
On  a  rough  steep  doth  Virtue  stand, 

And  he,  who  hopes  to  win  the  goal, 
To  Manhood's  height  who  would  aspire, — 
Must  spurn  each  sensual,  low  desire, 
Must  never  falter,  never  tire, 

But  ox,  with  sweat-drops  of  the  soul.* 


ON  HIS  PRESERVATION  FROM  DEATH 
BY  AN  APPARITION. 

BEHOLD  the  Bard's  preserver!  from  the  grave 
The  Spectre  came,  the  living  man  to  save. 


INSCRIBED  ON  A  CENOTAPH. 

0  CLOUD-CAPT  Geraneia,  rock  unblest! 

Would  thou  had'st  rear'd  far  hence  thy  haughty 

crest, 

By  Tanais  wild,  or  wastes  where  Ister  flows; 
Nor  look'd  on  Sciron  from  thy  silent  snows ! 
A  cold,  cold  corpse  he  lies  beneath  the  wave, 
This  tomb  speaks,  tenantless,  his  ocean-grave. 


*  Hesiod  has  a  similar  sentiment  in  his  "  Works  and 
Days." 

•Where  Virtue  dwells,  the  gods  have  placed  before 
The  dropping  sweat  that  springs  from  every  pore  ; 
And  ere  the  feet  can  reach  her  bright  abode, 
Long,  rugged,  dark  th'  ascent,  and  rough  the  road  : 
The  ridge  once  gain'd,  the  path,  so  hard  of  late, 
Runs  easy  on,  and  level  to  the  gate.— Elton. 

So  also  Spenser— 

In  woods,  in  waves,  in  wars,  She  wont  to  dwell 
And  will  be  found  with  poril  and  with  pain, 
Necan  the  man,  who  moulds  in  idle  cell, 
Unto  her  happy  mansion  e'er  attain  ; 
Before  her  L'ate  Hi'.'li  (Jrxl  did  sireat  ordain 
Ami  wakeful  watches  ever  to  abide  ; 
But  easy  is  tin;  way  ami  passage  plain 
To  Pleasure's  palace  ; — it  may  soon  be  spied, 
And,  day  and  night,  her  doors  to  all  stand  open  wide. 
Faerie  Queen,  B.  ii.  c.  3. 


TIMOCREON   OF  RHODES, 


[About  471  B.  C.] 


TIMOCREON-,  the  Lyric  Poet  and  Satirist,  is 
classed  by  Suidas  (but,  as  Mr.  Clinton  thinks, 
without  sufficient  reason,)  among  the  writers 
of  the  old  Comedy,  and  by  Plutarch  and 
Athenoeus,  among  the  Pentathletes,  as  well  as 


RICHES. 

BLIKDED  Plutus !  didst  thou  dwell 
Nor  in  land  nor  fathom'd  sea{ 


Poets,  of  his  age.  For  his  satires  on  The- 
mistocles  and  Simonides  he  drew  down  upon 
himself  the  vengeance  of  the  latter  in  an 
epitaph,  which  the  reader  will  find  in  page  53 
of  this  volume. 


But  only  in  the  depths  of  hell, — 
God  of  riches !     Safe  from  thee, 
Man  himself  might  happy  be. 


^SCHYLUS. 


[Born  521,  Died  456,  B.  C.] 


,/ESCHYLTJS,  the  son  of  a  noble  and  distin- 
guished family,  was  born  at  Eleusis,  in  Attica. 
At  the  age  of  twenty-five  he  made  his  first  ap- 
pearance as  a  Tragedian,  and,  a  few  years  after, 
became  yet  more  distinguished  by  the  part,  which, 
with  his  brothers,  Cynegeirus  and  Ameinias,  he 
bore  in  the  victories  of  Marathon,  Salamis,  and 
Platcea. 

For  not  alone  he  nursed  the  poet's  flame, 

But  reached  from  Virtue's  hand  the  patriot  steel. 

It  was  at  this  time  he  rose  to  the  height  of  his 
poetic  fame,  and,  besides  bearing  off  the  first 
prize  in  Tragedy,  introduced  improvements  into 
the  Greek  Drama,  which  earned  for  him  in  after 
days,  the  merited  appellation  of  "  Father  of  Tra- 
gedy." He  was  the  first  to  bring  two  or  more 
persons  on  the  stage  with  distinct  parts — to  add 
appropriate,  though  not  movable,  scenery — and 
to  arrange  the  drapery  of  the  performers  with 
such  taste,  elegance,  and  propriety,  as  to  have 
furnished  models,  for  habits,  even  to  the  ministers 
of  religion. 


FROM  THE  CHAINED  PROMETHEUS. 

"THE  Chained  Prometheus"  is  a  representation 
of  constancy  under  suffering;  of  a  god  exiled 
from  his  fellow-gods,  and  doomed  to  all  the  pen- 
alties of  mortality,  as  a  reward  "  for  his  disposi- 
tion to  be  tender  to  mankind."  The  scene  lies 
on  a  desolate  and  savage  rock  of  the  ocean ;  and 
56 


The  latter  days  of  j^Eschylus  did  not  pass 
without  their  sorrows.  He  was  accused  of  hav- 
ing violated  the  sanctity  of  the  Eleusinian  mys- 
teries in  his  tragedy  of  the  Furies,  and,  though 
absolved  from  the  charge  through  the  intercession 
of  his  brother  Cynegeirus,  (who  displayed  to  the 
enraged  multitude  the  stump  of  the  arm  he  had  lost 
at  Marathon,)  he  retired  from  Athens,  bequeath- 
ing his  tragedies  and  his  fame  to  posterity.  His 
remaining  years  were  spent  at  the  court  of  King 
Hiero,  in  Sicily,  where  he  died  in  the  81st  Olym- 
piad, (450  B.  C.)  and  in  the  sixty-ninth  year  of 
his  age.  Out  of  more  than  seventy  tragedies 
which  he  composed,  seven  only  have  come  down 
to  us. 


EPITAPH  FOR  HIMSELF. 

Athenian  ^Eschylus,  Euphorion's  son, 
Buried  in  Geta's  fields  these  lines  declare ; 

His  deeds  are  registered  at  Marathon, 
Known  to  the  deep-haired  Mede,  who  met  him  there. 


the  drama  opens  with  Vulcan,  under  the  direc- 
tion of  Strength  and  Force,  chaining  their  captive 
to  it. 

Strength.  At  length  then  to  the  wide  Earth's 

extreme  bounds, 

To  Scythia  are  we  come,  those  pathless  wilds 
Where  human  footstep  never  marked  the  ground. 


AESCHYLUS. 


57 


Now,  Vulcan,  to  thy  task;  at  Jcve's  command 
Fix  to  these  high-projecting  rocks  this  vain 
Artificer  of  man ;  each  massy  link 
Draw  close,  and  bind  his  adamantine  chains. 
Thy  radiant  pride,  the  fiery  flame,  that  lends 
Its  aid  to  every  art,  he  stole,  and  bore 
The  gift  to  mortals ;  for  which  bold  offence 
The  gods  assign  him  this  just  punishment, 
That  he  may  learn  to  reverence  the  power 
Of  Jove,  and  moderate  his  love  to  man. 

Vulc.  Stern  Powers,  ye  have  executed   your 

high  mission, 

Nor  found  resistance.    My  less  hardy  mind, 
Averse  from  violence,  shrinks  back  and  dreads 
To  bind  a  kindred  god  to  this  wild  cliff, 
Exposed  to  every  storm :  but  strong  constraint 
O'errules  me :  Jove's  commands  must  be  obeyed. 
Hiejh-thoughted  son  of  truth-directing  Themis, 
Thee  with  indissoluble  chains  must  I, 
Perforce,  now  rivet  to  this  savage  rock, 
Where  neither  human  voice  nor  human  forrri 
Shall  meet  thine  eye ;  but  where,  parched  in  the 

sun, 
Thy  bloom  shall  wither ;  where  thou'lt  wish  for 

night 

To  pale  day's  piercing  heats ;  and  then  again 
For  day,  to  chase  the  hoar-frosts  of  the  night, 
Deeming  each  present  evil  still  the  greatest. 
Nor  lives  there  yet,  on  earth,  the  power  that  can 
Relieve  thee ;  such  alas !  the  fruits  of  thy 
Philanthropy,  who,  a  god  thyself,  hast  braved 
Thy  fellow-gods,  and,  counter  to  their  laws, 
Made  man  a  partner  in  the  wealth  of  heaven. 
Therefore  the  joyless  station  of  this  rock, 
Unsleeping,  unreclining,  shalt  thou  keep, 
And  many  a  groan,  and  many  a  loud  lament, 
Throw  out  in  vain,  nor  move  the  rigorous  breast 
Of  Jove ;  for  upstart  power  is  always  harsh. 
Strength.  No  more :  why  these  delays,  this  fool- 
ish pity? 

Dost  thou  not  hate  a  god  by  gods  abhorred, 
Who  prostitutes  thy  richest  gift  on  man? 

Vulc.  Strong  are  the  ties  of  kin  and  old  ac- 
quaintance. 

Strength.  Well;  but  to  disobey  thy  Sire's  com- 
mands, 
Darest  thou   do   that?     Is   not  that  fear  more 

strong? 

Vulc.  Soft  pity  never  touched  thy  ruthless  mind. 
Strength.  Will  thy  vain  pity  bring  relief?  For- 
bear, 

Tor  waste  thy  breath  on  what  avails  him  nought. 
Vulc.  0,  that  my  hand,  for  once,  had  lost  its 

cunning! 
Strength.  Why  so  ?  Or  how's  thy  art  to  blame 

in  this? 
Vulc.  Yet  would  I,  it  had  fall'n  on  some  one 

else. 
Strength.  All  have  their  lots  appointed,  save  to 

reign 
In  heaven ;  for  that  is  Jove's  prerogative. 

Vulc.  I  know  it,  nor  have  wherewith  to  gain- 
say you. 
Strength.  Then  quick,  on  with  his  fetters,  that 

the  Father 
May  find  no  cause  to  tax  you  with  delay. 


Vulc.  The  manacles  are  ready;  thou  maystsee 

them. 
Strength.  Bind  them  around  his  hands ;  use  all 

your  might, 

Strike,  nail  them  fast,  drive  them  into  the  rock. 
Vulc.  One  arm  is  now  inextricably  fixed. 
Strength.  Clench  then  the  other  as  fast,  that  he 

may  learn 

How  impotent  his  craft  opposed  to  Jove's. 
Vulc.  Thy  miseries,  Prometheus,  I  deplore. 
Strength.  What!  dallying  yet?    Bewailing  still 

the  foes 

Of  Jove  ?  Take  heed  lest  thou  bewail  thyself. 
Vulc.  It  is  a  sight  too  horrible  to  look  on. 
Strength.  I  only  see  a  traitor,  punish'd  as 
His  deeds  deserve.  But  come,  on  with  the  gyves. 
Downwards — with  all  thy  force  enring  his  legs. 
Vulc.  This  too  is  done. 

Strength.  Rivet  it  tighter,  closer. 

Vulc.  Thy  voice  is  harsh  and  rugged  as  thy 

form. 

Strength.  Now  fair  befall  thy  softness !  Yet  up- 
braid not 
My  ruggeder  and  less  malleable  nature. 

Vulc.  Let  us  depart ;  he  is  chained,  past  all 

escape. 
Strength.  Now  triumph  in  thy  insolence ;  now 

steal 

The  glory  of  the  gods  and  bear  the  gift 
To  mortal  man !  Can  man  relieve  thee  now  ? 
Falsely  the  gods  have  called  thee  provident; 
'Twill  need  far  greater  providence  than  thine 
To  escape  the  destiny  which  now  surrounds  thee. 

Prometheus  alone. 

0  Air  divine !  And  ye,  swift-winged  Winds ! 
Ye  River-fountains !  and  ye  countless  smiles 
Of  dimpling  Ocean !  Mother  Earth  !  And  thou, 
Far-piercing  Eye  of  day !  On  you  I  call. 
Witness  what  I,  a  god,  from  gods  endure. 
Behold,  with  what  fierce  pangs,  years  without  end, 
Amerced,  have  I  to  struggle  here ;  such  chains 
Hath  this  new  king  of  gods  devised  for  me. 
Present  and  future,  both,  alas !  I  wail ; 

When  shall  these  woes  have  end?     But  why 

inquire  ? 

Since  clear  before  me  lies  the  Future,  nor 
Can  aught  of  evil,  unforeseen,  betide. 
Then  bear  what  must  be,  nor  wage  war  with 

stern 

Necessity's  unconquerable  power. 
But  to  complain,  or  not  complain,  alike 
Is  unavailable.     For  favours  shown 
To  mortal  man  I  bear  this  weight  of  woe. 
Hid  in  a  hollow  cane  the  fount  of  fire 

1  privately  conveyed,  of  every  art 

The  instructress,  and  best,  noblest  gift  to  man. 
For  this,  this  one  offence,  I  wear  these  chains. 
Woe!  woe! — But  whence  that  sound?  Whence 

yon  sweet  odor 
Soft-stealing  o'er  the  sense? — And  who  comes 

there, 

Divine,  or  mortal,  or  of  hero-race? 
Comes  he  to  this  far  rock,  spectator  of 
My  wretchedness,  or  for  what  other  purpose? 
Behold  me  then  in  chains,  a  wretched  god, 


58 


AESCHYLUS. 


Abhorred  by  Jove,  and  all  who  tread  his  courts, 
For  my  fond  love  of  man.     Ah  me  J  again 
I  hear  a  sound,  as  if  of  birds.     The  air 
Rustles  with  fluttering  pinions :  every  object 
Approaching  me  strikes  terror  on  my  soul. 

Here  the  Daughters  of  the  Ocean,  roused  from 
their  grots  below,  come  to  console  the  Titan,  who, 
induced  by  their  kind  sympathy,  gives  vent  to 
his  feelings,  relates  the  causes  of  his  fall,  and 
endeavours  to  cheer  himself  with  dreams  and 
prophecies  of  the  future.  Then  comes  their 
father,  the  ancient  Oceanus,  who,  advising  sub- 
mission to  Jupiter,  is  dismissed  with  disdain. — 
Left  alone  with  Prometheus,  the  Oceanides  burst 
forth  into  fresh  strains  of  pity. 

"  The  wide  earth  echoes  wailingly ; 

Stately  and  antique  were  thy  fallen  race, 
The  wide  earth  waileth  thee ! 

Lo!  from  the  holy  Asian  dwelling-place, 
Fall  for  a  godhead's  wrongs,  the  mortals'  mur- 
muring tears, 
They  mourn  within  the  Colchian  land, 

The  virgin  and  the  warrior  daughters, 
And  far  remote,  the  Scythian  band, 

Around  the  broad  Mseotian  waters, 
And  they  who  hold  in  Caucasus  their  tower, 

Arabia's  martial  flower 

Hoarse-clamouring  midst  sharp  rows  of  barbed 
spears. 

One  have  I  seen  with  equal  tortures  riven — 
An  equal  god, — in  adamantine  chains 

Ever  and  evermore. 
The  Titan  Atlas,  crush'd,  sustains 

The  mighty  mass  of  mighty  Heaven, 
And  the  whirling  cataracts  roar, 
With  a  chime  to  the  Titan's  groans, 
And  the  depth  that  receives  them  moans; 
And  from  vaults  that  the  earth  are  under. 
Black  Hades  is  heard  in  thunder ; 
While  from  the  founts  of  white-waved   rivers 

flow 
Melodious  sorrows,  wailing  with  his  woe." 

Prom.    It   was   not   pride    that   checked   my 

tongue,  but  thoughts 

Of  my  fallen  state  and  bitter  degradation  ; 
This  cut  me  to  the  heart.     For  who,  like  me, 
Advanced  these  new-fledged  gods.     But  ye 
Know  well  the  tale,  and  so  I'll  not  repeat  it : — 
The  ills  of  man  you've  heard :  I  formed  his  mind, 
And  through  the  cloud  of  barbarous  ignorance 
Diffused  the  beams  of  knowledge.    I  will  speak, 
Not  taxing  them  with  blame,  but  my  own  gifts 
Displaying,  and  benevolence  to  them. 
They  saw  indeed,  they  heard,  but  what  availed 
Or  sight  or  hearing,  all  things  round  them  rolling, 
Like  the  unreal  imagery  of  dreams, 
In  wild  confusion  mixed !     The  lightsome  wall 
Of  finer  masonry,  the  raftered  roof, 
They  knew  not ;  but,  like  ants  still  buried,  delved 
Deep   in    the  earth  and  scooped  their    sunless 

caves. 
Unmarked  the  seasons  ranged,  the  biting  winter, 


The  flower-perfumed  spring,  the  ripening  sum- 
mer 

Fertile  of  fruits.     At  random  all  their  works 
Till  I  instructed  them  to  mark  the  stars, 
Their  rising,  and,  a  harder  science  yet, 
Their    setting.     The    rich   train   of    marshall'd 

numbers 

I  taught  them,  and  the  meet  array  of  letters. 
To  impress  these  precepts  on  their  hearts  I  sent 
Memory,  the  active  mother  of  all  reason. 
I  taught  the  patient  steer  to  bear  the  yoke, 
In  all  his  toils  joint-labourer  with  man. 
By  me  the  harnessed  steed  was  trained  to  whirl 
The  rapid  car,  and  grace  the  pride  of  wealth. 
The  tall  bark,  lightly  bounding  o'er  the  waves, 
I  taught  its  course,  and  winged  its  flying  sail. 
To  man  I  gave  these  arts ;  yet,  wretch  as  I  am, 
So  provident  for  others,  I  want  skill 
To  extricate  myself. 

Chor.  Unseemly  are 

Thy  sufferings,  sprung  from  impotence  of  mind. 
And  fall'n  on  ills,  as  some  unskilful  leach, 
That  sinks  beneath  his  malady,  thy  soul 
Desponds,  nor  seeks  medicinal  relief. 

Prom.  Hear  my  whole  story,  and  you'll  wonder 

more 

What  useful  arts,  what  sciences  I  invented. 
This  first  and  greatest :  when  the  fell  disease 
Preyed  on  the  human  frame,  relief  was  none, 
Nor  healing  drug,  nor  cool-refreshing  draught, 
Nor  pain  assuaging  unguent ;  but  they  pined 
Without  redress,  and  wasted,  till  I  taught  them 
To  mix  the  balmy  medicine,  of  power 
To  chase  each  pale  disease,  and  soften  pain. 
I  taught  the  various  modes  of  prophecy ; 
What  truth  to  dreams  attaches,  what  to  omens, 
Or  casual  sights  that  meet  us  on  the  way ; 
What  birds  portend,  when  to  the  right,  when  to 
The  left,  they  take  their  airy  course. 

******* 
These  arts  I  taught.     And  all  the  secret  treasures 
Deep  buried  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth, 
Brass,  iron,  silver,  gold,  their  use  to  man, 
Let  the  vain  tongue  make  what  high  boasts   it 

may, 

Are  my  inventions  all ;  and,  in  a  word, 
Prometheus  taught  each  useful  art  to  man. 

Chor.  Let  not  thy  love  to  man  o'erleap  the 

bounds 

Of  reason ;  nor  neglect  thy  own  sad  state : 
So  my  fond  hope  suggests  thou  shalt  be  freed 
From  these  base  chains,  nor  less  in  power  than 
Jove. 

Prom.  Not  thus,  it  is  not  in  the  fates,  that  thus 
These  things  should  end  ;  crushed  by  a  thousand 

wrongs, 

A  thousand  woes,  I  shall  escape  these  chains. 
Necessity  is  stronger  far  than  art. 

Chor.  Who  then  is  ruler  of  Necessity  ? 

Prom.  The  triple  Fates  and  unforgetting  Furies. 

Chor.  Must  Jove,  too,  yield  to  their  superior 
power  ? 

Prom.  Even  Jove  cannot  escape  from  destiny. 

Chor.  What  but  eternal  empire,  is  his  fate  ? 

Prom.  Ye  may  not  know  it  now ;  inquires  no 
further. 


^SCHYLUS. 


Chor.  Is  it  of  moment,  that  you  thus  conceal  it  ? 

Prom.  Think  of  some  other  subject ;  'tis  no  time 
For  this,  requiring,  as  it  does,  the  seal 
Of  strictest  secrecy.     By  guarding  it, 
I  may,  one  day,  escape  this  shameful  bondage. 

The  rejoinder  of  the  Chorus  is  singularly  beau- 
tiful ;  but  I  know  of  no  translation  that  has  done 
justice  to,  or  given  us  any  idea  of,  its  charms. 
Mr.  Bulwer  has  only  given  us  six  lines  of  it,  in 
which  is  contrasted  the  present  mournful  strain 
of  the  Chorus  with  that  which  they  had  poured 
"What  time  the  silence  erst  was  broken, 

Around  the  baths,  and  o'er  the  bed 
To  which,  won  well  by  many  a  soft  love-token, 

And  hymned  by  all  thn  music  of  delight, 
Our  ocean-sister,  bright 
Hesione  was  led." 

At  the  end  of  this  choral  song  appears  To, 
driven  about  from  place  to  place,  a  victim  of  the 
same  tyranny  from  which  Prometheus  was  suf- 
fering. Her  bitter  woe  and  despair  are  finely 
contrasted  with  the  stern  spirit  of  Prometheus. 
Her  introduction  gives  rise  to  those  ancestral  and 
traditional  allusions  to  which  the  Qreeks  were  so 
attached.  He  prophesies  of  the  wanderings  to 
which  she  is  still  doomed,  and  the  fate  which,  at 
last,  awaits  her,  connected,  in  some  degree,  with 
his  own,  as  from  her  blood  he  is,  after  the  lapse 
of  many  ages,  to  receive  a  deliverer. — After  the 
departure  of  lo,  Prometheus  renews  his  denunci- 
ations of  Jupiter,  in  the  midst  of  which  Mercury 
arrives,  commands  him  to  disclose  the  nature  of 
the  danger  threatened  to  Jove,  and  how  he  is  to 
prevent  or  avoid  it.  The  Titan  refuses  to  dis- 
close his  secret,  hurls  defiance  at  his  oppressors, 
and,  amidst  storm,  lightning,  and  earthquake,  is 
swallowed  up  in  the  abyss. 

PROMETHEUS CHORUS. 

•Chor.  How !  fear  you  not  to  utter  words  like 

these  1 
Prom.  What  should  /  fear,  by  fate  exempt  from 

death  ? 

Chor.  But  he  may  add  fresh  tortures  to  thy  pain. 
Prom.  Let  him ;  I  am  prepared  to  brave  them 

all. 
Chor.  Wise    they,   who    reverence    the    stern 

powers  of  vi'iip-amv  ! 
Prom.  Go  then,  fawn,  cringe,  fall  down  before 

your  master. 

For  me,  I  value  Jove  at  less  than  nothing. 
Let  him  exert  his  brief  authority, 
And  lord  it  whilst  he  may;  'twill  not  be  long. 
But  see  the  runner-slave  of  this  new  kinu 
Approaches;  what  fresh  tidings  will  he  bring  us  ? 

Enter  MERCURY. 

Mu-r.  To  thee.  old  Sophist,  quintessence  of  gall's 
Black  bitterness,*  offender  of  the  gods, 

•<>aler,  boastful  lavisher  of  gifts 
On  men,  to  thee  would  I  :i  -elf. 

The  Father  bids  thee  say  what  nuptials  these 


Thy  tongue  thus  vaunts,  as  threatening  his  hi-h 

power ; 

And  clearly  say,  couched  in  no  riddling  phrases, 
Each  several  circumstance.  Now,  no  duplicity, 
No  terms  ambiguous ;  such,  you  know  full  well, 
Is  not  the  way  to  pacify  Jove's  anger. 

Prom.  Thou  dost  thy  message  bravely,  and  in 

terms 

Becoming  well  the  sender  and  the  sent. — 
Your  empire  it  is  new  ;  and  you  may  deem 
Its  towers  impregnable ;  but  have  I  not 
Already  seen  two  monarchs  hurled  from  them?* 
And  I  shall  see  a  third,  this  present  lord, 
Fall  with  like  suddenness  and  like  disgrace. 
Think  ye  I  tremble  at  these  new-made  gods  ? 
No;  fear  is  yet  a  stranger  to  my  soul. 
Then  hence ! — the  way  thou  cam'st ! — To  thine 

inquiries 
From  me  thou  wilt  obtain  no  other  answer. 

Merc.  'Twas  insolence  like  this,  which  on  thy 

head 
Drew  down  this  punishment. 

Prom.  My  miseries 

I  would  not  change  for  your  gay  servitude. 
Better  to  serve  here  on  this  earth,  than  be 
Jove's  lacquey.     You  may  call  this  insolence ; 
I  call  it, — paying  you  in  your  own  coin. 

Merc.  You  seem  to  me  delighted  with  your 
woes. 

Pram.  Delighted !  Might  I  see  mine  enemies 
Delighted  thus,  and  thee  amongst  the  rest. 

Merc.  And  why  blame  me  for  thy  calamities  ? 

Prom.  In  a  word,  I  hate  them  all,  these  gods, 

of  whom 
I  have  deserved  so  well,  and  fared  so  badly. 

Merc.  Thou  art  mad. 

Prom.  If  to  detest  my  foes  be  madness, 

It  is  a  malady  that  I  am  proud  of. 

Merc.  Were't  well  with    thee,  thou  wouldst 

not  be  endured. 
Thou'st  given  me  yet  no  answer  for  the  Father. 

Prom.  Did  he  deserve  the  courtesy,  I'd  pay  it. 

Merc.  Why  am  I  checked,  why  rated  as  a  boy  ? 

Prom.  A  boy  thou  art,  yea  simpler  than  a  boy, 
If  thou  hast  hopes  to  be  informed  by  me. 
Not  all  his  tortures,  all  his  arts,  shall  move  me 
To  unlock  my  lips,  till  this  cursed  chain  be  loosed. 
No;  let  him  hurl  his  lightnings,  wing  his  snows, 
Crush  earth  and  skies,  he  moves  not  me  to  tell 

him 
What  force  shall  wrest  the  sceptre  from  his  hand.f 

Merc.  Weigh  well  these  things ;  will  they  un- 
loose thy  chains  ? 

Prom.  Well  have  they  all  been  weighed,  all 
long  considered. 


+  Uranus  dethroned  by  bis  son  Saturn;  and  Saturn 
by  his  son  Jupiter. 

t  Jupiter  was  about  to  marry  Thetis,  the  daughter  of 
Oceanus;  but  it  was  in  the  Fates  that  she  should  have  a 
son  who  was  to  be  greater  than  his  lather.  Prometheus 
alone,  hy  his  divine  foresight,  could  open  the  danger  to 
Jupiter;  but  this  he  refused  to  do,  till  he  should  be  re- 
leased from  the  rock.  After  that  Hercules,  by  permission 
of  Jupiter,  had  slain  the  tormenting  eagle,  and  unbound 
his  chains,  he  disclosed  the  decree  of  the  Fates.  Thetis 
was  then  given  in  marriage  to  Peleus,  and  the  prophecy 
was  accomplished  in  the  birth  of  Achilles. 


60 


JESCHYLUS. 


Merc.  Subdue,  vain  fool,  subdue  thine  insolence, 
And  let  thy  miseries  teach  thee  juster  thoughts. 
Prom.  Thy  counsels,  like  the  waves,  that  dash 

against 

The  rock's  firm  base,  disquiet,  but  not  move,  me. 
Conceive  not  of  me,  that,  through  fear  what  Jove 
May,  in  his  rage,  inflict,  my  fixed  disdain 
Shall  e'er  relent,  e'er  suffer  my  strong  mind 
To  sink  in  womanish  softness,  to  fall  prostrate, 
Beseeching  him  to  free  me  from  these  chains. 
Merc.  I  see  thou  art  implacable,  unsoftened 
By  all  the  mild  entreaties  I  can  urge. 
But,  like    a   young   steed  reined,  that   proudly 

struggles 

And  champs  his  iron  curb,  thy  haughty  soul 
Abates  not  of  its  unavailing  fierceness. 
But  pride,  disdaining  to  be  ruled  by  reason, 
Sinks    weak    and    valueless. —  Now    mark    me 

well  :— 

If  not  obedient  to  my  words,  a  storm, 
A  fiery  and  inevitable  deluge, 
Shall  burst  in  three-fold  vengeance  on  thy  head. 
First  his  fierce  thunder,  winged  with  lightning 

flames, 

Shall  rend  this  rugged  rock,  and  cover  thee 
With  hideous  ruin :  long  time  shalt  thou  lie 
Astonied  in  its  rifted  sides,  till  dragged 
Again  to  light ;  then  shall  the  Bird  of  Jove, 
The  ravening  eagle,  lured  by  scent  of  blood, 
Mangle  thy  body,  and  each  day  returning, 
An  uninvited  guest,  plunge  his  fell  beak 
And  feast  and  riot  on  thy  blackening  liver. 
Expect  no  pause,  no  respite,  till  some  god 
Comes  to  relieve  thy  pains,  willing  to  pass 
The  dreary  realms  of  ever-during  night, 
The  dark  descent  of  Tartarus  profound. 
Weigh  these  things  well ;  this  is  no  fiction  drest 
In  vaunting  terms,  but  words  of  serious  truth. 
The  mouth  of  Jove  knows  not  to  utter  falsehood, 
But  what  he  speaks  is  fate.     Be  cautious  then ; 
Regard  thyself;  nor  let  o'er  weening  pride 
Disdain  the  prudent  counsels  that  I  give  thee. 
Chor.  Nothing  amiss  we  deem  his  words,  but 

fraught 

With  reason,  who  but  wills  thee  to  relax 
Thy  haughty  spirit,  and  by  prudent  counsels 
Pursue  thy  peace.    Be  then  advised;  what  shame 
For  one  so  wise  to  persevere  in  error ! 

Prom.  All  this  I  knew,  ere  he  declared  his 

message : 

That  enemy  from  enemy  should  suffer 
Extreme  indignity,  is  nothing  strange. 
Let  him  then  work  his  horrible  pleasure  on  me  ; 
Wreathe  his  black  curling  flames,  tempest  the  air 
With  vollied  thunders  and  wild-warring  winds, 
Rend  from  its  roots  the  firm  earth's  solid  base, 
Heave  from  the  roaring  main  its  boisterous  waves, 
And  dash  them  to  the  stars ;  me  let  him  hurl, 
Caught  in  the  fiery  tempest,  to  the  gloom 
Of  deepest  Tartarus  ;  not  all  his  power 
Can  quench  the  setherial  breath  of  life  within  me. 
Merc.  Such  ravings,  such  wild  boasts,  one  might 

expect 
From  moon-struck  madmen. — What  is  this  but 

madness  ? 
But  you,  whose  gentle  hearts  with  social  sorrow 


Melt  at  his  sufferings,  from  this  place  remove, 
Lest  the  tempestuous  roar  of  Jove's  fierce  thunder 
O'ertake  you,  and  confound  your  prison'd  senses. 

Chor.  To  other  themes,  to  other  counsels,  turn 
Thy  voice,  where  pleaded  reason  may  prevail: 
This  is  ill-urged,  and  may  not  be  admitted. 
Would'st  thou  solicit  us  to  deeds  of  baseness  ? 
Whate'er  betides,  with  him  will  we  endure  it. 
The  vile  betrayer  I  have  learned  to  hate ; 
There  is  no  fouler  stain ;  my  soul  abhors  it. 

Merc.  Remember,  you  are  warned ;  if  ill  o'er- 

take  you, 

Accuse  not  Fortune,  lay  not  blame  on  Jove, 
As  by  his  hand  sunk  in  calamities 
Unthought  of,  unforeseen :  no,  let  the  blame 
Light  on  yourselves ;  your  folly  not  unwarned, 
Not  unawares,  but  'gainst  your  better  knowledge, 
Involved  you  in  th'  inextricable  toil. 

Prom.  He  fables  not ;  firm  earth — (I  feel  it) — 

rocks ; 

Loud  thunders  roar,  thick-flashing  lightnings  blaze, 
The  eddying  sands  are  whirled  aloft,  and  forth 
From  every  quarter,  breathing  mutual  strife, 
Leap  the  wild  spirits  of  the  winds,  while  sky 
Is  sunk  in  ocean.     Upon  me  it  bursts, 
The  terror-working  storm,  sent  down  from  heaven. 
O  venerated  Mother,  0  wide  ,<f£ther, 
Wafting  round  all  man's  common  blessing,  light — 
You  see  what  wrongs  I  suffer. 


FROM  "THE  SEVEN  AGAINST  THEBES." 

THE  subject  of  this  tragedy  is  the  war  between 
Eteocles  arid  Polynices  for  the  throne  of  Thebes ; 
the  catastrophe  is  the  death  of  the  two  brothers, 
slain  by  each  other's  hands. 

SCENE — In  Thebes,  before  the  principal  Temple  of 
the  City. 

ETEOCLES,  SOLDIER,  CHORUS. 

Sold.  Illustrious  King  of  Thebes,  I  bring  thee 

tidings 

Of  firm  assurance  from  the  foe ;  these  eyes 
Beheld  each  circumstance.     Seven  valiant  chiefs 
Slew  on  a  black-orbed  shield  the  victim  bull, 
And,  dipping  in  the  gore  their  furious  hands, 
By  Mars,  Bellona,  and  blood-thirsting  Terror, 
Swore  sacredly— or  from  their  base  to  rend 
These  walls  and  lay  our  ramparts  in  the  dust, 
Or,  dying,  with  their  blood  to  steep  this  earth. — 
Each,  in  Adrastus'  car,  some  dear  remembrance* 
Piled  for  his  distant  parents ;  in  every  eye 
Stood  tears,  but  no  compassion,  no  remorse. 
Each  soul  of  iron  glowing  with  the  rage 
Of  valour,  as  the  lion,  when  he  glares 
Determined  battle. — Round  the  urn  I  left  them 
By  lot  deciding  to  what  gate  each  chief 


*  It  was  a  custom  of  the  ancients  before  a  battle  in 
which  they  apprehended  danger,  to  send  home  to  their 
friends,  some  trifling  token,  or  remembrance,  things  of 
little  value  in  themselves,  but  rendered  dear  by  the  cir- 
cumstances under  which  they  were  given.  On  this  oc- 
casion they  were  placed  in  the  car  of  Adrastus,  because 
it  had  been  foretold  by  the  Augur  Amphiaraus,  that  :ie 
alone  of  the  confederate  chiefs  would  return  to  Argos. 


AESCHYLUS. 


01 


Shall  lead  his  forces.     Against  these  select 
The  best,  the  bravest,  of  the  sons  of  Thebes, 
And  instant,  at  the  gates,  assign  their  stations. 
For  all  in  arms  the  Argive  host  comes  on. 
Be  thine  the  pilot's  part,  and,  ere  the  storm 
O'ertake  us,  (even  now  its  waves  are  roaring) 
Prepare  thee  for  the  danger. — Mine  meanwhile 
The  watch,  and,  trust  this  long-experienced  eye, 
No  peril,  without  notice,  shall  approach  thee. 

Here  the  Chorus,  consisting  of  Theban  virgins, 
burst  out  into  loud  strains  of  woe,  painting  in 
glowing  colours  the  rush  of  the  adverse  hosts, 
the  battering  of  the  gates,  the  yells  of  the  victors, 
the  shrieks  of  anguished  women  and  infants,  and 
all  those  scenes  of  distress  and  horror,  which  the 
insolence  of  conquest  spreads  through  a  van- 
quished and  plundered  city.  Offended  at  their 
intimidating  cries,  Eteocles  reprimands  them 
with  harshness,  and  in  no  very  courtly  terms. 

"  Is  this,  ye  wayward  race,  the  aid  you  lend 
The  State,  the  fortitude  wherewith  you  steel 
The  souls  of  the  besieged,  thus  falling  down 
Before  these  images  to  wail  and  shriek 
With  lamentations  loud  ?    Wisdom  abhors  you. — 
You  magnify  the  foe,  and  turn  our  men 
To  flight :  thus  are  we  ruined  by  ourselves. 
This  ever  will  arise  from  suffering  women 
To  intermix  with  men.     But  mark  me  well ; 
Whoe'er  henceforth  dare  disobey  my  orders, 
Be  they  or  men  or  women,  old  or  young, 
Vengeance  shall  burst  upon  them,  the  decree 
Stands  irreversible,  and  they  shall  die. 
War  is  no  female  province,  but  the  scene 
For  men :  hence  home !  nor  spread  your  mischiefs 

here. 

*  *  *  *  *    '       * 

But  see,  the  veteran  from  his  watch  returns, 
Bearing,  I  ween,  fresh  tidings  from  yon  host, 
Of  highest  import :  quick  his  foot  and  hasty. 

Re-enter  SOLDIER. 

Sold.  Now    can   I   tell   thee,    for    I    know    it 

well, 

The  disposition  of  the  foe,  and  how 
Each  at  our  gates  takes  his  allotted  post. 
Already  near  the  Praetian  gate  in  arms 
Stands  Tydeus  raging;  for  the  Prophet's  voice 
Forbids  his  foot  to  pass  Ismenus'  stream, 

I    The  victims  not  propitious :  at  the  pass 
Furious,  and  eager  for  ihe  fight,  the  chief 
(Fierce  as  a  dragon  in  the  mid-day  sun) 
Reviles  the  sage,  as  forming  timorous  league 

j    With  war  and   fate.     Frowning  he  speaks  and 

shakes 

Three  shadowy  crests,  the  honours  of  his  helm, 
While  shrilly  from  his  shield  the  brazen  bells 
Ring  terror.     On  the  shield  this  proud  device : 
Jn  nzvrc  sky  with  spangling  stars,  a.nd  in 
Tfie  midst,  bright  eye  of  night,  the  full-orb' d  moon. 
Fierce  in  the  glory  of  his  arms,  and  mad 
For  war,  he  shouts  along  the  river's  banks, 
Fierce,   as  some  steed  which,  panting   on    the 

curb, 
Waits  but  the  trumpet's  sound  to  burst  away. 


Before  the  Prsetian  gate,  its  bars  removed, 
What  equal  chief  wilt  thou  appoint  against  him  ? 

Eteoc.  This  military  pride,  it  moves  me  not : 
The  gorgeous  blazony  of  arms,  the  crest 
High  waving  o'er  the  helm,  the  clashing  bells, 
Harmless  without  the  spear,  inflict  no  wound. 
The  sable  Night,  spangled  with  stars  of  heaven, 
Predicts   perhaps    his    doom ;  and,  should  dark 

night 

Fall  on  his  eyes,  might  be  deemed  ominous, 
And  he,  the  prophet  of  his  own  destruction. 
— Against  his  rage  the  son  of  Astacus 
Will  I  appoint  commander ;  bent  on  deeds 
Of  glory,  but  a  votary  at  the  shrine 
Of  modesty,  he  scorns  the  arrogant  vaunt 
As  base,  and  bids  brave  actions  speak  his  worth. 
Sold.  May  the  gods  crown  his  valiant  toil  with 

conquest. 

But  Capaneus  against  the  Electran  gates 
Takes  his  allotted  post,  and,  towering,  stands 
Vast  as  some  earth-born  giant,  and  inflamed 
To  more  than  mortal  daring:  horribly 
He  menaces  the  walls :  (may  Heaven  avert 
His  impious  rage  !)  vaunts  that,  the  gods  assenting 
Or  not  assenting,  his  strong  hand  shall  rend 
Their  rampires  down ;  that  e'en  the  rage  of  Jove 
Descending  on  the  field  should  not  restrain  him. 
His   lightnings  and  his   thunders  winged    with 

fire, 

He  likens  to  the  sun's  meridian  heat. 
On  his  proud  shield  portrayed,  Ji  naked  Man 
Waves  in  his  hand  a  blazing  torch;  beneath 
In  golden  letters,  I  will  fire  the  city. 
Against  this  man — But  who  shall  dare  to  engage 
His    might,    and    dauntless    his    proud    might 

sustain  ? 

Eteoc.  Advantage  from  advantage  here  arises. 
The  arrogant  vaunts,  which  man's  vain  tongue 

throws  out 

Shall  on  himself  recoil.     This  haughty  chief 
Threats  high,  and,  prompt  to  execute  his  threats, 
Spurns  at  the  gods,  opes  his  unhallowed  lips 
In  shallow  exultations,  hurls  on  high, 
Weak  mortal  as  he  is,  'gainst  Jove  himself 
Hurls  his  extravagant  and  wild  defiance. 
On  him,  I  trust,  the  thunder  winged  with  fire, 
Far  other  than  the  sun's  meridian  heat, 
Shall  roll  its  vengeance.     But  against  his  pride, 
Insolent  vaunter,  shall  the  glowing  spirit 
That  burns  for  glory  in  the  daring  breast 
Of  Polyphonies,  be  opposed ;  his  arm, 
Strong  in  Diana's  tutelary  aid, 
Shall  be  a  sure  defence.     But  to  thy  tale  ; 
Who  next  before  our  gates  assumes  \\\*  .-tation? 
Sold.  Third  from  the  brazen  helm  leap'd  forth 

the  lot 

Of  fierce  Eteoclus,  who  takes  his  post 
Against  the  gates  of  Neis:  there  he  whirls 
His  fiery-neighing  steeds,  that  toss  their  heads, 
Proud  of  their  nodding  plumes.     No  mean  device 
Is  sculptured  on  his  shield, — A  Man  in  arms 
His  ladder  fixed  against  the  enemies'  walls, — 
Crying  aloud,  the  letters  plainly  marked, 
Not  Mars  himself  shall  beat  me  from  these  towers. 
Appoint  some  chief  of  equal  hardihood 
To  guard  the  city  from  a  servile  yoke. 


62 


^SCHYLUS. 


Eteoc.  Such    shall   I    send,  to  conquest    send 

him  ;  one 

That  bears  not  in  his  hand  this  pageantry 
Of  martial  pride.     The  hardy  Megareus, 
From  Creon  sprung,  and  that  bold  race,  which 

rose 

Embattled  from  the  earth :  him  from  the  gates 
The  furious  neighings  of  the  fiery  steeds 
Affright  not :  but  his  blood  spilt  on  the  earth 
Amply  requites  the  nouriture  she  gave  him ; 
Or  captive  both,  the  man  in  arms,  the  town 
Stormed  on  the  sculptured  shield,  and  the  proud 

bearer, 

Shall  with  their  spoils  adorn  his  father's  house. 
Sold.  At  the  next  gate,  named  from  the  martial 

goddess 

Onca*  Minerva,  stands  Hippomedon. 
I  heard  his  thundering  voice,  I  saw  his  form 
In  bulk  and  stature  proudly  eminent ; 
I  saw  him  roll  his  shield,  large,  massy,  round, 
Of  broad  circumference  :  it  struck  my  soul 
With  terror.     On  its  orb  no  vulgar  artist 
Expressed  this  image,  A  Typhaus  huge 
Disgorging  from  his  jaws  foul  smoke  and  fire — 
With  shouts  the  giant  chief  provokes  the  war 
And,  in  the  ravings  of  outrageous  valour, 
Glares  terror  from  his  eyes.     Behoves  thee  then 
Strong  opposition  to  his  fiery  rage, 
Which    at  the   gates    e'en    now    spreads    wild 

dismay. 
Eteoc.   First   Onca   Pallas,   holding   near    the 

gates f 

Her  hallowed  state,  abhors  his  furious  rage  ; 
And  in  her  guardian  care  shall  crush  the  pride 
Of  this  fell  dragon.     Then  the  son  of  ^Enops, 
Hyperbius,  of  approved  and  steady  valour, 
Shall,  man  to  man,  oppose  him ;  one  that  dares 
Assay  his  fate  in  the  rough  shock  of  battle ; 
In  form,  in  spirit,  and  in  martial  arms 
Consummate — such    the    graces    Hermes    gave 

him. 

In  hostile  arms  thus  man  shall  combat  man, 
And  to  the  battle  on  their  sculptured  shields 
Bring  adverse  gods;  the  fierce  Typhaeus  he, 
Breathing  forth  flakes  of  fire ;  Hyperbius, 
The  majesty  of  Jove  securely  throned, 
Grasping  his  flaming  bolt :  and  who  e'er  saw 
The  Thunderer  vanquished'?     In  the  fellowship 
Of  friendly  gods,  the  conquerors  are  with  us — 
With  us  the  conquerors,  with  them  the  conquered, 
And  as  Jove  slew  Typhaeus,  so  Jove's  form 
Emblazoned  on  his  shield  shall  guard  Hyper- 
bius. 
Sold.  Prophetic  be  thy  hopes.     At  the  north 

gate, 

Hard  by  Jove-born  Amphion's  tomb,  the  fifth 
Takes  his  bold  station, — swearing  by  his  spear 
(Which,  more  than  God,  and  dearer  to  his  eyes 
Than  light  of  heaven,  he  venerates)  to  lay 
Our  city  low,  though  Jove  himself  oppose  him. 

*  One  of  the  titles  of  Minerva  introduced  by  Cadmus 
from  Phoenicia,  where  she  was  worshipped  under  that 
name. 

f  Probably  a  picture  or  statue  of  the  goddess  placed  at 
the  entrance  of  the  city,  and  implying  that  wisdom  stood 
guard  there. 


Thus    swears   this   offspring   of    the   Mountain 

Nymph,* 

Blooming  in  manly  youth.    But  though  so  young, 
Though  scarce  the  down  has  sprouted  on  his 

cheek ; 

Still  ruthless  are  his  thoughts,  cruel  his  eye, 
And  proudly  vaunting  at  the  gate  he  takes 
His  terrible  stand.     Upon  his  clashing  shield 
Thebes'  foul  disgrace,  a  ravenous  Sphinx,  he  bears, 
Holding  a  Theban  in  her  cruel  fangs. 
'Gainst  this  let  each  brave  man  direct  his  spear. 
No  hireling  he,  to  prostitute  for  gold 
The  war,  or  shame  the  length  of  way  he  trod, 
E'en  from  Arcadia :  such  this  stranger  comes, 
Parthenopceus  and,  in  gratitude 
For  hospitable  boons  received  from  Argos, 
Assists  her  here, — breathing  against  these  towers 
Proud  menaces,  which  may  the  gods  avert ! 
Etcoc.  That  ruin,  which  with  impious  vaunts 

they  intend 

For  us,  may  the  just  gods  turn  on  themselves. 
So  let  them  perish !     To  this  proud  Arcadian 
No  boaster  we  oppose  ;  but  one  whose  hand 
Knows    its    rough  •  work — Actor, — the    valiant 

brother 

Of  him  last-named.     Never  will  he  permit 
The  man,  whose  shield  bears  that  abhorred  beast 
To  rush  within  the  gates  and  execute 
His  threats  of  evil  on  us. 

Sold.  The  sixth  chief, 

Prudent  as  brave,  the  seer  Amphiaraus, 
At  th'  Omolsean  gate  his  destined  post 
In  arms  assumes,  and  on  the  fiery  Tycleus 
Throws  many  a  keen  reproach,  reviling  him 
As  homicide,  and  troubler  of  the  state, 
And  author,  above  all,  of  ills  to  Argos  : 
With  Murder  and  the  Furies  at  his  heels 
Urging  Adrastus  to  these  hateful  deeds. 
Thy  brother  Polynices,  too,  he  blames, 
Descanting  on  his  name  and  thus  rebuking  him : 
"  How  grateful  to  the  gods  must  be  this  deed, 
Glorious  to  hear,  and  in  the  roll  of  fame 
Shining  to  distant  ages,  thus  to  lead 
These  foreign  arms  to  waste  thy  country  and 
Destroy   thy  country's  gods!     E'en  though  thy 

cause 

Be  just,  alas !  will  justice  dry 
A  mother's  tears  ?    And  when  the  furious  spear, 
Hurled  by  thy  hand,  shall  pierce  thy  country's 

bosom, 
Say,  can  that  land  with  friendly  arms  receive 

thee  ? 

Prescient  of  fate,  I  shall  enrich  this  soil, 
Sunk  in  the  hostile  plain.     But  let  us  fight. 
One  hope  is  mine, — a  not  inglorious  death." 
So  spoke  the  Prophet ;  and  with  awful  port 
Advanced  his  massy  shield,  the  shining  orb 
Bearing  no  impress:  for  his  generous  soul 
Wishes  to  fee,  not  to  appear,  the  Best; 
And  from  the  culture  of  his  modest  worth 
Bears  the  rich  fruit  of  great  and  glorious  deeds. 
Him  let  the  virtuous  and  the  wise  oppose ; 
For  dreadful  is  the  foe,  that  fears  the  gods. 
Eteoc.  Alas  the  destiny,!  that  leagues  the  just 


*The  Arcadian  Atalanta. 


AESCHYLUS. 


03 


With  the  unjust.     In  whatsoever  cause, 
There  is  nothing  worse  than  evil  fellowship. 
Nothing  of  good  is  reaped ;  for  when  the  field 
Is  sown  with  wrong,  the  ripened  fruit  is  death. 
If  with  a  desperate  band,  whose  hearts  are  hot 
With  villany,  the  pious  hoists  his  sails, 
The  vengeance  of  the  gods  bursts  on  his  bark, 
And  sinks  him  with  the  heaven-detested  crew. 
If  with  a  race  inhospitably  bent 
On  savage  deeds,  regardless  of  the  gods, 
The  just  man  fix  his  seat,  impending  wrath 
Spares  not,  but  strikes  him  with  vindictive  fury, 
Crushed  in  the  general  ruin.     So  this  Seer 
Of  tempered  wisdom,  of  unsullied  honour, 
Just,  good,  and  pious,  and  a  mighty  prophet, 
In  despite  of  his  better  judgment,  joined 
With  men  of  impious  daring,  bent  to  tread 
The  long,  irremeable  way,  he  with  them 
Shall,  if  high  Jove  assist  us,  be  dragged  down 
To  joint  perdition. — Him  against  the  strength 
Of  Lasthencs  shall  I  oppose.    In  manhood's  prime 
He  bears  the  providence  of  age  ;  his  eye 
Quick  as  the  lightning's  glance  5  before  his  shield 
Flames  his  protended  spear,  and  longs  to  obey 
His  hand.     But  victory  is  the  gift  of  heaven. 
Sold.  The  seventh  bold  chief — forgive  me  that 

I  name 

Thy  brother,  and  relate  the  horrible  vows, 
The  imprecations,  which  his  rage  pours  forth 
Against  the  city ; — on  fire  to  mount  the  walls, 
And  from  their  turrets  to  this  land  proclaim 
Captivity ;  to  meet  thee,  sword  to  sword, 
Kill  thee,  then  die  upon  thee:  if  thou  livest, 
To  avenge  on  thee  his  exile  and  disgrace 
With  the  like  treatment.    Thundering  vengeance 

thus 

The  rage  of  Polynices  calls  the  gods, 
Presiding  o'er  his  country,  to  look  down 
And  aid  his  vows.     His  well-orbed   shield  he 

holds 

New-wrought,  and  with  a  double  impress  charged : 
A  Warrior  blazing  all  in  golden  arms, 
Led  by  a  female  form  of  modest  mien. — 
Justice  her  name — as  the  inscription  speaks, 
"  Yet  once  more  to  his  country,  and  once  more 
To  his  jititcriKil  throne  irill  I  restore  him." — 
Such  their  devices.     But  the  important  task, 
Whom  to  oppose  against  his  force,  is  thine. 
Let  not  my  words  offend :  I  but  relate, 
Do  thou  command;  for  thou  art  sovereign  here. 

Etcoc.  How  dreadful  i.s  the  hatred  of  the  gods! 
Unhappy  sons  of  CEdipus.  your  fate 
Claims  many  a  tear.     Ah  me!  my  father's  curse 
Nov.-  .-tamps  its  venge-  >.    But  to  lament, 

._h.  or  -he- 1  a  tear,  becomes  me  not, 
Lest  more  intolerable  grief  arise. 
Be  Polynices  told,  ill-omened  name, 
That  we'll  soon  see  h<>\\-  tar  his  blazoned  shield 
Avails:  how  far  inscriptions  wrought  in  gold, 
With  all  their  fertile  vaunting*,  will  restore  him. 
If  Justice,  virgin  daughter  of  hi-h  Jove. 
Had  ever  formed  his  mind,  or  ruled  his  actions, 
This  might  have  been  :  but  neither  when  his  eyes 
First  saw  the  light  of  life  ;  nor  in  the  growth 
Of  infancy;  nor  in  the  advancing  years 
Of  youth ;  nor  in  the  riper  age,  that  clothes 


With  gradual  down  the  manly  cheek,  did  Justice 

E'er  condescend  to  look  on,  or  address  him. 

Nor  now,  I  ween,  in  this  his  fell  intent 

To  crush  his  country,  will  her  presence  aid  him  : 

For  Justice  were  not  Justice,  if  she  did  so, — 

If  she  took  part  with  his  audacious  spirit. 

In  this  confiding,  will  I  meet,  will  I 

Engage  him:  who  more  fit?  chief  against  chief — 

Foe  against  foe — and  brother  against  brother. 

What,  ho !  my  greaves,  my  spear,  my  armour 

proof 
Against  their  storm  of  stones.   My  stand  is  chose 

In  the  above  scene,  (says  a  modern  author 
of  distinguished  genius,)  "  the  description  of  each 
warrior  stationed  at  each  gate,  is  all  in  the  genius 
of  Homer,  closing,  as  it  does,  with  that  of  Poly- 
nices, whom,  at  the  very  mention  of  his  name,* 
Eteocles  himself  resolves  to  confront.  At  first, 
indeed,  he  breaks  out  into  exclamations  which 
denote  the  awe  and  struggle  of  the  abhorrent 
nature ;  forebodings  of  his  own  doom  flit  before 
him ;  he  feels  that  the  curses  of  his  sire  are  ripen- 
ing to  their  fruit,  and  that  the  last  storm  is  yet  to 
break  upon  the  house  of  CEdipus.  Suddenly  he 
checks  the  impulse,  sensible  of  the  presence  of 
the  Chorus.  He  passes  on  to  reason  with  him- 
self, through  a  process  of  thought,  which  Shake- 
speare could  not  have  surpassed.  He  conjures 
up  the  image  of  his  brother,  hateful  and  unjust 
from  infancy  to  boyhood,  from  boyhood  up  to 
youth, — assuring  himself  .that  Justice  would  be 
foresworn,  if  this  foe  should  triumph — and  rushes 
on  to  his  dread  resolve. 

Eteocles  and  his  brother  both  perish  in  the 
unnatural  strife,  and  the  tragedy  concludes  with 
the  decree  of  the  senate  to  bury  Eteoclee,  but  to 
withhold  the  sacred  rite  from  Polynices.  63 

Herald.  My  office  leads  me  to  proclaim. 

mandate 

Of  the  great  rulers  of  the  Theban  state. 
Eteocles,  for  that  he  loved  his  country, 
They  have  decreed  with  honour  to  inter. 
To  shield  Thebes  from  her  foes  he  fought  and 

fell. 

Where  glory  called  the  valiant  youth  to  bleed, — 
He  bled. — Thus  far  of  him  ;  but  of  his  brother, 
Of  Polynices  I  am  bid  to  say, 
For  that  he  fought  against  his  country,  and, 
But  for  opposing  gods,  had  worked  her  ruin, 
It  is  decreed  his  corpse  shall  lie  unburied, 
Cast  out  to  ravening  birds  and  dogs  a  prey. 
These  are  the  mandates  of  our  Theban  rulers. 


*  "At  the  mention  of  each  of  the  other  chiefs,"  says 
Potter,  "Eteocles  had  shown  himself  unmoved,  and 
f:iven  his  ordi-rs  with  calmness  and  prudence;  nay,  his 
reflections  on  Amphiaraus  have  a  solemn  air  of  religion; 
but  no  sooner  is  his  brother  named,  than  he  loses  all 
temper.  He  begins  indeed  as  if  he  would  lament  the 
unhappy  fate  of  his  family,  hut  soon  starts  off  from  that, 
and,  though  himself  the  aggressor,  reviles  his  brother, 
as  insolent,  outrageous,  and  unjust  from  his  infancy  : 
then,  in  th«  spirit  of  a  man  that  has  done  an  injury,  who 
never  forgives,  works  himself  up  to  that  ungoverned 
rage,  which  destroyed  his  brother,  himself,  and  all  the 
unhappy  family  of  CEdipus. 


64 


JESCHYLUS. 


Jlntigone.  And  to  these  Theban  rulers  I  declare, 
If  none  besides  dare  bury  him,  myself 
Will  do  that  office,  heedless  of  the  danger, 
And  think  no  shame  to  disobey  the  State, 
Paying  the  last  sad  duties  to  a  brother. 
Nature  has  tender  ties,  and  strongly  joins 
The  offspring  of  the  same  unhappy  mother. 
And  the  same  wretched  father. 

FROM  THE  AGAMEMNON. 

"L*  Agamemnon,"  says  Schlegel  in  his  elo- 
quent lectures  on  Dramatic  Literature,  "it  was 
the  intention  of  ^Eschylus  to  exhibit  to  us  a  sudden 
fall  from  the  highest  pinnacle  of  prosperity  and 
fame  into  the  abyss  of  ruin.  The  prince,  the 
hero,  the  general  of  the  whole  of  the  Greeks,  in 
the  very  moment  when  he  has  succeeded  in  con- 
cluding the  most  glorious  action,  the  destruction 
of  Troy,  the  fame  of  which  is  to  be  re-echoed 
from  the  mouths  of  the  greatest  poets  of  all  ages, 
on  entering  the  threshold  of  his  house,  after  which 
he  has  long  sighed,  is  strangled  amidst  the  un- 
suspected preparations  for  a  festival,  according 
to  the  expression  of  Homer,  '  like  an  ox  in  the 
stall,'  strangled  by  his  faithless  wife  ;  her  un- 
worthy seducer  takes  possession  of  his  throne, 
and  the  children  are  consigned  to  banishment, 
or  to  hopeless  servitude." 

With  the  view  of  giving  greater  effect  to  this 
dreadful  alteration  of  fortune,  the  poet  has  pre- 
viously thrown  a  splendour  over  the  destruction 
of  Troy.  This  he  has  done  in  the  first  half  of 
the  play,  in  a  manner  peculiar  to  himself,  and, 
however  singular,  well  calculated  to  arrest  the 
imagination.  It  is  of  importance  to  Clytemnestra 
not  to  be  surprised  by  the  arrival  of  her  husband, 
and  she  has  therefore  arranged  an  uninterrupted 
series  of  signal-fires  from  Troy  to  Mycenae,  to 
announce  to  her  the  capture  of  the  former,  when- 
ever it  should  take  place. 

The  Drama  opens  with  the  soliloquy  of  a 
watchman  who  supplicates  the  gods  for  a  release 
from  his  toils,  as  for  ten  long  years  he  has  been 
exposed  to  the  cold  dews  of  night,  has  witnessed 
the  various  changes  of  the  stars,  and  looked  in 
vain  for  the  promised  signal.  He  laments  the 
internal  ruin  of  the  royal  house.  At  this  moment 
he  sees  the  blaze  of  the  long-wished  for  fires, 
and  hastens  to  announce  it  to  his  mistress. — Im- 
mediately after  this  appears  the  Chorus,  com- 
posed of  old  men  of  Argos,  who  are  not  yet  made 
acquainted  with  the  great  event,  and  who,  after 
indulging  in  desultory,  often  obscure,  allusions  to 
the  origin  and  events  of  the  war,  conclude  with 
the  following  description  of 

THE  SACRIFICE  OF  IPHIGENEIA. 

MAILED  chiefs,  whose  bosoms  burn 
For  battle,  heard  in  silence  stern 
Cries  that  call'd  a  father's  name, 
And  set  at  naught  pray'rs,  cries,  and  tears, 
And  her  sweet  virgin  life  and  blooming  years. 
Now  when  the  solemn  prayer  was  said, 
The  father  gave  the  dire  command 
To  the  priestly  band, 


VTen  with  strong  hands  and  ruthless  force, 
10  lift  from  earth  that  maiden  fair, 
Vhere  she  had  sunk  in  dumb  despair, 
And  lay  with  robes  all  cover'd  round, 
lush'd  in  a  swoon  upon  the  ground, 
And  bear  her  to  the  altar  dread, 
dke  a  young  fawn  or  mountain  kid : 
Then  round  her  .beauteous  mouth  to  tie 
)umb  sullen  bands  to  stop  her  cry, 
Jest  aught  of  an  unholy  sound 
3e  heard  to  breathe  those  altars  round, 

on  the  monarch's  house  might  hang  a 

deadly  spell. 
Vow  as  she  stood,  and  her  descending  veil, 
Jet  down  in  clouds  of  saffron,  touch'd  the  ground, 
The  priests,  and  all  the  sacrificers  round, 
All  felt  the  melting  beams  that  came, 
With  softest  pity  wing'd,  shot  from  her  lovely 

eyes. 

ike  some  imagined,  pictured  maid  she  stood, 
So  beauteous  look'd  she,  seeming  as  she  would 
Speak,  yet  still  mute :  though  oft  her  father's  halls 

Magnificent  among, 

She,  now  so  mute,  had  sung 

Full  many  a  lovely  air, 

In  maiden  beauty,  fresh  and  fair; 
And  with  the  warbled  music  of  her  voice 
Made  all  his  joyous  bowers  still  more  rejoice  j 
When  feast,  and  sacrifice,  and  song, 
Led  the  glad  hours  of  lengthen'd  day  along. 


Clytemnestra  now  announces  to  the  Chorus  the 
capture  of  Troy.  They,  half-incredulous,  demand 
of  her  what  messenger  had  so  quickly  conveyed 
the  intelligence,  to  which  Clytemnestra  replies 
that  it  was  Vulcan,  it  was  the  Fire-god : — 


Twas  Vulcan ;  peering  through  the  night, 

O'er  Ida's  groves  he  shone ; 
And  watch  to  watch,  and  height  to  height, 

The  herald  flame  sent  on; 
From  Ida  to  the  Lemnian  steep, 
From  Lemnos  up  to  Jove's  proud  keep, 

To  Athos,  swept  the  fiery  shower, 
Thence,  chequering  ocean  with  its  rays, 
All-sunbright  burst  the  golden  blaze 

On  far  Macistus'  tower; 
Nor  slept ;  but,  gathering  swift  relay, 
Shot,  crackling,  on  its  airy  way — 
O'er  wild  Euripus'  stream  it  flew ; 
Messapion's  guards  the  signal  knew, 
Kindled  their  heathery  piles  on  high, 
And  sped  the  glad  news  through  the  sky. 

And  on,  still  on,  still  undecay'd, 
It  bounded  o'er  Asopus'  glade, 
Shone,  moonlike,  on  Cithseron's  height, 
And  rous'd  up  fresh  relays  of  light, 
And  on  again ; — unspent,  unsleeping, 

On  the  herald  meteor  came  ; 
Now  o'er  lake  Gorgopis  sweeping, 
Now  up  ^giplancton  leaping, 

High  it  soar'd,  a  beard  of  flame, 
High — in  renew'd  strength  elate — 
O'er  the  far  Saronic  strait 


^SCHYLUS. 


65 


To  Arachne's  answering  pyre  ; 
Thence  towards  Argos — nigher — nigher — 
O'er  Agamemnon's  roof  down  swoops  the  Idoean 
Fire.* 

Chor.  Hereafter  to  the  gods,  0  queen!  I'll  pray. 
But  now,  in  wondering  pleasure  at  thy  words, 
I  fain  would  stand,  and  hear  them  o'er  again. 

Clyt.  This  very  day  the  Greeks  are  lords  of 

Troy. 

Now  in  the  streets  methinks  I  hear  a  peal 
Of  dreadful  discord.     Oil  and  vinegar 
Into  one  vessel  pour'd  will  ne'er  unite, 
But,  like  two  foes  at  variance  keep  apart: 
So  they  the  conquer'd  of  the  taken  city, 
And  they  the  victors :  you  may  hear  apart 
Two  several  voices,  like  their  several  fates. 
These  prostrate,  rolling  on  the  slaughter'd  bodies 
Of  husbands,  brothers;  children  by  the  sires 
Who  gave  them  being,  their  fond  parents  dead. 
Wail  with  sad  outcries,  with  enthralled  necks ; 
But  they  the  victors,  wearied,  famished, 
With  toils  of  battle,  running  up  and  down 
Through  the  dun  shades  of  night,  at  length  like 

wolves 

Round  the  full  boards  and  city  feasts  are  set, 
Carousing  in  confusion;  all  pell-mell 
Throng  in  the  costly  Trojan  palaces 
Won  by  their  swords ;  now  rid  of  open  camps 
And  dewy  cover  of  night-freezing  skies, 
And  stretch'd  at  ease,  like  careless  poor  men  tired, 
Sleep  through  the  watches  of  th'  unguarded  night. 
'Tis  well — and  so  it  will  be — if  they  keep 
Due  reverence  and  homage  to  the  gods 
Of  that  forsaken  city  and  their  fanes, 
They  may  chance  'scape  such  sad  vicissitude, 
Nor  feel  themselves  what  they  inflict  on  others — 
But  let  no  impious  lust,  no  thirst  of  gold, 
Light  on  them  longing  for  disastrous  spoils, 
Mad  passion  for  those  things  'tis  sin  to  love ! 
Let  them  beware ;  they  still  want  Heav'n's  high 

favour 

To  bring  them  back  unhurt ;  they  still  have  left 
One  whole  side  of  the  Stadium's  length  to  run. 
But  should  they  come,  their  forfeits  on  their  heads, 
With  Heav'n's  high  wrath  benighted,  then  indeed 
The  curse  of  blood  might  follow  at  their  heels, 
And  Troy's  ensanguined  sepulchres  yield  up 
Their  charnel'd  dead  to  cry  aloud  for  vengeance — 
E'en  should  not  fortune  blow  them  other  ills. 
These  are  but  woman's  words;  but  O  prevail 
Our  better  destinies,  nor  let  the  balance 
Hang  in  suspense;  of  many  a  proffer'd  blessing, 
I  would  have  fix'd  my  heart,  and  chosen  this. 


*  The  practice  of  conveying  intelligence  by  fire-signals 
is  frequently  mentioned  by  ancient  writers.  See  Homer, 
II.  xviii;  Herodotus,  Call.  3;  Thucydides,  ii.  91;  Virg. 
.Sneid,  ii.  256;  Polyb.  x.  43,  &c.  There  is  a  pretty  story 
in  Pausan.  Corinth,  of  Lynceus,  after  the  dreadful  mar- 
riage night,  which  he  alone  of  the  fifty  brothers  survived, 
making  fire-signals  to  Hypermnestra  of  his  safe  arrival 
at  Lurceia,  and  of  her  answering  him  by  like  signals  from 
Larissa.  As  to  the  possibility  of  transmitting  a  signal  by 
fire  from  Mount  Ida  to  Argos  by  means  of  the  successive 
stations  above  enumerated,  that  part  of  the  question 
seems  to  have  been  most  satisfactorily  computed  and 
shown  both  by  Vossius  and  Casaubon. 


Chor.  0   queen!  no  man  more  sagely  could 

have  spoken, 

Or  utter'd  graver  sentiments ;  but  I 
Now  being  possess'd  of  thy  confirmed  tidings. 
Prepare  me  rightly  to  address  the  gods ; 
For  by  our  toils  a  glorious  crown  is  won. 

[Exit  CLTTEMNESTRA. 
CHORUS. 

0  monarch  Jove !  0  gracious  Night ! 
Mother  of  these  glories  bright; 
Who  flung'st  th'  impassive  net  o'er  Troy's  high 

tower, 

Slumb'ring  deep  in  silent  hour : 
Surrounding  all 
With  thickest  pall 
Cast  upon  her  babes  at  night, 
And  her  warlike  men  of  might ; 
That  none  could  'scape  the  mighty  throw 
Of  Ate's  hideous  net,  which  compass'd  all  with 

woe. 

It  has  been  said,  that  gods  above 
Stoop  not  their  eyes  on  men  below, 
When  with  black  insolence  they  durst  invade 
The  inmost  sanctuary  of  grace, 
And  judging  Gods  defied. 
So  said  the  impious ;  but  the  Gods 
Have  shown  themselves  in  dreadful  view 
E'en  to  the  children  of  aspiring  kings, 
And  to  these  hosts  of  war  in  armour  bright, 
Steel'd  and  caparison'd  for  lawless  fight. 
Whilst  plumed  Mars  breathed  horror  on  their 

helms : 

And  to  the  plenteous  palaces  of  pride, 
The  towers  of  grandeur,  and  the  thrones  of 

state, 

Too  glorious  to  be  good. 
Be  sober-minded  wisdom  mine, 
The  chasten'd  soul,  and  lowly  lot, 
Free    from    the  sins  and  woes  that   guard  the 
regal  gate. 

The  Chorus  then  revert  to  the  elopement  of 
Helen,  to  the  agony  and  despair  of  Menelaus  on 
discovering  her  flight,  and  to  the  calamities  en- 
dured by  the  Greeks  in  their  efforts  to  recover 
her  :— 

Ah !  woe  the  halls,  and  woe  the  chiefs, 

And  woe  the  bridal  bed! 
And  woe  her  steps, — for  once  she  lov'd, 

The  lord,  whose  love  she  fled ! 
Lo !  where,  dishonour  yet  unknown, 
He  sits,  nor  deems  his  Helen  flown, 
Tearless  and  voiceless,  on  the  spot, 
All  desert,  but  he  feels  it  not ! 
But,  soon  alive  to  miss  and  mourn, 
The  form  beyond  the  ocean  borne, 

Shall  start  the  lonely  king! 
And  thought  shall  fill  the  lost-one's  room, 
And  darkly  through  the  palace  gloom 

Shall  stalk  a  ghostly  thing. 
Her  statues  meet,  as  round  they  rise, 
The  leaden  stare  of  lifeless  eyes ; 
Where  is  their  ancient  beauty  gone? — 
Why  loathe  his  looks  the  breathing  stone? 

rl 


66 


AESCHYLUS. 


Alas !  the  foulness  of  disgrace 

Hath  swept  the  Venus  from  her  face ! 

And  visions  in  the  mournful  night 

Shall  dupe  the  heart  to  false  delight, 
A  false  and  melancholy; 

For  what  with  sadder  joy  is  fraught 

Than  things  at  night  by  dreaming  brought, 
The  Wish'd-for  and  the  Holy. 

Swift  from  the  solitary  side, 

The  Vision  and  the  Blessing  glide, 
Scarce  welcom'd  ere  they  sleep.     . 

Pale,  bloodless  dreams  aloft, 

On  wings  unseen  and  soft. 

Lost  wanderers,  gliding  through  the  paths 

of  sleep. 
*  #  *  *  *  •         * 

But  through  the  bounds  of  Grsecia's  land 

See  Mourning  on  each  threshold  stand, 

And  well  may  Greece  with  grief  be  rent ; 

She  well  remembers  whom  she  sent, 

She  sees  them  not  return : 

Instead  of  men  to  each  man's  home, 

Urns  and  ashes  only  come, 

And  the  armour  which  they  wore; 

Sad  relics  to  their  native  shore. 

For  Mars,  the  barterer  of  the  lifeless  clay, 
Who  sells  for  gold  the  slain, 

And  holds  the  scale,  in  battle's  doubtful  day, 
High  balanced  o'er  the  plain; 

From  Ilium's  walls  for  men  returns 

Ashes  and  sepulchral  urns  ; 

Ashes  wet  with  many  a  tear, 

Sad  relics  of  the  fiery  bier. 

Round  the  full  urns  the  general  groan 

Goes,  as  each  their  kindred  own. 

One  they  mourn  in  battle  strong, 

And  one  that  'mid  the  armed  throng 

Sunk  in  glory's  slaughtering  tide, 

And  for  another's  consort  died. 

Such  the  sounds  that,  mix'd  with  wail, 

In  secret  whispers  round  prevail ; 

And  envy,  join'd  with  silent  griefs, 

Spreads  'gainst  the  two  Atridae  chiefs, 

Who  began  the  public  fray, 

And  to  vengeance  led  the  way. 

Others  they  mourn  whose  monuments  stand 

By  Ilium's  walls  on  foreign  strand ; 

Where  they  fell  in  beauty's  bloom, 

There  they  lie  in  hated  tomb  ; 

Sunk  beneath  the  massy  mound, 

In  eternal  chambers  bound. 

Whene'er  a  city  moves  its  men  to  wrath, 

Heavy  their  rumour ;  and  a  people's  curse 

Works  out  its  ruler's  woe. 

My  soul  stands  tiptoe  with  affright ; 

I  stand  like  one  with  listening  ear, 

Ready  to  catch  the  sound  of  fear  ; 

And  lift  my  eyes  to  see  some  sight 

Coming  from  the  pall  of  night. 
For  Gods  behold  not  unconcern'd  from  high, 
When  smoking  slaughter  mounts  the  sky, 
The  mighty  murd'rers  of  the  direful  plain. 
For  then  the  black  Erinnysses  arise 
With  Time  their  helper,  and  with  fate  reversed ; 
And  make  the  mighty  justice-slighting  man 
Pale  in  the  midst  of  Glory's  proud  career ; 


And  hurl  him  'mid  the  hapless  crew  who  groan, 
Helpless,  unpitied,  and  unknown. 

To  be  far-famed,  and  touch  the  skies, 
Is  on  a  giddy  height  to  move ; 

The  fire  of  Jove  bursts  in  his  eyes, 
And  the  thunder  rolls  above. 

Grant  me  wealth,  but  not  that  state 

Where  Envy  waits  upon  the  great ; 

Let  me  not  be  in  high  renown, 

The  sacker  of  another's  town ; 

Nor  let  me  see  my  country  fall 

By  others'  hands  to  slavery's  thrall. 

Now,  from  the  beacon-light  which  fires  the  skies, 
Quick  through  the  town  the  winged  rumour  flies : 

If  1,rue,  who  knows  ? 

It  may  be  false,  I  fear! 
For  who  so  childish,  and  of  senses  shorn, 
To  let  his  soul  be  kindled  all  at  once 
With  the  first  tidings  of  a  moment's  glare, 
And  then,  when  changeful  tidings  come, 

To  sink  into  despair  ? 
It  well  beseems  a  female  throne, 
Before  the  event  is  clearly  known, 

To  solemnize  the  joy : 
The  female  mind  too  quickly  moves, 
Too  apt  to  credit  what  it  loves ; 
But  short-lived  is  the  fame 
Which  female  heraldries  proclaim. 

CHORUS  AND  CLYTEMNESTHA. 

Clyt.  Soon  shall  we  know  if  these  light-bearing 

lamps, 

These  watches  kept,  these  interchanging  fires, 
Are  true ;  or  if,  like  some  delicious  dream, 
This  light  has  cozen'd  us :  rny  eyes  descry 
A  herald  from  the  beach  approaching  fast, 
And  mark  his  olive  boughs — all  looks  well  now : 
God  grant  it  may  so  end ! 

Enter  HEHALD.* 

Her.  Ho  ho !  my  native  and  paternal  soil ! 
Ho  ho !  my  country,  and  the  sweet  approach 
Of  Argive  land !  in  ten  long  years  return'd, 
I  stand  upon  thee  gladly,  0  my  country ! 
And  save  this  one  of  many  a  shipwreck'd  hope. 
0  much  I  fear'd  I  ne'er  should  see  thy  shores, 
Nor  when  I  died,  be  gather'd  to  thy  lap. 


*  The  unity  of  action  is  preserved  in  this  play,  but  the 
unity  of  time  would  appear  to  be  disregarded,  for  nothing 
but  a  miracle  could  have  brought  the  herald  home  so 
soon,  supposing  the  exhibition  of  the  beacons  to  have 
taken  place  immediately  on  the  taking  of  Troy.  The  fact 
is,  the  Greek  poets  did  not  observe  the  minor  unities  of 
time  and  place  so  scrupulously  as  the  French.  Sophocles 
presents  in  the  Trachinije  a  more  glaring  example,  in  the 
mission  of  Hyllus  and  his  return,  (a  distance  of  120  Italian 
miles,)  which  takes  place  during  the  acting  of  a  hundred 
lines.  In  the  Eumenides  ^Eschylus  opens  the  play  at 
Delphi,  and  ends  it  at  Athens.  Aristotle,  as  Twining 
properly  remarks,  does  not  lay  down  the  unity  of  time  as 
a  rule,  but  says  that  tragedy  endeavours  to  circumscribe 
the  period  of  its  action  to  one  revolution  of  the  sun. 

The  joy  of  the  herald,  and  his  salutation  of  his  coun- 
try's Gods,  before  he  noticed  his  countrymen,  was  in  ihe 
spirit  of  those  days,  and  differing  from  ours.  Cato,  in  a 
didactic  work,  recommends  the  farmer  on  his  return, 
'  Primum  larem  salutato.' 


^SCHYLUS. 


67 


Now  Earth,  all  hail !  all  hail,  thru  Sun  of  light ! 
And  Jove,  this  realm's  great  paramount !  and  thou, 
O  King  of  Pytho,  hurling  from  thy  bow 
Thy  shafts  no  more  against  us ;  full  enough 
We  felt  thy  ire  by  sad  Scamander's  banks : 
Now  be  our  saviour,  and  our  lord  of  games, 
O  King  Apollo !  and  I  call  ye  all, 
Ye  Gods  of  festivals,  and  thee,  my  patron, 
Sweet  Herald  God  !  whom  heralds  most  adore  ; 
And  ye,  the  worshipp'd  Heroes  of  old  times, 
Who  sent  your  armed  sons  to  battle  forth ; 
Receive  what  now  remains  of  us,  the  gleanings 
Of  hostile  spears.     O  palace  of  our  kings ! 
Dear  roofs,  and  venerated  judgment  seats ! 
And  ye,  sun-facing  images  of  Gods ! 
Now,  now,  if  ever,  beam  with  joyful  eyes 
Upon  your  king  returning ; — lo !  he  conies, 
King  Agamemnon,  bringing  now  at  last 
A  light  in  darkness,  and  a  general  shine 
On  you,  on  all  the  people,  on  all  those 
Who  throng  around.     But  greet  him,  greet  him 

well, 

(Such  honour  is  the  mighty  conqueror's  meed) 
Who,  arm'd  with  vengeance  and  the  mace  of 

Jove. 

Unloosed  the  stony,  massy  girths  of  Troy. 
Ay,  now  Jove's  spade  has  finish'd  its  dread  work, 
And  made  a  mound  of  all  that  mighty  field ; 
Altars  and  fanes  in  unknown  ruins  lie, 
And  without  seed  lies  all  the  blasted  land. 
Thus  comes  Atrides  from  the  siege  of  Troy, 
Which  !neath  his  yoke  has  bent  her  turrets  high. 

0  happy,  glorious,  honourable  man, 
Deserving  praise  of  men  far,  far  beyond 
What  any  worthy  of  this  age  can  claim. 
The  vaunts  of  Troy  and  Paris  are  no  more, 
Boasting  the  arm  of  Justice  could  not  reach  them  5 
But  it  has  spann'd  them  with  a  hand  as  large 
As  their  offendings :  the  convicted  thief* 

Has  lost  his  mainprize,  and  the  ravisher 
Has  with  his  beauteous  fair  one  lost  himself, 
And  bared  his  father's  house  to  the  dire  edge 
Of  naked  ruin  ;  and  old  Priam's  sons 
Have  with  their  blood  his  double  forfeits  paid. 

Chor.  Herald  of  the  Argives  from  the  host,  all 

health 
And  joy  be  with  thee. 

Her.  Take  me  to  ye,  Gods ! 

1  ne'er  can  live  to  greater  joy  than  this ! 

Chor.  Felt'st  thou  in  absence  all  a  lover's  pangs 
For  this  thy  native  land  ? 

Her.  Behold  my  eyes 

Weep  with  delight,  and  answer  thee  in  tears. 

Chor.  Others  shared  with  you  in  that  sweet 
disease. 

Her.  How,  prythee  ?  let  me  understand  thee  ! 
speak. 

Chor.  Some  long'd  for  you,  much  as  ye  long'cl 
for  them. 

Her.  We  were  then  both  re^rettin^  and  re- 
gretted ? 

Chor.  Ay,  we  regretted,  but  with   smother'd 

groans, 
Stifled  in  secret. 

Her.  Whence  this  secret  sorrow  ? 


*  Paris. 


Chor.  Hush !  silence  is  a  balm  that  cures  mis- 
hap. 
Her.  Ha !  were  there  any  then  that  caused  such 

fear 
To  make  thee    tremble  when   your   king  was 

absent? 

Chor.  You  spoke  our  feelings  when  you  wel- 
comed death. 
Her.  From  joy  I  spoke  it ;  but  thus  length  of 

time 

Brings  with  it  much  that  falls  out  to  our  liking, 
And  much  to  cavil  at.     For  who  but  God 
Lives  through  all  age  without  the  stain  of  woe? 
I  could  tell  hardships  and  inclement  watches ; 
Cribs  and  close-pent  up  hatches;  beds  on  plank; 
Our  labours,  rather  call  them  sufT'rings,  were 
Set  by  the  hours  of  each  revolving  day. 
But  this  was  light  to  what  we  bore  on  land : 
Tents  by  the  hostile  walls,  and  drizzling  skies, 
And  marshy  fens,  and  jerkins  mildewed  o'er, 
And,  matty-hair'd,  our  soldiers  look'd  like  beasts. 
Or  shall  I  tell  our  winterings,  and  the  cold 
We  scarce  could  bear,  engender'd  by  the  snows 
That  hid  mount  Ida,  when  the  rage  of  winter 
Swept  from  the  landskip  e'en  the  birds  of  air? 
Or  how  we  broil'd  in  summer's  sultry  calms, 
When,  on  his  mid-day  couch,  the  unruffled  sea 
Slept  in  the  stillness  of  the  noontide  air, 
Without  a  breeze  or  sigh  of  zephyr  heard. 
'Tis  o'er ;  'tis  ended — why  lament  it  now  ? 
Now  all  the  labours  of  the  war  are  past, 
Are  past  to  us ;  ay,  and  past  too  to  them, 
Our  comrades  dead ;  to  them  all  feeling's  past, 
Or  thoughts  of  rising  from  their  lowly  beds. 
Why  talk  of  them,  poor  souls?  why  tell  how  many 
Perish'd,  alas !  and  overcloud  the  joy 
Of  those  whose  life  is  left?    Down,  down,  sad 

thoughts ! 

'Tis  time  to  part  from  grief,  and  welcome  joy. 
We  that  are  left  of  that  great  Argive  host 
Can  say  our  losses  in  the  scale  are  light 
Weigh'd  'gainst  our  gains :  why  we  may  take  our 

station, 

Borne  on  the  wings  of  Fame  o'er  sea  and  land, 
And  show  our  glories  in  the  dazzling  sun, 
Proclaiming  as  we  go — 'These  are  the  spoils 
The  Greeks  have  taken  from  the  towers  of  Troy, 
And  hung  them  in  the  temples  of  their  Gods, 
A  blazonry  for  ages  yet  to  come.' 
As  such  sounds  spread  abroad,  the  listening  world 
Must  needs  our  chiefs  admire,  our  city  laud, 
And  honour  will  be  paid  to  Jove,  whose  grace 
These  deeds  accomplish'd. 

CLYTEXXKSTRA  (u'ho  had  been  apart  during  the 
previous  conversation,  now  approaching,) 

I  have  rejoiced  already,  in  that  hour 
When  the  first  midnight  messenger  of  fire 
Rode  throuirh  the   dark,  proclaiming  Troy  was 

taken. 

Some  arguod  me.  of  lightness  of  belief: 
'.>ure  dost  thou  think  Troy  sack'd,  by  midnight 

fires 

Too  easily  p.-r-uadeil?  Ah!  fond  woman, 
Thou  bear'st  a  buoyant  and  believing  heart.' 


68 


AESCHYLUS. 


I,  thus  perplex'd,  yet,  woman  as  I  was, 
Commanded  sacrifice,  and  through  the  city 
The  solemn  choirs  of  ululation  rang. 
But  now  enough !  I'll  hear  no  more  from  thee  ; 
The  king  comes  shortly ;  from  his  mouth  alone 
I'll  hear  the  rest.     Ay,  now  my  noble  lord 
Arrives !  my  eager  thoughts  fly  forward  to  him, 
My  soul's  in  preparation  to  receive  him. 
And  how  to  do  it  fitly  ?     0  blest  day ! 
Fairest  of  earthly  days  to  her  whose  eyes 
Behold  her  lord  returning,  by  kind  gods, 
Safe  from  the  edge  of  battle — go,  speed  his  steps  ; 
Bid  him  come  quickly  to  his  city,  bid  him 
Back  to  his  wife,  whom  he  will  find  such  as 
He  left  her,  the  true  watch-dog  of  his  hearth, 
Gentle  and  kind  to  him,  and  only  hostile 
To  those  who  wish  him  ill ;  one  who  has  ne'er 
Known  pleasure  in  the  converse  of  another ; 
But  still,  like  metal  from  the  dyer's  hand, 
Stands  pure,  by  breath  of  evil  fame  unsullied. 

[Exit  CLYTEMSTESTRA. 

Her.  'Tis  bravely  spoken,  like  a  noble  woman. 
How  fair  her  lips  spoke  vaunts  of  conscious  truth! 

Ckor.  Indeed,  and  with  becoming  grace  she 

spoke 
Those  fair,  clear,  pearly  words  thy  ears  have 

heard. 

But  let  me  question  thee ;  and,  Herald,  say, 
Is  Menelaus  safe?  comes  he  with  you1? 
Dear  sovereign,  ever  honour'd  in  this  land. 

Her.  His  fate  we  know  not ;  from  the  Achaian 

host 
He  and  his  vessel  both  have  disappeared. 

Chor.  How  spoke  the  current  rumour  of  the 

fleet? 
Think  they  he  lives,  or  perish'd  in  the  storm  ? 

Her.  All  is  in  doubt :  none  knows  to  speak  for 

certain, 

Except  indeed  the  orb  of  day  would  tell, 
The  common  eye  of  nature  and  the  world. 

Chor.  But  tell  us  of  the  tempest. 

Her.  Elements* 

Before  most  hostile,  join'd  in  league  together 
To  wreck  us,  fire  and  water ;  the  wing'd  light- 
ning 

And  sea  did  both  their  utmost.     In  the  night 
The  horrid  clamour  of  the  Thracian  winds 
Gave  note  of  woe,  curling  the  monstrous  deep 
With  rising  billows,  and  uprear'd  the  ships, 
Ship  against  ship,  with  crashing  mainyards  roll'd. 
But  when  the  bright  light  of  the  sun  arose, 
We  saw  the  wide  JEgean  effloresce! 
With  wrecks  of  ships,  and  weltering  carcasses 
Of  Argive  men,  that  the  thick  foam  inlaid. 
We  and  our  ship  (whose  hull  still  bore  it  bravely) 
Escaped  their  doom,  stol'n  or  begg'd  off  from  fate 
By  some  superior  being:  'twas  not  man 
Who    help'd   us    then   and    grasp'd    our   giddy 
helm ; 


*  So  Milton  in  his  Paradise  Regained,  b.  iv. 

"  Fire  with  water 

In  ruin  reconciled." 

fThe  word  in  the  original  conveys  the  idea  of  the  sea 

flowering  with  bodies  and  wrecks,  rising  from  it  as 

flowers  and  plants  from  a  Held.    The  metaphor  is  very 

common  in  Greek  authors. 


And  saving  Fortune  sat  upon  our  ship 
Doing  a  seaman's  duty,  till  we  came 

e  into  harbour  from  the  seething  sea, 
Vor  stranded  on  the  rough  stone-ribbed  coast. 
3  how  the  day  look'd  lovely,  when  ashore 
We  crawl'd,  escaped  from  the  wat'ry  jaws 
Df  a  sea-death !  but  yet  our  sense  so  stunn'd, 
We  scarce  could  credit  it :  then  our  fresh  loss 
mote  heavy  on  us,  and  thick-coming  fancies 
We  fed  upon  in  musing,  as  we  thought 
Of  our  lost  comrades,  and  our  shipwreck'd  host. 
A.nd  now  of  them,  if  some  have  life  and  being, 
Their  converse  is  of  us  as  ours  of  them  ; 
And  now  they  sit  around  with  woful  face, 
And  as  of  men  departed  now  they  speak, 
And  we  the  deadmen,  they  the  mourners  are ; 
3ut  be't  the  best  it  may.     For  Menelaus, 
Look  for  his  coming  first,  our  chiefest  care, 
[f  still  some  peering  sunbeam  can  espy 
The  chief  among  the  living  crowd  of  men, 
And  looking  at  the  gladness  of  life's  day, 
By  Jove's  contrivances,  not  minded  yet 
The  noble  race  of  Atreus  to  destroy ; 
We  still  may  nourish  hopes  he  yet  will  come 
Safe  to  his  native  home.     And  now,  my  friend, 
Thou  hast  heard  all,  and  all  thou  hast  heard  is 


true. 


[Exit  HERALD. 


CHORUS. 


When  Helen  came  to  Ilion's  towers, 
0  what  a  glorious  sight,  I  ween,  was  there ! 
The  tranquil  beauty  of  the  gorgeous  queen 
Hung  soft  as  breathless  summer  on  her  cheeks, 
Where  on  the  damask  sweet  the  glowing  Zephyr 

slept ; 

And  like  an  idol  beaming  from  its  shrine, 
So  o'er  the  floating  gold  around  her  thrown 
Her  peerless  face  did  shine ; 
And   though    sweet   softness   hung    upon   their 

lids, 
Yet  her  young  eyes  still  wounded  where   they 

look'd. 
She  breathed  an  incense  like  Love's  perfumed 

flower, 

Blushing  in  sweetness ;  so  she  seem'd  in  hue, 
And  pained  mortal  eyes  with  her  transcendent. 

view: 

E'en  so  to  Paris'  bed  the  lovely  Helen  came. 
But  dark  Erinnys,  in  the  nuptial  hour, 
Rose  in  the  midst  of  all  that  bridal  pomp, 

Seated  midst  the  feasting  throng, 

Amidst  the  revelry  and  song; 

Erinnys,  led  by  Xenian  Jove, 

Into  the  halls  of  Priam's  sons, 

Erinnys  of  the  mournful  bower, 
Where  youthful  brides  weep   sad   in  midnight 

hour. 

'Twas  said  of  old,  and  men  maintain  it  still, 
Fortune,  how  great  soe'er,  is  never  crown'd, 
But  when  the  great  possessor,  at  the  close 
Of  earthly  grandeur,  leaves  an  heir  behind, 
And  sinks  not  childless  to  his  grave. 
But  then  they  say  it  often  haps 
Fortune  will  wither  on  the  father's  grave, 


AESCHYLUS. 


69 


And  though  his  race  was  blest  before, 

'Twill  bud  with  sorrows  weeping  sore, 

And  never  ending  onoe  begun. 

But  I  think  not,  as  think  the  crowd : 

The  impious  doer  still  begets 

A  brook  of  impious  doers  more, 

Children  and  heirs  of  all  his  wicked  deeds : 

Whilst  from  the  house  of  righteous  men, 

Who  even-handed  justice  love, 

Comes  a  long  line  of  children  good  and  fair. 

Foul  Villany,  that  wanton'd  in  its  day, 

Now  its  old  crimes  by  time  are  half  effaced, 

Still  reproduces  others  fresh  and  young, 

In  generations  new  of  wicked  men ; 

And  brings  its  horrid  progeny  to  light. 


Agamemnon  now  returns,  borne  in  a  sort  of 
triumphal  procession ;  and  seated  in  another  car, 
laden  with  booty,  follows  Cassandra,  his  prisoner 
of  war,  and  mistress,  according  to  the  privilege 
of  the  heroes  of  those  days.  Clytemnestra  greets 
him  with  hypocritical  joy  and  veneration;  she 
orders  her  slaves  to  cover  the  ground  with  the 
most  costly  embroideries  of  purple,  that  it  might 
not  be  touched  by  the  foot  of  the  conqueror. 
Agamemnon,  with  wise  moderation,  at  first  re- 
fuses to  receive  an  honour  due  only  to  the  Gods; 
at  last  he  yields  to  her  invitations,  and  enters  the 
house.  The  Chorus  then  begin  to  utter  dark 
forebodings.  Clytemnestra  returns  to  allure  Cas- 
sandra to  her  destruction  by  the  art  of  soft  per- 
suasion. The  latter  remains  dumb  and  motion- 
less ;  but  the  queen  is  hardly  gone,  when,  seized 
with  a  prophectic  rage,  she  breaks  out  into  the 
most  perplexing  lamentations,  and  afterwards 
unveils  her  prophecies  more  distinctly  to  the 
Chorus : — she  sees  in  her  mind  all  the  enormities 
which  have  been  perpetrated  in  that  house :  the 
repast  of  Thyestes,  which  the  sun  refused  to  look 
on;  the  shadows  of  the  dilacerated  children 
gazing  down  on  her  from  the  battlements  of  the 
palace.  She  sees  also,  the  death  prepared  both 
for  Agamemnon  and  herself — and  then,  as  if 
seized  with  overpowering  fury,  rushes  maniac- 
like,  into  the  house  to  meet  her^oom. 

CLYTEMJTESTHA,  CASSANDRA,  CHORUS. 

Clyt.  Go  in — go  in !  Cassandra !  thee  I  mean, 
Enter  thou  too !  since  in  this  mansion  Jove 
Has  placed  thee,  nothing  wruthfully,  to  share 
With  many  a  slave  the  lavers,  as  thou  stand'st 
By  th'  altar  of  our  fortune-giving  God.* 
Come  forth  from  out  that  wain  :  neither  be  thou 
O'erweening,  too  high-stoniaeh'd  for  thy  lot; — 
Such  once  was  that  of  great  Alcmena's  son. 

Chor.  0  be  persuaded ;  come  down  from  thy 
car. 

Clyt.  I  have  no  time  for  dallying  here  ;  already 
The  victims,  ransr'd  i""r  sarritire.  demand 
Our  presence. — Wouldst  thou  do  our  bidd: 
Take  no  long  time  in  doing  it.     If  thy  tongue 

*  KTHT/CU  &»(*<£>.  The  altar  placed  in  the  buttery,  o 
place  where  provisions  were  kept,  was  consecrated  t 
Ctesian  Jove,  or  Jove  the  Guardian  of  Property. 


£nows  not  to  speak  our  language,  let  some  sign 
Supply   the  place   of  words — speak   with   thy 

hands. 
Chor.  Wild  as  some  new-caught  animal,  she 

needs 
The  aid  of  an  interpreter. 

Clyt.  She  is  mad ; 

And  I  shall  waste  no  further  words  upon  her. 

[Exit  CLYTEMHESTIIA. 
Chor.  Sad  one,  'tis  ours  to  pity,  not  upbraid, 

thee. — 

Then  come  down  from  thy  car ;  submit  to  fate 
And  put  on  thy  new  yoke. 

Cass.  0  woe,  woe,  woe! 

Oh  Earth !  oh  Gods !  Apollo !  oh  Apollo ! 

Chor.  Why  with   that  voice  of  woe    invoke 

Apollo  ? 

Ill  do  these  notes  of  grief  accord  with  him. 
Cass.  Oh  Earth  !  oh  Gods !  Apollo !  oh  Apollo ! 
Chor.  Again  she   calls  upon   the  Gods,  blas- 
pheming! 

Cass.  Apollo !  O  Apollo !  my  Apollo ! 
Now  for  the  second  time  thou  hast  undone  me. 

Chor.  She  seems  to  prophesy  of  her  own  woes. 
God  dwells  within  her,  though  she  be  a  slave  ! 

Cass.  Apollo!  O  Apollo!  my  Apollo! 
Ah!  whither  hast  thou  brought  me?     To  what 

house  ? 
Chor.  Ask'st  thou  what  house  ?    It  is  the  royal 

house 
Of  the  Atridee — what  I  speak  is  truth. 

Cass.  Ha !  ha !  that  dismal  and  abhorred  house ! 
The    good   Gods  hate   its    dark    and    conscious 

walls! 

It  knows  of  kinsmen  by  their  kinsmen  slain, 
And  many  a  horrid  death-rope  swung ! 
A  house,  where  men  like  beasts  are  slain ! 

The  floor  is  all  in  blood ! 
Chor.  The  stranger's  like  a  quick-nosed  hound, 

and  seems 
As  though  she  scented  murder  in  this  house. 

Cass.  These  are  my  witnesses !  I  follow  them ! 
Phantoms  of  children!  terribly  they  weep! 
Their  throats  are  cut !  and  now  behold  the  supper 
Of  roast  flesh  smoking,  which  their  father  eats ! 
Chor.  We  have  heard,  0  prophetess,  of  thy 

great  name ; 
Ay — but  we  want  no  prophets  in  this  house. 

Cass.  Alas!  ye  Gods,  what  is  she  thinking  on? 
And  what  is  this  that  looks  so  young  and  fresh  ? 
Mighty,  mighty  is  the  load 
She  is  unravelling  in  these  dark  halls! 
A  foul  deed  for  her  dear  friends  plotteth  she, 
Too  sore  to  bear,  and  waxing  past  all  cure ! 
Where's    Pity?    dead!     Where's    Succour?    far 

n  way. 

Chor.  What  means  she  ? 

Cass.  \V retell!  ah.  what  art  thou  about? 

A  man's  in  the  bath — beside  him  there  stands 
One  wrapping  him  round — the  bathing  clothes 

drop, 
Like   shroud-    they   appear    to  me,  dabbled    in 

blood  ! 

Yet  'twill  be  quick — 'tis  now  upon  the  stroke ! 
A  hand  is  stretch'd  out — and  another  too ! 
As  though  it  were  a  grasping — look,  look,  look! 


70 


^SCHYLUS. 


Choi:  Tis  yet  al]  dark  to  me :  by  riddles  posed 
I  find  no  way  in  these  blind  oracles. 

Cass,  Ha!  ha!  Alas!  alas!  what's  that? 
Is  that  Hell's  dragnet  that  I  see  1 
Dragnet !  or  woman  ?  she,  the  very  she 
Who  slept  beside  thee  in  the  midnight  bower, 
Wife  and  murd'ress !  Howl,  dark  choirs  ! 
Howl  in  timbrel'd  anthems  dark 
For  Atreus'  deadly  line, 
And  the  stony  shower  of  blood. 
Chor.  Ye  Gods !  what  vengeance  of  a  Fury's 

this ! 

Cass.  Ha!  ha!  see  there!  see  there! 
Keep  the  bull  from  the  heifer,  drive,  drive  her 

away! 

The  bull  is  enchafed  and  hoodwink'd,  and  roars; 
His  black  branching  horns  have  received  the 

death-stab. 
He  sprawls  and  falls  headlong !  he  lies  in  the 

bath, 

Beside  the  great  smouldering  caldron  that  burns  ! 
The  caldron  burns, — it  has  a  deadly  blue ! 

Chor.  No  deep  skill  boast  I  in  the  spell  of  Gods ; 
And  yet  methinks  all  that  she  says  bears  in't 
The  stamp  of  ill ;  but  when  has  aught  of  good 
From  the  divining  power  to  man  accrued  1 
Its  deep  ambiguous  terms  the  truth  invest 
With  mysteries  that  awe  the  inmost  soul. 

Cass.  Alas !  alas !  ah,  wretch !  ah,  luckless  fate ! 
Myself,  myself  I  moan ! 
Wretch  that  I  am !  why  hast  thou  brought  me 

here, 

Unless  to  lie  beside  -him  in  his  death  ? 
Is't  not?  what  else?  what  other  can  it  be? 

Chor.  O  sure  thou  art  one  of  a  deep-raging  soul, 
Driven  mad  by  some  god,  and,  (like  her,  the 

sweet  bird, 

Who  wails  Ityn,  her  Ityn,)  with  unwearied  voice, 
But  vex'd  heart,  pouring  forth  thy  sad  lay. 

Cass.  Ah,  ah!  the  shrill  Nightingale!  0  how  I 

moan 

As  I  think  of  her  fate,  so  unlike  to  my  own ; 
She  has  wings,  and  she  lives  without  sorrow  or 

fear, 

But  my  doom  is  the  axe  or  the  sharp-edg'd  spear ! 
Chor.  Ah !  whence  are  these  sorrows,  that  gush 

from  thine  eyes, 

As  if  thou  wert  dreaming  of  woe  ? 
And   that   ominous   cry,   that   wild    scream   of 

affright? 
Whence,  whence  that  dark  spell  of  more  than 

man's  lore, 
That  ill-boding,  horrible  spell  ? 

Cass.  O  nuptials  of  Paris !  0  nuptials  of  death 
To  his  friends !  0  Scamarider,  my  sweet  native 

stream ! 
Ah,  wretch   that   I    am!    then   I   roved  by  thy 

stream, 

Young,  careless,  and  happy !  but  now  I  must  go 

To  Cocytus'  banks, — there  to  sing  my  dark  woe  ! 

Chor.  What's  this  thou  hast  oracled  ? — horrid, 

yet  clear — 

A  babe  might  e'en  know  it. — Mine  engored  heart 
Is  with  terror  struck  down,  as  thou  wail'st  thy 

dark  fate, 
Making  moan,  that  astounds  me  to  hear. 


Cass.  OTroy!  Woes  of  Troy!  now  all-prostrate 

and  lone ! 

0  ye  altars,  that  blaz'd  before  Priam's  high  throne ! 
Vain,  vain  your  blood-offerings,  your  victims,  to 

save 
Troy's  towers  from  destruction,  Troy's  sons  from 

the  grave. 

Even  I  soon  on  earth  must  my  warm  blood  out- 
pour. 

Chor.  That  strain's  a  sequel  to  the  strain  before. 
Cass.    Pale    phantoms    brood    within    these 

guarded  towers ; 

Screams  are  heard  nightly,  and  a  dismal  din 
Of  strange,  terrific,  and  unearthly  choirs, 
Singing  in  horrid,  full,  harmonious  chord. 
What  do  they  sing  of?  Nothing  good  I  ween. 
for,  blood  of  mortal  man  since  they  have  drank, 
Still  more  unquenchable  their  riot  grows. 
The  Masque  of  Sisters !  the  Erinnyes  drear ! 
They  are  all  seated  in  the  rooms  above, 
Chanting  how  At&  came  into  the  house* 
In  the  beginning :  gloomily  they  look ! 
Each  sings  the  lay  in  catches  round,  each  has 
Foam  on  her  lips,  and  gnashes  grim  her  teeth, 
Where  heavily  the  incestuous  brother  sleeps, 
Stretch'd  in  pale  slumber  on  the  haunted  bed. 
Ha !  do  the  shafts  fly  upright  at  the  mark  ? 
Fly  the  shafts  right,  or  has  the  yew-bow  miss'd? 
Methinks  the  wild  beast  in  the  covert's  hit ; 
Or  rave  I,  dreaming  of  prophetic  lies  ? 
Come,  bear  thou  witness,  out  with  it  on  oath, 
That  I  know  well  the  old  sins  of  this  house. 

Chor.  How  can  an  oath,  the  evil  fix'd  so  fast, 
Help  it  or  cure  it?  But  thou  movest  our  wonder, 
Bred  in  strange  land,  in  city  stranger-tongued, 
Far  beyond  seas,  that  thou  shouldst  speak  as  if 
Thou   hadst   been   present   at  the  scenes  thou 

speak 'st  of. 

Cass.  Prophet  Apollo  gave  me  this  high  boon. 
Chor.  From  love  of  thee  ?  the  God,  felt  he  de- 
sire? 
Cass.  Before  this  hour  I  fear'd  for  shame  to 

tell  it. 

Clior.  Ay,  for  great  folks  are  delicate  and  nice. 
Cass.  He  was  a  champion,  vehemently  breath- 
ing 

The  breath  of  love  and  pleasing  fire  upon  me. 
Chor.  Came  there  a  marriage  then  'twixt  him 

and  thee  ? 

Cass.  I  said  it  should  be,  but  I  spoke  him  false.t 
Chor.  At  that  time  was  thou  of  his  arts  possest  ? 
Cass.  E'en  so,  that  I  was  then  a  prophetess 
Foretelling  to  my  country  all  its  woes ! 


*  The  crime  in  the  family  of  Atreus,  here  alluded  to, 
was  the  adultery  of  Thyestes  with  A&rope,  his  brother's 
wife,  which  formed  the  subject  of  Euripides'  Cressse. 
Otherwise  the  first  crime  upon  record  of  this  unfortunate 
family  was  the  treacherous  murder  of  Myrtilus  by  Pelops, 
on  the  false  accusation  of  his  wife  Hippodamia.  See  the 
story  told  at  full  length,  and  not  much  to  the  credit  of  this 
young  Grecian  princess,  in  Eustathius,  185,  edit.  Rom. 
The  intrigue  of  Thyestes  and  ASrope  is  alluded  to  aiso 
in  Eurip.  Elec.  720. 

t  All  this  story  of  Apollo's  love  for  Cassandra,  his  gift 
to  her  of  inspiration,  and  her  chaste  deception  of  him, 
are  commonly  known.  Lycophron,  in  his  Alexandra, 
makes  her  give  the  same  history  of  it. 


AESCHYLUS. 


71 


Chor.    How    then?     And    didst    thou    'scape 
Apollo's  wrath  ? 

Cos*.  For  my  transgression,  none  believed  my 
words ! 

Chor,  To  us  thy  words  seem  worthy  of  belief. 

Cass.  0!  0!  hu!  hu!  alas! 

The  pains  again  have  seized  me!  my  brain  turns! 
Hark  to  the  alarum  and  prophetic  cries ! 
The  dizziness  of  horror  swims  my  head ! 
D'ye  see  those  yonder,  sitting  on  the  towers  ? 
Like  dreams  their  figures !  Blood-red  is  their  hair  ! 
Like   young  ones  murder'd  by  some   kinsman 

false! 

Horrible  shadows!  with  hands  full  of  flesh  ! 
Their  bowels  and  their  entrails  they  hold  up, 
Their  own  flesh,  0  most  execrable  dish ! 
They  hold  it!  out  of  it  their  father  ate  ! 
But  in  revenge  of  them  there's  one  who  plots, 
A  certain  homebred,  crouching,  coward  lion ; 
Upon  his  lair  the  lolling  lion  turns, 
And  keeps  house  close,  until  the  coming  of 
My  muster!  said  I  master?  Out!  alas! 
I  am  a  slave,  and  I  must  bear  the  yoke. 
King  of  the  ships,  and  sacker  of  great  Troy, 
Thou  know'st  not  what  a  hateful  bitch's  tongue 
Glozing  and  fawning,  sleekfaced  all  the  while, 
Will  do !  like  Ate  stealing  in  the  dark ! 
Out  on  such  daring !  female  will  turn  slayer 
And  kill  the  male!  What  name  to  call  her?  Snake, 
Horrible  monster,  crested  amphisboena, 
Or  some  dire  Scylla  dwelling  amid  rocks! 
Ingulphing  seamen  in  her  howling  caves ! 
The  raving  of  Hell's  mother  fires  her  cheeks, 
And,  like  a  pitiless  Mars,  her  nostrils  breathe 
To  all  around  her  war  and  trumpet's  rage. 
O  what  a  shout  was  there !  it  tore  the  skies 
As  in  the  battle  when  the  tide  rolls  back ! 
'Twas  the  great  championess — how  fierce,  how 

fell! 

MS  all  joy,  and  welcome  home,  sweet  lord, 
The  war  is  o'er,  the  merry  feast's  begun. 
Well,  well,  ye  don't  believe  me — 'tis  all  one. 
For  why?  what  will  be,  will  be  ;  time  will  come  ; 
Ye  will  be  there,  and  pity  me,  and  say, 
'  She  was  indeed  too  true  a  prophetess.' 

Chor.  Thyestes'  bloody  feast  I  oft  have  heard 

of— 
Her  drift  beyond  that  point  I  cannot  see. 

Cass.  I  say,  thou  shalt  see  Agamemnon's  death ! 

Chor.  What  man  such  execrable  deed  designs? 

Cass.   What  man?  I  pity  thee ;  thou  art  won- 
drous dim, 
And  hast  o'erlooked  my  oracles  in 

Chor.  But  they  arc  dark,  and  hard  fur  us  to  find. 

Cass.  0  what  a  mighty  fire  comes  rolling  on 

me! 

Help!  help!  Lycean  Apollo!  Ah  me!  ah  me! 
She  there,  that  twn-lo^'d  lioness!  lying  with 
A  wolf,  tlit'  highbred  li"ii  brinir  away. 
Will  kill  me!  woeful  creature  that  I  am! 
And  like  one  busy  mixing  poi-on  up, 
She'll  till  me  such  a  cup  tc«>  in  her  ire! 
She  cries  out,  whetting  all  the  while  a  sword 

-t  him.  'tis  me.  and  I-T  my  bringing  here 
That  such  a  forfeit  must  be  paid  with  death! 
O  why  then  keep  this  mockery  on  my  head  ? 


Off  with  ye,  laurels,  necklaces,  and  wands! 
The  crown  of  the  prophetic  maiden's  gone  ! 

[Tearing  her  robes. 
Away,  away!  die  ye  ere  yet  I  die! 
I  will  requite  your  blessings,  thus,  thus,  thus! 
Find  out  some  other  maiden,  dight  her  rich, 
Ay,  dight  her  rich  in  miseries  like  me ! 
And  lo!  Apollo!  himself!  tearing  off 
My  vest  oracular!  Oh!  cruel  God! 
Thou  hast  beheld  me,  e'en  in  these  thy  robes, 
Scoff'd  at  when  I  was  with  my  kinsmen  dear, 
And  made  my  enemies'  most  piteous  despite, 
And  many  a  bad  name  had  I  for  thy  sake ; 
A  Cybele's  mad-woman,  beggar  priestess, 
Despised,  unheeded,  beggar'd,  and  in  hunger ; 
And  yet  I  bore  it  all  for  thy  sweet  sake. 
And  now  to  fill  thy  cup  of  vengeance  up, 
Prophet,  thou  hast  undone  thy  prophetess ! 
And  led  me  to  these  passages  of  death  ! 
A  block  stands  for  the  altar  of  my  sire ; 
It  waits  for  me,  upon  its  edge  to  die, 
Stagger'd  with  blows — in  hot  red  spouting  blood! 
Oh!  oh!  but  the  great  gods  will  hear  my  cries 
Shrilling  for  vengeance  through  the  vaulted  roofs ! 
The  gods  will  venge  us  when  we're  dead  and 

cold. 

Another  gallant  at  death-deeds  will  come ! 
Who's  at  the  gates  ?  a  young  man  fair  and  tall, 
A  stranger,  by  his  garb,  from  foreign  parts; 
Or  one  who  long  since  has  been  exiled  here : 
A  stripling,  murderer  of  his  mother's  breast ! 
Brave  youth,  avenger  of  his  father's  death! 
He'll  come  to  build  the  high-wrought  architrave, 
Surmounting  all  the  horrors  of  the  dome. 
I  say,  the  gods  have  sworn  that  he  shall  come. 
His  father's  corse  (his  crest  lies  on  the  ground) 
Rises,  and  towers  before  him  on  the  road ! 
What  mourning  still?  what  still  my  eyes  in  tears? 
And  here,  too,  weeping  on  a  foreign  land  ? 
I,  who  have  seen  high-tower'd  Ilion's  town 
Fall,  as  it  fell ;  whilst  they  who  dwelt  therein 
Are,  as  they  are!  before  high-judging  Heaven! 
I'll  go  and  do  it !  I'll  be  bold  to  die ! 
I  have  a  word  with  ye,  ye  gates  of  hell ! 

[To  the  gates  of  the  palace  as  she  is  about  to  enter. 
I  pray  ye.  let  me  have  a  mortal  stroke, 
That  without  struggling,  all  this  body's  blood 
Pouring  out  plenteously,  in  gentle  stream 
Of  easy  dying,  I  may  close  my  eyes ! 

Chor.  0  woeful  creature,  woeful,  too,  and  wise ! 
0  maid,  thou  hast  been  wand'ring  far  and  wide! 
But  if  in  earnest  thou  dost  know  thy  fate, 
Why  like  a  heifer,  goaded  by  a  god, 
Dost  thou  thus  fearless  to  the  altar  walk  ? 

Cass.  Hide  where  I  will ;  there's  no  escape 
from  fate. 

Chor.  Yet  is  there  some  advantage  in  delay. 

Cass.  My  day  is  come,  by  flight  I  should  gain 
little. 

Chor.  Know   then,  thou'lt  suffer   from   being 
over  bnld. 

C<iss.  But  to  die  gloriously  is  honour's  crown. 

Chor.  None  ever  hears  the  happy  speak  such 

WO! 

Cas*.  Oh  Father !  oh ! — Thou  and    thy  noble 
sons !  [Starting  back. 


72 


AESCHYLUS. 


Chor.  What  ails  thee  now  ?    What  caus'd  that 
start? 

Cass.  Foh!  Foh! 

Chor.  What  means  foh,  foh  ?     Some  loathing 
at  tliy  heart  1 

Cass.  The  house  breathes  scents  of  murder. 

Chor.  Tis  the  scent 

Of  burning  sacrifice  upon  our  altars. 

Cass.  No ;  rather  like  a  vapour  from  the  tomb  ! 

Chor.  There  breathes  no  Syrian  odour  in  thy 
words. 

Cass.  Wailing  my  own  and  Agamemnon's  fate, 
These  domes  I  enter !     Life,  enough  of  thee ! 
And,  strangers  see !     Not  like  a  timorous  bird, 
Do  I  draw  back  to  shun  the  fowler's  snare. 

0  bear  this  witness  to  a  dying  woman, 

When  the  day  comes  that  blood  shall  flow  for 

blood, 

Woman's  for  woman's ;  Man's  for  man's,  for  this 
Ill-mated  man's — 0  then  remember  me. 

Chor.  Oh!  I  do  pity  thee,  unhappy  maid! 
For  thy  sad  tragic  and  predestined  fate. 

Cass.  Once  more !  once  more !  oh  let  my  voice 
be  heard ! 

1  love  to  sing  the  dirges  of  the  dead, 

My  own  death  knell,  myself  my  death  knell 

ring! 

The  sun  rides  high,  but  soon  will  set  for  me ; 
O  sun !  I  pray  to  thee  by  thy  last  light, 
And  unto  those  who  will  me  honour  do, 
Upon  my  hateful  murderers  wreak  the  blood 
Of  the  poor  slave  they  murder  in  her  chains, 
A  helpless,  easy,  unresisting  victim ! 
Alas  for  mortals ! — what  their  power  and  pride  ? 
A  little  shadow  sweeps  it  from  the  earth ! 
And  if  they  suffer — why  the  fatal  hour 
Comes  o'er  the  record  like  a  moisten'd  spunge 
And  blots  it  out. 

[Exit  CASSANDRA. 

Scarcely  has  the  prophetess  withdrawn,  than 
we  hear  behind  the  scenes  the  groans  of  the 
murdered  king.  The  palace  opens  and  Clytem- 
nestra  is  seen  standing  beside  the  dead  body  of 
her  lord — an  undaunted  criminal,  who  not  only 
confesses  the  deed,  but  boasts  of  it  as  a  just  re- 
quital for  Agamemnon's  sacrifice  of  Iphigeneia 
to  his  own  ambition. 


ON   THOSE   WHO   FELL   AT  THER- 


THESE,  too,  defenders  of  their  country  fell ; 

Their  mighty  souls  to  gloomy  death  betray 'd : 
Immortal  is  their  fame  who,  suffering  well, 

Of  Ossa's  dust  a  glorious  garment  made. 


FROM  THE  PERSIANS. 

"  THE  PERSIANS"  may  be  considered  rather  in 
the  light  of  a  proud  triumphal  song  in  honour  of 
Liberty,  than  of  a  regular  tragedy.  It  was  ex- 
hibited eight  years  after  the  defeat  of  Xerxes  at 
Salamis,  whilst  the  memory  of  each  circumstance 
was  yet  recent,  so  that  the  narration  may  be  con- 


sidered, in  some  degree,  as  a  history  of  that  great 
event. — The  scene  is  at  Susa,  and  near  the  tomb 
of  Darius. 

ATOSSA,  CHORUS. 

.  Indulge  me,  friends,  who  wish  to  be  in- 
formed 

Where,  in  what  clime,  the   towers  of  Athens 
rise? 

Chor.  Far  in  the  west,  where  sets  the  imperial 
sun. 

./fross.  Yet  my  son  willed  the  conquest  of  this 
town. 

Chor.  May  Greece,  through  all  her  states,  bend 
to  his  power. 

Jltoss.  Do  they  send  numerous  armies  to  the 
field? 

Chor.  Armies,  that  to  the  Medes  have  wrought 
much  woe. 

Jltoss.  Have  they  sufficient  treasures  in  their 
houses  ? 

Chor.  Their  rich  earth  is  a  copious  fount  of 
silver. 

Jltoss.  From  the    strong  bow  wing  they  the 
•    barbed  shaft  ? 

Chor.  No ;   but   they  have    stout   spears   and 
massy  bucklers. 

Jltoss.  What  monarch  reigns,  and  who  com- 
mands their  army? 

Chor.  Slaves  to  no  lord,  they  own  not  kingly 
power. 

Jltoss.  How  can  they  then  resist  the  invading 
foes? 

Chor.  So  as  to  destroy  the  armies  of  Darius. 

Jltoss.  Serious  your  words  to  parents,  who  have 
sons  there. 

Chor.  But  if  I  judge  aright,  thou  soon  shalt  hear 
Each  circumstance ;   for  here's  a  Persian  mes- 
senger. 
Tidings,  no  doubt,  he  brings  of  good  or  ill. 

Enter  MESSENGER. 
Mess.  Woe    to  the   towns   of  Asia's   peopled 

realms ! 

Woe  to  the  land  of  Persia,  once  the  port 
Of   boundless   wealth!     All,   at    a    blow,   has 

perished ! 

Ah  me  !  How  sad  his  task,  who  brings  ill  tidings. 
But  to  my  tale  of  woe — I  needs  must  tell  it. 
Persians,  the  whole  barbaric  host  has  fallen. 
Chor.  O  horror,  horror,  what  a  train  of  ills. 
Mess.  I  speak  not  from  report ;  but  these  mine 

eyes 
Beheld  the  ruin  which  my  tongue  would  utter. 

Chor.  Alas!  Is  Ellas  then  unscathed  ?.  And  has 
Our  arrowy  tempest  spent  its  force  in  vain? 
Mess.  In  heaps  the  unhappy  dead  lie  on  the 

strand 

Of  Salamis  and  all  the  neighbouring  shores. 
Chor.  Raise    the    funereal   cry,    with    dismal 

notes 

Wailing  the  wretched  Persians.     Oh,  how  ill 
They  planned  their  measures!     All  their  army 

perished ! 

Mess.  0  Salamis,  how  hateful  is  thy  name ! 
Oh,  how  my  heart  groans  but  to  think  of  Athens ! 


AESCHYLUS. 


73 


Chor.  How  dreadful  to  her  foes !     Call  to  re- 
membrance 

How  many  Persian  dames,  wedded  in  vain, 
Hath  Athens  of  their  noble  husbands  widow'd? 
Moss.  Astonied  with  these  ills,  my  voice  thus 

long 

Hath  wanted  utterance :  griefs  like  these  exceed 
The  power  of  speech  or  question :  yet  ev'n  such, 
Inflicted  by  the  gods,  must  mortal  man 
Constraint  by  hard  necessity  endure. 
But  tell  me  all,  without  distraction  tell  me, 
All  this  calamity,  though  many  a  groan 
Burst  from  thy  labouring  heart.  Who  is  not  fallen  1 
What  leader  must  we   wail?     What    sceptred 

chief 
Dying  hath  left  his  troops  v/ithout  a  lord  ? 

Mess.  Xerxes  himself  lives,  and  beholds  the 

light. 
Moss.  That  word  beams  comfort  on  my  house, 

a  ray 

That  brightens  through  the  melancholy  gloom. 
Mess.  Artembares,  the  potent  chief  that  led 
Ten  thousand  horse,  lies  slaughtered  on  the  rocks 
Of  rough  Sileniae.     The  great  Dadaces, 
Beneath  whose    standard  march'd   a   thousand 

horse, 

Pierced  by  a  spear,  fell  headlong  from  the  ship. 
Tenagon,  bravest  of  the  Bactrians,  lies 
Roll'd  on  the  wave-worn  beach  of  Ajax'  isle. 
Lilaeus,  Arsames,  Argestes,  dash 
With  violence  in  death  against  the  rocks 
Where  nest   the    silver   doves.*     Arcteus,  that 

dwelt 

Near  to  the  fountains  of  the  Egyptian  Nile, 
Adeues,  and  Pheresba,  and  Pharnuchus 
Fell  from  one  ship.     Matallus,  Chrysa's  chief, 
That   led    his   dark'ning    squadrons,  thrice  ten 

thousand," 

On  jet-black  steeds,  with  purple  gore  distain'd 
The  yellow  of  his  thick  and  shaggy  beard. 
The  Magian  Arabus,  and  Artames 
From  Bactra,  mould'ring  on  the  dreary  shore 
Lie  low.     Amistris,  and  Amphistreus  there 
Grasps  his  war-wearied  spear;   there  prostrate 

lies 

The  illustrious  Ariomardus ;  long  his  loss 
Shall  Sardis  weep  :  thy  Mysian  Sisames, 
And  Tharybis,  that  o'er  the  burden'd  deep 
Led  five  times  fifty  vessels ;  Lerna  gave 
The  hero  birth,  and  manly  grace  adorn'd 
His  pleasing  form,  but  low  in  death  he  lies 
Unhappy  in  his  fate.     Syennc-is. 
Cilicia's  warlike  chief,  who  dared  to  front 
The  foremost  dangers,  singly  to  the  foes 
A  terror,  there  too  found  a  glorious  death. 
These  chieftains  to  my  sad  remembrance  rise, 
Relating  but  a  few  of  many  ills. 

Moss.  This  is  the  height  of  ill,  ah  me !  and 

shame 

To  Persia,  grief,  and  lamentation  loud. 
But  tell  me  this,  afresh  renew  thy  tale  : 
What  was  the  number  of  the  Grecian  fleet, 
That  in  fierce  conflict  their  bold  barks  should  dare 


*  Salamis  was  the  birth-place  of  Ajax,  and  sacred  to 
Venus ;  hence  it  was  said  to  abound  with  doves. 
10 


Rush  to  encounter  with  the  Persian  hosts. 

Mess.  Know  then,  in   numbers   the  barbaric 

fleet 

Was  far  superior:  in  ten  squadrons,  each 
Of  thirty  ships,  Greece  plough'd  the  deep ;  of 

these 

One  held  a  distant  station.     Xerxes  led 
A  thousand  ships;  their  number  well  I  know; 
Two  hundred  more,  and  seven,  that  swept  the 

seas 

With  speediest  sail :  this  was  their  full  amount. 
And  in  the  engagement  seem'd  we  not  secure 
Of  victory  ?     But  unequal  fortune  sunk 
Our  scale  in  fight,  discomfitting  our  host. 

Moss.  The  gods  preserve  the  city  of  Minerva. 

Mess.  The  walls  of  Athens  are  impregnable, 
Their  firmest  bulwarks  her  heroic  sons. 

Moss.  Which  navy  first  advanced  to  the  attack? 
Who  led  to  the  onset,  tell  me ;  the  bold  Greeks, 
Or,  glorying  in  his  numerous  fleet,  my  son  ? 

Mess.  Our  evil  genius,  lady,  or  some  god 
Hostile  to  Persia,  led  to  ev'ry  ill. 
Forth  from  the  troops  of  Athens  came  a  Greek, 
And  thus  address'd  thy  son,  the  imperial  Xerxes: 
"  Soon  as  the  shades  of  night  descend,  the  Gre- 
cians 

Shall  quit  their  station ;  rushing  to  their  oars 
They  mean  to  separate,  and  in  secret  flight 
Seek  safety."     At  these  words,  the  royal  chief, 
Little  conceiving  of  the  wiles  of  Greece 
And  gods  averse,  to  all  the  naval  leaders 
Gave  his  high  charge  : — "  Soon  as  yon  sun  shall 


To  dart  his  radiant  beams,  and  dark'ning  night 
Ascends  the  temple  of  the  sky,  arrange 
In  three  divisions  your  well-ordered  ships, 
And  guard  each  pass,  each  outlet  of  the  seas : 
Others  enring  around  this  rocky  isle 
Of  Salamis.     Should  Greece  escape  her  fate, 
And  work  her  way  by  secret  flight,  your  heads 
Shall  answer  the  neglect."  This  harsh  command 
He  gave,  exulting  in  his  mind,  nor  knew 
What  Fate  design'd.     With  martial  discipline 
And  prompt  obedience,  snatching  a  repast, 
Each  mariner  fix'd  well  his  ready  oar. 
Soon  as  the  golden  sun  was  set,  and  night 
Advanced,  each  train'd  to  ply  the  dashing  oar, 
Assumed  his  seat ;  in  arms  each  warrior  stood, 
Troop  cheering  troop  through  all  the  ships  of  war. 
Each  to  the  appointed  station  steers  his  course ; 
And  through  the  night  his  naval  force  each  chief 
Fix'd  to  secure  the  passes.     Night  advanced, 
But  not  by  secret  flight  did  Greece  attempt 
To  escape.     The  morn,  all  beauteous  to  behold, 
Drawn  by  white  steeds  bounds  o'er  the  enlight- 

en'd  earth ; 

At  once  from  ev'ry  Greek  with  glad  acclaim 
Burst  forth  the  song  of  war,  whose  lofty  notes 
The  echo  of  the  island  rocks  return'd, 
Spreading  dismay  through  Persia's   hosts,  thus 

fallen 

From  thi'ir  high  hopes;  no  flight  this  solemn  strain 
Portended,  but  deliberate  valour  bent 
On  daring  battle ;  while  the  trumpet's  sound 
Kindled  the  flames  of  war.  But  when  their  oars 
The  paean  ended,  with  impetuous  force 
o 


74 


AESCHYLUS. 


Dash'd  the  resounding  surges,  instant  all 
Rush'd  on  in  view  :  in  orderly  array 
The  squadron  on  the  right  first  led,  behind 
Rode   their   whole   fleet;   and  now  distinct  we 

heard 

From  ev'ry  part  this  voice  of  exhortation : — 
"  Advance,  ye  sons  of  Greece,  from  thraldom  save 
Your  country, — save  your  wives,  your  children 

save, 

The  temples  of  your  gods,  the  sacred  tomb 
Where  rest  your  honour'd  ancestors  ;  this  day 
The  common  cause  of  all  demands  your  valour." 
Meantime  from  Persia's  hosts  the  deep'ning  shout 
Answer'd  their  shout;  no  time  for  cold  delay; 
But  ship  'gainst  ship  its  brazen  beak  impell'd. 
First  to  the  charge  a  Grecian  galley  rush'd ; 
111  the  Phoenician  bore  the  rough  attack, 
Its  sculptured  prow  all  shatter'd.   Each  advanced 
Daring  an  opposite.     The  deep  array 
Of  Persia  at  the  first  sustain'd  the  encounter ; 
But  their  throng'd  numbers,  in  the  narrow  seas 
Confined,  want  room  for  action  ;  and,  deprived 
Of  mutual  aid,  beaks  clash  with  beaks,  and  each 
Breaks  all  the  other's  oars :  with  skill  disposed 
The  Grecian  navy  circled  them  around 
In  fierce  assault;  and  rushing  from  its  height 
The  inverted  vessel  sinks :  the  sea  no  more 
Wears  its  accustomed  aspect,  with  foul  wrecks 
And  blood  disfigured  ;  floating  carcasses 
Roll  on  the  rocky  shores :  the  poor  remains 
Of  the  barbaric  armament  to  flight 
Ply  every  oar  inglorious :  onward  rush 
The  Greeks  amidst  the  ruins  of  the  fleet, 
As  through  a  shoal  of  fish  caught  in  the  net, 
Spreading  destruction:  the  wide  ocean  o'er 
Wailings  are  heard,  and  loud  laments,  till  night 
With   darkness   on   her  brow   brought   grateful 

truce. 

Should  I  recount  each  circumstance  of  woe, 
Ten  times  on  my  unfinished  tale  the  sun 
Would  set ;  for  be  assured  that  not  one  day 
Could  close  the  ruin  of  so  vast  a  host. 

Jltoss.  Ah,  what  a  boundless  sea  of  woe  hath 

burst 
On  Persia,  and  the  whole  barbaric  race ! 

Mess.  These  are  not  half,  not  half  our  ills ;  on 

these 

Came  an  assemblage  of  calamities, 
That  sunk  us  with  a  double  weight  of  woe. 
Moss.  What  fortune  can  be  more  unfriendly 

to  us 

Than  this  ?     Say  on,  what  dread  calamity 
Sunk  Persia's  host  with  greater  weight  of  woe. 
Mess.  Whoe'er  of  Persia's  warriors  glow'd  in 

prime 

Of  vig'rous  youth,  or  felt  their  generous  souls 
Expand  with  courage,  or  for  noble  birth 
Shone  with  distinguish'd  lustre,  or  excelled 
In  firm  and  duteous  loyalty,  all  these 
Are  fall'n,  ignobly,  miserably  fall'n. 

Atoss.  Alas,  their  ruthless  fate,  unhappy  friends ! 
But  in  what  manner,  tell  me,  did  they  perish  ? 

Mess.  Full  against  Salamis  an  isle  arises, 
Of  small  circumference,  to  the  anchor'd  bark 
Unfaithful ;  on  the  promontory's  brow, 
That  overlooks  the  sea,  Pan  loves  to  lead 


The  dance :   to   this  the  monarch   sends  these 

chiefs, 
That  when   the  Grecians   from  their    shatter'd 

ships 
Should  here  seek  shelter,  these  might  hew  them 

down 

An  easy  conquest,  and  secure  the  strand 
To  their  sea-wearied  friends ;  ill-judging  what 
The  event:  but  when  the  fav'ring  god  to  Greece 
Gave  the  proud  glory  of  this  naval  fight, 
Instant  in  all  their  glittering  arms  they  leap'd 
From  their  light  ships,  and  all  the  island  round 
Encompass'd,  that  our  bravest  stood  dismay'd ; 
While  broken  rocks,  whirl'd  with  tempestuous 

force, 
And  storms  of  arrows  crush'd  them ;  then  the 

Greeks 

Rush  to  the  attack  at  once,  and  furious  spread 
The  carnage,  till  each  mangled  Persian  fell. 
Deep  were  the  groans  of  Xerxes  when  he  saw 
This  havoc ;  for  his  seat,  a  lofty  mound 
Commanding  the  wide  sea,  o'erlooked  his  hosts.* 
With  rueful  cries  he  rent  his  royal  robes, 
And  through  his  troops  embattled  on  the  shore 
Gave  signal  of  retreat ;  then  started  wild, 
And  fled  disorder'd.     To  the  former  ills 
These  are  fresh  miseries  to  awake  thy  sighs. 

Jltoss.  Invidious  Fortune,  how  thy  baleful  power 
Hath  sunk  the  hopes  of  Persia !    Bitter  fruit 
My  son  hath  tasted  from  his  purposed  vengeance 
On  Athens,  famed  for  arms;  the  fatal  field 
Of  Marathon,  red  with  barbaric  blood, 
Sufficed  not ;  that  defeat  he  thought  to  avenge, 
And  pull'd  this  hideous  ruin  on  his  head. 
But  tell  me,  if  thou  canst,  where  didst  thou  leave 
The  ships  that  happily  escaped  the  wreck? 
Mess.  The  poor  remains  of  Persia's  scatter'd 

fleet 

Spread  ev'ry  sail  for  flight,  as  the  wind  drives, 
In  wild  disorder ;  and  on  land  no  less 
The  ruin'd  army;  in  Bceotia  some, 
With  thirst  oppress'd,  at  Crene's  cheerful  rills 
Were  lost;  fore  spent  with  breathless  speed  some 

pass 

The  fields  of  Phocis,  some  the  Doric  plain, 
And  near  the  gulf  of  Melia,  the  rich  vale 
Through  which  Sperchius  rolls  his  friendly  stream. 
Achaia  thence  and  the  Thessalian  state 
Received  our  famish'd  train ;  the  greater  part 
Through  thirst  and  hunger  perish'd  there,  oppress'd 
At  once  by  both :  but  we  our  painful  steps 
Held  onwards  to  Magnesia,  and  the  land 
Of  Macedonia,  o'er  the  ford  of  Axius, 
And  Bolbe's  sedgy  marches,  and  the  heights 
Of  steep  Pangseos,  to  the  realms  of  Thrace. 
That  night,  e'er  yet  the  season,  breathing  frore, 
Rush'd  winter,  and  with  ice  encrusted  o'er 
The  flood  of  sacred  Strymon :  Such  as  own'd 
No  god  till  now,  awe-struck,  with  many  a  prayer 


*  A  king  sate  on  the  rocky  brow 

Which  looka  o'er  sea-born  Salamis; 
And  ships,  by  thousands,  lay  below, 

And  men  in  nations  ; — all  were  his  ! 
He  counted  them  at  break  of  day— 
And  when  the  sun  set,  where  were  they? 

Byron. 


AESCHYLUS. 


75 


Adored  the  earth  and  sky.  When  now  the  troops 
Had  ceased  their  invocations  to  the  gods, 
O'er  the  stream's  solid  crystal  they  began 
Their  march ;  and  we,  who  took  our  early  way, 
Ere  the  sun  darted  his  warm  beams,  pass'd  safe : 
But  when  his  burning  orb  with  fiery  rays 
Unbound  the  middle  current,  down  they  sunk 
Each  over  other ;  happiest  he  who  found 
The    speediest   death :   the   poor   remains,  that 

'scaped, 

With  pain  through  Thrace  dragg'd  on  their  toil- 
some march, 

A  feeble  few,  and  reach'd  their  native  soil; 
So  Persia  sighs  through  all  her  states,  and  mourns 
Her  dearest  youth.     This  is  no  feigned  tale  : 
But  many  of  the  ills,  that  burst  upon  us 
In  dreadful  vengeance,  I  refrain  to  utter. 

Chor.  0  Fortune,  heavy  with  affliction's  load, 
How  hath  thy  foot  crush'd  all  the  Persian  race ! 

Jltoss.  Ah  me,  what  sorrows  for  our  ruin'd  host 
Oppress  my  soul !  Ye  visions  of  the  night, 
Haunting  my  dreams,  how  plainly  did  you  show 
These  ills! — You  set  them  in  too  fair  a  light. 
Yet,  since  your  bidding  hath  in  this  prevailed, 
First  to  the  gods  wish  I  to  pour  my  prayers, 
Then  to  the  mighty  dead  present  my  off'rings, 
Bringing  libations  from  my  house :  too  late, 
I  know,  to  change  the  past ;  yet  for  the  future, 
If  haply  better  fortune  may  await  it, 
Behooves  you,  on  this  sad  event,  to  guide 
Your  friends  with  faithful  counsels.     Should  my 

son 

Return  ere  I  have  finish'd,  let  your  voice 
Speak  comfort  to  him ;  friendly  to  his  house 
Attend  him,  nor  let  sorrow  rise  on  sorrows. 

CHORUS. 

Strophe. 
Awful  sovereign  of  the  skies, 

When  now  o'er  Persia's  numerous  host 
Thou  badest  the  storm  with  ruin  rise, 
All  her  proud  vaunts  of  glory  lost, 
Ecbatana's  imperial  head 

By  thee  was  wrapt  in  sorrow's  dark'ning  shade; 
Through  Susa's  palaces  with  loud  lament, 
By  their  soft  hands  their  veils  all  rent, 
The  copious  tear  the  virgins  pour, 
That  trickles  their  bare  bosoms  o'er. 
From  her  sweet  couch  up  starts  the  widow'd 

bride, 

Her  lord's  loved  image  rushing  on  her  soul, 
Throws  the  rich  ornaments  of  youth  aside, 

And  gives  her  griefs  to  flow  without  control : 
Her  griefs  not  causeless ;  for  the  mighty  slain 
Our  melting  tears  demand,  and  sorrow-soften'd 
strain. 

Jlntistrophe. 
Now  her  waiting's  wide  <!. 

Pours  these  exhausted  regions  o'er : 
Xerxes,  ill-fated,  led  the  war ; 

Xerxes,  ill-fated,  leads  no  more; 
Xerxes  sent  forth  the  unwise  command. 
The  crowded  ships  unpeopled  all  the  land ; 

That  land,  o'er  which  Darius  held  his  reign, 
Courting  the  arts  of  peace,  in  vain, 


O'er  all  his  grateful  realms  adored, 
The  stately  Susa's  gentle  lord. 
Black  o'er  the  waves  his  burden'd  vessels  sweep, 

For  Greece  elate  the  warlike  squadrons  fly ; 
Now  crush'd,  and  whelm'd  beneath  the  indignant 

deep 

The  shatter'd  wrecks  and  lifeless  heroes  lie : 
While,  from  the  arms  of  Greece  escaped,  with 

toil 

The  unshelter'd  monarch  roams  o'er  Thracia's 
dreary  soil. 

Epode. 

The  first  in  battle  slain 
By  Cychrea's  craggy  shore 
Through  sad  constraint,  ah  me !  forsaken  lie, 
All  pale  and  smear'd  with  gore : — 

Raise  high  the  mournful  strain, 
And  let  the  voice  of  anguish  pierce  the  sky : — 
Or  roll  beneath  the  roaring  tide, 

By  monsters  rent  of  touch  abhorr'd  ; 
While  through  the  widow'd  mansion  echoing  wide 
Sounds  the  deep  groan,  and  wails  its  slaughter'd 

lord: 
Pale  with  his  fears  the  helpless  orphan  there 

Gives  the  full  stream  of  plaintive  grief  to  flow  ; 
While  age  its  hoary  head  in  deep  despair 
Bends,  list'ning  to  the  shrieks  of  woe. 
With  sacred  awe 
The  Persian  law 

No  more  shall  Asia's  realms  revere ; 
To  their  lord's  hand 
At  his  command, 
No  more  the  exacted  tribute  bear. 
Who  now  falls  prostrate  at  the  monarch's  throne  ? 

His  regal  greatness  is  no  more. 
Now  no  restraint  the  wanton  tongue  shall  own, 

Free  from  the  golden  curb  of  pow'r ; 
For  on  the  rocks,  wash'd  by  the  beating  flood, 
His  awe-commanding  nobles  lie  in  blood. 

ATOSSA,  CHORUS. 

Atoss.  Whoe'er,  my  friends,  in  the  rough  stream 

of  life 

Hath  struggled  with  affliction,  thence  is  taught 
That,  when  the  flood  begins  to  swell,  the  heart 
Fondly  fears  all  tilings ;  when  the  fav'ring  gale 
Of  Fortune  smooths  the  current,  it  expands 
With  unsuspecting  confidence,  and  deems 
That  gale  shall  always  breathe.     So  to  my  eyes 
All  things  now  wear  a  formidable  shape, 
And  threaten  from  the  gods  :  my  ears  are  pierc'd 
With  sounds  far  other  than  of  song.     Such  ills 
Dismay  mysick'ning  soul:  hence  from  my  house 
Nor  glitt'ring  car  attends  me,  nor  the  train 
Of  wonted  state,  while  I  return,  and  bear 
Libations  soothing, — charms  that  soothe  the  dead  : 
White  milk,  and  lucid  honey,  pure-distill'd 
By  the  wild  bee — that  craftsman  of  the  flov. 
The  limpid  droppings  of  the  virgin  fount, 
And  this  bright  liquid  from  its  mountain-mother 
Borne  fresh — the  joy  of  the  time-hallowed  vine ; — 
The  pale-green  olive's  odorous  fruit,  whose  leaves 
Live  everlastingly — and  those  wreathed  flowers, 
The  smiling  infants  of  the  prodigal  earth. 


PINDAR. 

[Born,  518-Died,  439  B.  C.] 
$a>vavra  (ruv&roKri — Olymp.  IT. 


'Beneath  mine  elbow  a  full  quiver  lies 
Of  fleetest  arrows,  sounding  to  the  wise  ; 

But  for  the  crowd  they  need  interpreters. 
His  skill  is  most  who  learns  in  Nature's  school ; 
All  else,  expert  by  rule, 

Are  none  of  hers; 

Mere  tongues  in  vehement  gabble  idly  heard, 
Clamoring,  like  daws,  at  Jove's  celestial  bird.' — Cary. 


THIS  renowned  bard  was  a  native  either  of 
the  Theban  city,  or  of  Cynocephalse,  a  village  in 
its  immediate  territory  and  neighbourhood.  He 
was  by  profession  a  musician  and  poet,  and  for 
his  early  skill  as  such,  is  said  to  have  been,  in 
some  degree,  indebted  to  the  beautiful  Corinna, 
a  distinguished  poetess  of  the  same  age  and 
country,  but  of  whose  compositions  we  know 
little  or  nothing.  It  is  related  of  her,  however, 
that  she  defeated  her  pupil  in  no  less  than  five 
contests,  and  that,  on  one  occasion,  having  recom- 
mended him  to  ornament  his  productions  with 
mythical  narrative,  and  receiving,  in  return,  some 
lines  cram-full  of  Theban  mythology,  she  bade 
him  "sow  by  hand,  and  not  by  sackfulls." — Of 
Pindar's  numerous  compositions,  consisting  of 
Hymns  to  the  Gods,  Funeral  songs,  and  Odes  in 
honour  of  the  conquerors  at  the  four  great  festi- 
vals of  Greece,  little  besides  the  latter,  have  come 
down  to  us ;  but  of  the  veneration  in  which  he  and 
his  writings  were  held  by  all  Greece,  the  most 


OLYMPIC  I. 

TO  HIERO,  KING  OF  SYRACUSE,  VICTOR  IN  THE 
SINGLE  HORSE  RACE. 

WITH  water  nought  may  vie ; 
And  gold,  like  fire  at  midnight  blazing, 
Glittering  heaps  outshineth  far: 
But,  if  thou  tell'st  of  victory, 
Soul,  through  wastes  of  ether  gazing, 
Than  the  sun  no  brighter  star 
Seek ;  nor  deem  this  earth  supplies 
A  nobler  than  th'  Olympic  prize. 
Thence  doth  the  many-voiced  hymn  arise, 
Which  in  their  thought  wise  minstrels  frame, 
To  warble  forth  the  great  Saturnian's  name 
Round  Hiero's  blest  hearth  with  plenty  stor'd 
Rightful  sceptre  who  retains 
76 


unequivocal  proofs  remain.  A  portion  of  the  peo- 
ple's first  fruits  was  appropriated  to  his  use;  an 
iron  chair  was  erected  for  him  in  the  very  temple 
of  Apollo ;  his  statue  stood  in  the  circle  of  games 
at  Thebes ;  he  was  courted  and  enriched,  alike 
by  rulers  and  people,  not  only  of  his  own,  but  of 
every  land  in  which  the  Greek  tongue  was  known ; 
and  in  later  times,  when  Thebes  was  captured, 
first  by  the  Spartans,  and  subsequently  by  Alex- 
ander, the  very  house  which  he  had  inhabited, 
had  the  honour  of  being  spared  by  the  victors.* 
Pindar,  though  precluded  by  the  unhappy  cir- 
cumstance of  his  country's  league  with  Persia, 
from  joining  the  ranks  of  Athens  and  Sparta,  in 
the  great  war  of  Grecian  independence,  has  not 
concealed  his  admiration  of  the  heroes  who  did 
so.  But  Pindar's  greatest  praise  is  the  generally 
moral  and  religious  tone  which  pervades  his 
writings.  He  maintains  the  immortality  of  the 
soul,  and  distinctly  lays  down  the  doctrine  of 
future  punishments  and  rewards. 


O'er  Sicilia's  pastoral  plains ; 
Culling  the  top  of  every  flower 
That  blossometh  in  Virtue's  bower : 
Nor  less  he  knows  the  charms  that  lie 
In  the  sweet  soul  of  Poesy, 
Such  Music  as  around  his  board 
By  us,  who  love  him,  oft  is  pour'd. 

Reach  then  the  Dorian  shell, 
On  yonder  nail,  suspended ; 
If  in  thee,  sweet  remembrance  grateful  dwell 


*  It  is  to  the  latter  of  these  captures  that  Milton  has 
alluded,  in  a  noble  sonnet,  written  when  the  city  of  Lon- 
don was  threatened  with  a  like  calamity. 

"Lift  not  thy  spear  against  the  Muses'  bower; 

The  great  Emathian  conqueror  bade  spare 

The  house  of  Pindarus,  when  temple  and  tower 

Went  to  the  ground!" 


PINDAR. 


77 


Of  Pisa,  and  the  steed 

Pherenicus,  he  whose  speed, 

As  with  ungoaded  side 

He  rush'd  by  Alpheus'  tide, 

With  mighty  triumph,  blended 

His  Syracusan  lord,  the  courser-loving  king. 

For  him  a  light  of  glory  doth  upspring 
Amid  the  land  with  heroes  teeming, 
Lydian  Pelops'  colony, 
Whom  Neptune  chose  to  be  his  joy ; 
When  from  that  cauldron  pure, 
Clotho  did  him  secure, 
Deck'd  with  an  ivory  shoulder  whitely  beaming. 

Many  a  wonder  is,  in  sooth, 
But  sometimes  more  than  truth 
On  man's  beguiled  thought 
Invention  will  prevail 
With  a  well-woven  tale, 
In  varied  colours,  quaintly  wrought : 
And  grace,  that  can  a  magic  throw 
On  all  that  charms  the  sense  below, 
By  lustre  not  his  own  relieved, 
Hath  made  th'  incredible  believed. 
But  after-days  the  best  convincers  are : 
And  man,  should  only  fair 
Speak  of  the  gods,  and  good  : 
For  so  is  blame  eschew'd. 

0  son  of  Tantalus,  not  as  of  yore, 
Will  I  record  thy  story: 
That  when  to  gods,  invited  guests, 
At  Sipylus,  thy  sire 
Spread  in  return  his  ample  feasts, 
Then,  smitten  with  desire, 
Thee  the  trident-ruler  bore 
Snatch'd  up  on  golden  steeds  to  Jove's  high 

consistory ; 

Where  Ganymede  came  after  thee 
To  Jove  for  equal  ministry. 
But  when  thou  vanish'd  wert;  nor  sought 
Long  time,  was  to  thy  mother  brought, 
Some  envious  neighbour  whispering  said 
That  they  thy  limbs  had  with  a  blade, 
In  seething  water,  hewn ;  and  set 
Upon  the  board  thy  sodden  flesh,  and  eat. 
That  impious  thought  be  far  from  me 
To  tax  a  god  with  gluttony. 
Small  gain  awaits  the  slanderer's  tongue 
If  any,  mortal  tribes  among, 
In  honour  high  advanced  to  live, 
Th'  Olympian  watchers  e'er  did  give, 
That  Tantalus  was  he. 
But  the  great  bliss  unable  to  digest, 
And  with  satiety  opprest, 
A  direful  harm  he  rued,  the  stone 
Enormous  o'er  him  hung  by  Jove, 
Which  ahvay  from  his  In-ad 
Endeavouring  to  remove, 
U.-  is  to  joy  a  stranger. 
Surh  life  hi-  hath  ;  with  endless  danger, 
And  toil  insullerable.  led  : 
(With  other  three,  not  he  alone,) 
For  that  from  heaven  he  stole  away 
The  nectar  and  ambrosia, 
Which  him  incorruptible  made; 
And  to  his  earthly  peers  convey'd. 


Who  hopes  that  aught  he  doth  may  lie 

A  secret  from  immortal  eye, 

Sins  'gainst  the  power  of  heaven. 

Therefore  his  son,  the  gods  again 

Sent  to  the  short-lived  race  of  men, 

From  their  own  mansions  driven. 

He,  soon  as  duskier  down  did  shade 

The  bloom  upon  his  cheek  display'd, 

Of  ready  nuptials  thought ; 

And  from  her  Pisan  sire,  the  glorious  maid 

To  win,  Hippodameia,  sought. 

He  came ;  and  by  hoar  ocean's  flood 

Alone  in  darkness  stood, 

Then  call'd  amid  the  sullen  roar 

On  him  whose  trident  shook  the  shore. 

Straight  at  his  feet  the  god  appear'd, 

And  thus  his  suppliant  voice  was  heard. 

"  Neptune,  if  thou  at  all  hast  held 
The  gifts  of  Venus  dear, 
Of  brave  (Enomaus  be  quell'd 
By  thee  the  brazen  spear. 
In  swiftest  chariots  speed  me  on 
To  Elis,  and  with  triumph  crown. 
Thirteen  hero-suitors  slain, 
His  daughter's  wedding  he  delays. 
The  mighty  conquest,  ne'er  will  gain 
A  man  whom  fear  of  peril  frays. 
And  why,  of  those  with  death  their  doom, 
Should  any,  sitting  down  in  gloom, 
Without  a  name  his  age  consume, 
Vainly;  nor  a  portion  share 
In  aught  that  noble  is  and  fair  ? 
Mine  is  the  trial ;  and  thine  be 
To  grant  success  and  victory." 
He  spoke ;  nor  fail'd  of  his  desire. 
And,  honouring  him,  the  god 
A  golden  car  bestow'd, 
And  winged  steeds  that  never  tire. 
(Enomaus  fell  his  might  before, 
And  the  virgin  bride  he  led. 
Six  lordly  sons  to  him  she  bore, 
Each  in  school  of  virtues  bred. 
And  now  by  Alpheus'  wave  he  lies, 
Mingled  with  famous  obsequies, 
That  round  his  tomb  they  celebrate, 
Near  the  great  altar's  thronged  state. 
And  far  abroad  the  glory  hath  look'd  out 
Of  Pelops,  in  th'  Olympic  courses, 
Where  swift  feet  do  try  their  forces, 
And  the  toils  of  champions  stout. 
O'er  the  victor's  life,  the  balm 
Of  triumph  sheds  a  holy  calm. 
The  good  supreme,  that  mortal  knows, 
Still  from  to-day's  contentment  flows. 

For  such  behoves  me  now  to  breathe 
^olian  measures ;  a  fit  wreath, 
That  to  the  courser's  speed  belongs. 
No  other  host,  expert  in  lovely  lore, 
Or  in  might  excelling  more, 
At  least  of  mortals  now, 
I  e'er  shall  clothe  in  folds  of  da?dal  songs. 
God  is  thy  guardian,  Hiero ;  and  shares 
In  these  thy  princely  cares. 
And,  if  he  fail  not  soon, 
I  trust  with  yet  a  sweeter  tune, 
o2 


78 


PINDAR. 


To  sound  in  chariot  swift  thy  praise ; 
Finding  a  prosperous  journey  for  my  lays ; 
And  stand  beside  the  Cronian  height, 
That  shines  in  evening's  ample  light. 

Therefore  for  me  the  Muse 
Doth  in  her  strength  a  mightier  weapon  feed. 

Manifold  are  the  ways 
That  men  to  greatness  lead : 
In  kings  the  summit  ends. 
No  further  stretch  thy  views. 
Thine  be  the  lot,  this  time 
To  tread  the  path  sublime ; 
For  me,  meanwhile,  with  conquerors  my  friends 
To  live,  conspicuous  still 
For  the  wise  poet's  skill, 
Wherever  Greece  extends. 


FROM  OLYMPIC  II. 

FUTURE  PUNISHMENT  AND  REWARD. 

THE  deeds  that  stubborn  mortals  do 
In  this  disordered  nook  of  Jove's  domain, 

All  find  their  meed ;  and  there's  a  Judge  below, 
Whose  hateful  doom  inflicts  th'  inevitable  pain. 

O'er  the  Good,  soft  suns  awhile, 

Through  the  mild  day,  the  night  serene, 

Alike  with  cloudless  lustre  smile, 
Tempering  all  the  tranquil  scene. 

Their's  is  leisure  ;  vex  not  they 

Stubborn  soil,  or  watery  way, 

To  wring  from  toil  want's  worthless  bread : 

No  ills  they  know,  no  tears  they  shed, 

But  with  the  glorious  gods  below 

Ages  of  peace  contented  share  : 

Meanwhile  the  Bad,  in  bitterest  woe, 
Eye-startling  tasks,  and  endless  tortures  bear. 

All,  whose  stedfast  virtue  thrice 

Each  side  the  grave  unchanged  hath  stood, 
Still  unseduced,  unstained  with  vice, — 

They,  by  Jove's  mysterious  road, 
Pass  to  Saturn's  realm  of  rest, 
Happy  isle,  that  holds  the  Blest ; 
Where  sea-born  breezes  gently  blow 
O'er  blooms  of  gold  that  round  them  glow, 
Which  Nature  boon  from  stream  or  strand 
Or  goodly  tree  profusely  showers ; 
Whence  pluck  they  many  a  fragrant  band, 
And  braid  their  locks  with  never-fading  flowers. 


FROM  OLYMPIC  IV. 

THE   BIRTH  OF  IAMUS. 

HER  crimson'd  girdle  down  was  flung, 

The  silver  ewer  beside  her  laid, 

Amid  a  tangled  thicket  hung 

With  canopy  of  brownest  shade  ; 

When  forth  the  glorious  babe  she  brought, 

His  soul  instinct  with  heavenly  thought. 

Sent  by  the  golden-tressed  god, 

Near  her  the  Fates  indulgent  stood 

With  Ilithyia  mild. 

One  short  sweet  pang  releas'd  the  child  ; 

And  lamus  sprang  forth  to  light. 


A  wail  she  utter'd ;  left  him  then 

Where  on  the  ground  he  lay ; 

When  straight  two  dragons  came 

With  eyes  of  azure  flame, 

By  will  divine  awaked  out  of  their  den ; 

And  with  the  bees'  unharmful  venom,  they 

Fed  him,  and  nursled  through  the  day  and  night. 

The  king  meanwhile  had  come, 

From  stony  Pytho  driving ;  and  at  home 

Did  of  them  all,  after  the  boy,  inquire, 

Born  of  Evadne ; — "for,"  he  said,  "the  sire 

Was  Phoebus,  and  that  he 

Should  of  earth's  prophets  wisest  be, 

And  that  his  generation  should  not  fail." 

Not  to  have  seen  or  heard  him  they  avouch'd, 

Now  five  days  born.   But  he,  on  rushes  couch 'd, 

Was  cover'd  up  in  that  wide  brambly  maze  : — 

His  delicate  body  wet 

With  yellow  and  empurpled  rays 

From  many  a  violet. 

And  hence  his  mother  bade  him  claim 

For  ever  this  undying  name. 


FROM  OLYMPIC  VII. 

ORIGIN  OF  RHODES. 

STILI,  as  ancient  legends  say, 

Amid  the  depths  of  ocean  lay 

The  wondrous  island  unreveal'd  ; 

What  time  the  sovran  Father  held 

Council  with  the  gods  to  share 

Earth  and  all  her  regions  fair. 

Each  had  his  portion.     But  not  one 

Bethought  him  of  the  absent  Sun, 

For  whose  chaste  power,  in  sooth  forgot, 

No  land  remain 'd  to  own  his  lot. 

Recall'd  to  mind,  high  Jove  would  fain 

Have  cast  the  chances  o'er  again. 

But  he  allow'd  not.     For  his  ken, 

He  said,  amid  the  silvery  surge, 

Had  mark'd  an  islet  land  emerge. 

Kindly  for  flocks  and  foodful  grain. 

And  straight  to  seal  the  portion  his, 

Golden-tired  Lachesis 

He  bade  her  hands  to  heaven  uprear, 

And  a  faithful  vow  to  swear, 

The  mighty  oath  of  every  god, 

Confirm'd  by  Jove's  imperial  nod ; 

That  soon  as  full  disclos'd  to  air, 

Henceforth  he  should  that  region  share  : 

Truth  crown'd  the  words ;  the  island  bloom'd 

From  the  moist  sea,  by  him  assum'd, 

Of  heaven's  sharp  rays  authentic  sire, 

Lord  of  the  coursers  breathing  fire. 

FROM  OLYMPIC  XIV. 

TO  THE   ORCHOMENIAN  GRACES,  IN  BEHALF  OF  TH11 
BOT  ASOPICHUS. 

O  YE,  ordain'd  by  lot  to  dwell 

Where  Cephisian  waters  well ; 

And  hold  your  fair  retreat 

Mid  herds  of  coursers  beautiful  and  fleet ; 

Renowned  queens,  that  take  your  rest 

In  Orchomenus  the  blest, 


PINDAR. 


79 


Guarding  with  ever-wakeful  eye 
The  Minyans'  high-born  progeny  ; 
To  you  my  votive  strains  belong : 
List,  Graces,  to  your  suppliant's  song. 
For  all  delightful  things  below, 
All  sweet,  to  you  their  being  owe ; 
And  at  your  hand  their  blessings  share 
The  wise,  the  splendid,  and  the  fair. 

Nor  without  the  holy  Graces, 
The  gods,  in  those  supernal  places, 
Their  dances  or  their  banquets  rule  ; 
Dispensers  they  of  all  above 
Throughout  the  glorious  court  of  Jove  ; 
Where  each  has  plac'd  her  sacred  stool 
By  the  golden-bo w'd  Apollo, 
Whom  in  his  harpings  clear  they  follow; 
And  the  high  majestic  state 
Of  their  Eternal  Father  venerate. 

Daughters  of  heav'n ; — Aglaia,  thou 
Darting  splendours  from  thy  brow  ; 
With  musical  Euphrosyne, — 
Be  present.     Nor  less  call  I  thee. 
Tuneful  Thalia,  to  look  down 
On  this  joyous  rout,  and  own 
Me  their  bard,  who  lea'd  along, 
For  Asophichus,  the  throng 
Tripping  light  to  Lydian  song ; 
And  Minya  for  thy  sake  proclaim 
Conqueress  in  the  Olympic  game. 

Waft,  Echo,  now,  thy  wing  divine 
To  the  black  dome  of  Proserpine  ; 
And  marking  Cleodamus  there, 
Tell  the  glad  tidings  ; — how  his  son, 
For  him,  hath  crown'd  his  youthful  hair 
With  plumes  in  Pisa's  valley  won. 

PYTHIAN  I. 

TO  HIERO  OF  SYRACUSE,  VICTOR  IN  THE 
CHARIOT  RACE. 

O  THOU,  whom  Phoebus  and  the  choir 
Of  violet-tressed  Muses  own, 
Their  joint  treasure,  golden  lyre, 
Ruling  step  with  warbled  tone, 
Prelude  sweet  to  festive  pleasures ; 
Minstrels  hail  thy  sprightly  measures; 
Soon  as  shook  from  quivering  strings, 
Leading  the  choral  bands,  thy  loud  preamble 

rings. 

In  thy  mazes,  steep'd,  expire 
Bolts  of  ever-flowing  fire. 
Jove's  eagle  on  the  sceptre  slumbers, 
Possess'd  by  thy  enchanting  numbers  ; 
On  either  side,  his  rapid  wii.ir. 
Drops,  entranc'd,  the  feather'd  king; 
Black  vapour  o'er  his  curved  head, 
Scaling  his  eyelids,  sweetly  sla-d  ; 
Upheaving  his  moist  back  he  lies, 
Held  down  with  thrilling  harmonies. 
Mars  the  rough  lance  has  laid  apart, 
And  yields  to  song  his  stormy  heart. 
No  god  but  of  his  mood  disarm'd, 
Is  with  thy  tuneful  weapons  charm'd ; 
Soon  as  Latona's  sapient  son 
And  deep-zon'd  Muses  have  their  lays  begun. 


But  whomsoever  Jove 

Hath  looked  on  without  love, 

Are    anguish'd  when  they  hear   the  voiceful 

sound. 

Whether  on  land  they  be, 
Or  in  the  raging  sea ; 
With   him,   outstretched    on   dread   Tartarian 

bound, 

Hundred-headed  Typhon;  erst 
In  fam'd  Cilicia's  cavern  nurst ; 
Foe  of  the  gods ;  whose  shaggy  breast, 
By  Cuma's  sea-beat  mound,  is  prest; 
Pent  by  plains  of  Sicily, 
And  that  snow'd  pillar  heavenly  high, 
JEtna,  nurse  of  ceaseless  frost ; 
From  whose  cavern'd  depths  aspire 
In  purest  folds  upwreathing,  tost, 
Fountains  of  approachless  fire. 
By  day,  a  flood  of  smouldering  smoke, 
With  sullen  gleam,  the  torrents  pour ; 
But  in  darkness,  many  a  rock, 
And  crimson  flame,  along  the  shore, 
Hurls  to  the  deep  with  deaf'ning  roar. 
From  that  worm,  aloft  are  thrown, 
The  wells  of  Vulcan,  full  of  fear ; 
A  marvel  strange  to  look  upon; 
And,  for  the  passing  mariner, 
As  marvellous  to  hear; 
How  ^Etna's  tops  with  umbrage  black, 
And  soil,  do  hold  him  bound ; 
And  by  that  pallet,  all  his  back 
Is  scored  with  many  a  wound. 

Thy  pleasure,  Jove,  oh  be  thy  pleasure  done  : 
Who  dost  this  mount  command, 
Forehead  of  fruitful  land, 
Whence  her  illustrious  founder  hath  surnam'd 
The  neighbour  city,  whom  in  Pytho's  ring 
The  herald,  late,  proclaim'd 
For  Hiero,  in  his  chariots  triumphing. 

By  sailors,  when  they  quit  the  coast, 
At  loosing,  it  is  prized  the  most, 
If  speeding  gale  should  come  ; 
For  so,  with  fortune  to  their  friend, 
Alike  they  augur,  in  the  end, 
A  better  voyage  home : 
And  on  such  auspices  we  found 
Opinion,  that  no  less  renown'd 
She  still  shall  be,  as  time  succeeds ; 
Her  garlands  bright,  her  conquering  steeds, 
Ordain'd,  in  frequent  song,  the  prize, 
Mid  feasts  and  high  solemnities. 

O  Lycian !  thou  who  art  in  Delos  king; 
Apollo ;  and  dost  love  the  spring 
Of  Castaly,  outrilling 
From  the  Parnassian  steep ; 
May'st  thou  be  ever  willing, 
This,  in  thy  thought  to  keep, 
And  the  fair  region,  in  her  people,  blest. 
For  of  the  gods,  whate'er  is  best 
In  mortal  virtues;  all  the  wise  are  sprung, 
And  all  the  stout  in  hand,  and  eloquent  in  tongue. 

Intent  this  man  to  praise, 
I  trust  to  whirl  my  javelin,  brazen  tipt, 
Not  out  of  limit,  yet  that  all  who  raise 
A  rival  arm,  shall  be  by  far  outstrip!. 


80 


PINDAR. 


So  may  time,  still  heaping  more, 
His  blissful  measure  fill ; 
Directing,  with  increase  of  store, 
Forgetfulness  of  ill. 
He  surely  may  recall  to  thought 
In  what  wars  he  hath  defied, 
(His  soul  with  patient  courage  fraught) 
The  fierce  encounter,  when  they  glory  found, 
Such  as  in  Hellenian  ground, 
By  help  divine,  none  culls  beside ; 
Riches,  with  proud  honour,  crown'd. 

Now,  Philoctetes'  guise  pursuing, 
He  hath  the  soldier  play'd. 
A  mighty  one  in  need  came  wooing, 
And  lured  him  to  his  aid ; 
And  from  the  Lemnian  isle,  they  say, 
Where  long  with  ulcer  vex'd  he  lay, 
Godlike  heroes  bore  away 
The  bowyer  son  of  Paean,  who  destroyed 
The  town  of  Priam,  and  for  Grecia's  host 
Their  labour  ended :  weak  in  frame  he  went, 
But  fate  had  will'd  th'  event. 
E'en  so  may  God  for  Hiero  decree, 
That  what  in  after  time  he  covets  most, 
Shall  be  by  apt  occasion  still  enjoy'd. 

Muse,  I  would  next  a  strain  from  thee, 
Warbled  to  Dinomenes ; 
Reward  for  chariots  won. 
Not  alien  to  a  son, 
His  father's  victories. 

Come,  for  the  king  of  JEtna.  let  us  find 
A  song  to  take  his  charmed  mind. 
For  him  arose,  at  Hiero's  command, 
Those  stately  walls  in  freedom  plann'd  ; 
The  model  built  by  hands  divine, 
The  rule  outstretch'd  by  Hyllus'  line. 

And  aye  ./Egimius'  Dorian  laws 
Are  duly  kept  by  each,  who  draws 
His  lineage,  or  from  Pamphilus, 
Or  th'  Heraclidoe ;  they  who  bide 
Near  banks  of  steep  Taygetus, 
And  to  Amyclae,  from  the  side 
Of  Pindus  issuing,  came ;  and  neighbours  were 
Right  glorious  to  those  twins  of  Tyndarus, 
Whose  fame  did  flourish  for  their  warlike  spear. 
Grant,  Jove,  a  lot  like  theirs, 
To  dwellers  by  the  wave  of  Amena, 
Both  citizens  and  kings  ; 
Certain  as  true  report  from  mortals  brings. 
With  thee  to  guide  his  wakeful  cares, 
His  realm  in  quiet  may  the  ruler  sway; 
And  turning  them  to  love, 
Honour  the  people  ;  bid  his  son  obey. 
Hear,  0  Saturnian  ;  thou  my  prayer  approve. 
Undisturb'd  at  home  let  dwell 
Phoenicia's  band  ;  nor  more  rebel 
The  tumult  of  Tyrrhenian  crew, 
Marking,  what  shameful  rout  o'erthrew 
Their  groaning  ships  on  Cuma's  shore, 
And  all  in  that  defeat  they  bore, 
(As  swift  his  victor  navy  flew) 
From  Syracusa's  lord  ; 
Who  dash'd  their  youth  into  the  sea, 
Setting  the  land  of  Grecia  free 
From  servitude  abhorr'd. 


At  Salamis  I  claim  of  right 
A  grace  for  Athens ;  and  will  tell, 
In  Sparta,  of  Cithseron's  fight, 
Where  with  bent  bows  the  Medians  fell. 
On  Himera's  well-water'd  coast, 
For  sons  of  brave  Dinomenes, 
The  hymn,  by  valour  earn'd,  shall  boast 
What  fears  their  fallen  foemen  seize. 

If  any  speak  in  season  due, 
And  ravel  up  into  a  few 
His  many  ends  combin'd  ; 
Censorious  blame  attends  him  less. 
Prolix  and  wearisome  excess 
Will  dull  a  nimble  mind  ; 
And  neighbours'  ears  in  secret  pine 
At  blessings  that  in  others  shine. 
But  thou  no  less  (for  better  far 
Envy  than  pity  be  our  share) 
Each  noble  aim  pursue. 
With  rudder  just  thy  people  guide  ; 
And  steel  thy  tongue,  however  tried, 
On  anvil  firm  and  true. 
Aught  but  from  thee  at  random  thrown, 
As  somewhat  great,  abroad  is  blown. 
To  many  thou  dividest  sway; 
And  many  mark  thee,  either  way, 
Thy  faithful  witnesses. 

Still  hold  thy  bloom  of  bravery  on ; 
No  cost,  no  labour  be  foregone 
To  feed  this  proud  excess. 
If  aught,  O  friend,  to  thee  be  dear 
The  pleasant  sound,  that  greets  thine  ear ; 
Like  some  bold  helmsman,  spreading  strain 
Thy  wind-swept  canvas ;  and  disdain 
The  flatt'ring  wiles  of  meaner  gain. 

At  close  of  glory's  boastful  day, 
Sure  as  the  mighty  pass  away, 
To  point  their  lives,  alone  remain 
Recording  tale  and  poet's  strain. 
Fades  not  the  worth  of  Croesus  mild : 
But  Phalaris,  with  blood  defil'd, 
His  brazen  bull,  his  torturing  flame, 
Hand  o'er  alike  to  evil  fame 
In  every  clime.     No  tuneful  string, 
No  voice,  that  makes  the  rafters  ring, 
Receive  his  name,  in  hall  or  bower, 
When  youth  and  joyance  win  the  hour. 

First  prize  to  mortals,  good  success ; 
Next  portion,  good  renown : 
Whomever  both  conspire  to  bless, 
He  wins  the  highest  crown. 

FROM  PYTHIAN  IV. 

JASON'S  APPEARANCE  AMONGST  THE  CITIZENS  OF 
IOLCOS. 

BUT  whence  that  voyage  ?  what  necessity 
Bound  on  their  hearts  its  adamantine  chain  ? 

Twas  Pelias'  doom,  through  fraud  or  force  to  die, 
By  y£olus'  renowned  descendants  slain. 
For  e'en  his  soul  with  wisdom  filled 
The  threatening  oracle  had  chilled ; 
That,  breathed  from  earth's  mysterious  cave, 
The  wood-crowned  earth's  mysterious  nave, 


PINDAR. 


81 


Bade  him  with  all  his  kingly  care 
The  single-sandalled,  wight  bev^are, 
Come  when  he  should,  stranger  or  citizen, 
Down  from  his  mountain-hold  to  famed  lolcus' 
glen. 

All  at  the  appointed  time,  with  ported  spears, 
In  either  hand,  appeared  the  dreadful  man ; 

Shaped  in  Magnesian  guise  a  garb  he  wear-, 
That  round  his  noble  limbs  compacted  ran. 
O'er  which  a  pard-skin  from  the  storm 
Sheltered  his  stout,  unshuddering  form. 
His  mantling  locks,  unshorn,  unbound, 
In  nature's  wildness,  waving  round, 
Down  his  broad  back  illustrious  shook  ; 
Forward,  all  bent  on  speed,  he  broke, 
Till,  in  the  forum  halting,  calm,  unmoved, 

Amidst  the  inquiring  crowd,  his  dauntless  heart 
he  proved. 

Unknown  he  stood — "Apollo's  mien 

Is  this  ?"     Some  gazing.wonderer  cried — 
"  Or  his,  that  wooed  the  Cyprian  queen, 
Whose  reins  the  brazen  chariot  guide 
In  flowery  Naxos,  ages  since 
Otus,  arid  Ephialtes,  daring  prince, 

Iphimedeia's  ofTspring,  died ; 
Tityus,  gigantic  form,  Diana  slew 

When,  from  her  chaste  and  quivered  side, 
Her  huntress-bolt  th'  unconquered  virgin  drew ; 
That,  warned  from  joys  forbidden,  men  might 

haste 
The  practicable  bliss  to  taste/' 

Thus  they,  with  vague  surmise,  in   crowds, 

discoursed, 

Listening  and  whispering;    when   in  bur- 
nished car 
Pelias,  with  mules  all-panting,  thither  forced 

His  urgent  speed.     Astounded,  from  afar 
The  stripling's  dexter  ancle  round 
He  spied  a  single  sandal  bound ; 
Yet  with  disguised  alarm,  "Proclaim, 
Stranger,"  said  he,  "  thy  country's  name ; 
Tell  me  what  matron,  born  of  earth, 
From  her  fair  bosom  gave  thee  birth  ? 
Let  not  the  loathed  lie  thy  lips  disgrace, 
But  meet  my  just  demand,  and  frankly  tell  thy 
race." 

Him,  with  undaunted  virtue's  accents  mild, 
Answered  the  youth :  "  From  Chiron's  school 

I  come; 

The  Centaur's  daughter  nursed  me  from  a  child, 
And  good  Chariclo  made  her  cave  my  home. 
Now,  when,  by  their  kind  care  sustained, 
My  strength  its  twentieth  year  had  gained, 
For  no  foul  deed,  no  phrase  urn-haste, 
From  that  sage  intercourse  displaced, 
My  home  I  visit,  to  require 
The  ancient  honours  of  my  sire; 
Which  erst  to  ruling  /Kolas  and  his  heirs 
Jove  in  his  bounty  gave,  and  now  the  usurper 
wears. 

"He,  by  perverse  ambition  stung, 

The  traitor  Pelias,  as  'tis  said. 
Their  sceptre  from  my  parents  wrung, 

Which  they  by  right,  with  justice,  swayed. 
11 


They  on  my  birth's  eventful  day, 
Dreading  that  lawless  ruler,  in  dismay, 

My  death  pretended,  and  prepar'd 
Domestic  semblance  of  sepulchral  rite, 

And  female  moans  and  sighs  were  heard : 
Me  swathed  in  purple,  to  the  secret  night 
Trusting  their  silent  path,  in  Chiron's  care 
They  placed,  the  nurturer  of  their  heir. 

•:  Such  is  my  tale — good  people,  tell  me  true — 
My    lathers    rode    the    milk-white    steed — 

where  stand 
Their   stately  towers? — 'Tis  jEson's    son   ye 

view ; 

I  come  no  alien  to  a  stranger's  land ; 
My  godlike  host,  the  Centaur-seer, 
The  name  of  Jason  bade  me  bear." — 
Thus  spake  the  youth;  his  father's  glance 
Discerned  far  off"  the  son's  advance, 
And  the  big  tears  of  extasy 
Came  bubbling  from  his  aged  eye. 
So  swelled  his  bursting1  heart  with  joy  to  find 
His   lost  illustrious  boy  the  comeliest   of  man- 
kind. 

Thither,  in  haste,  allured  by  Jason's  fanie, 
His  reverend  uncles ;   from  their  neighbour- 
ing towers 
By  Hypereia's  fountain,  Pheres  came, 

Came  Amythaon  from  Messene's  towers ; 
Admetus  and  Melampus  too, 
To  greet  their  glorious  kinsmen  flew. 
With  welcome  warm  and  sumptuous  feasts 
Jason  regaled  his  honoured  guests, 
And  freely,  without  change  or  check, 
Threw  loose  the  reins  on  pleasure's  neck : 
Five  days  and  nights  in  sympathy  of  soul 
Plucked  they  the  laughing  flowers  that  crown  the 
social  bowlx 

On  the  sixth  morn  his  plan  proposed, 

Its  cause,  importance,  means,  and  bent, 
To  all  his  kin  the  youth  disclosed. 

Forthwith  they  sallied  from  their  tent ; 
In  haste  for  Pelias'  mansion  bore, 
And  now  already  stood  within  the  door. 

The  soft-hair'd  Tyro's  artful  son, 
Spontaneous  rose  to  meet  the  martial  throng; 

When,  with  mild  air  and  soothing  tone, 
Dropping  sweet  words  that  melted  from  his 

tongue, 

Jason  the  conference  raised  on  wisdom's  base : 
"  Hear  thou,  Petroean  Neptune's  race ! 

"  Prone  is  man's  mind  from  honour's  arduous 

way 

To  verge  into  the  tempting  paths  of  gain, 
Rough  in  the  advance  and  leading  far  astray : 

But  thine  and  mine  it  must  be  to  restrain 
Our  wrath,  and  weave  our  future  weal : 
I  speak  to  ears  that  heed  and  feel. 
One  parent's  womb,  thou  know'st,  of  yore 
Cretheus  and  bold  Salmoneus  bore  ; 
And  we,  their  grandsons,  thus  look  on 
The  glory  of  the  golden  sun. 
But.  when  affection  cools  and  hateful  ire 
Rankles  in  kinsmen's  hearts,  the  decent  Fates 
retire. 


82 


PINDAR. 


"  Oh,  'tis  not  seemly  thus  with  lance  and  shield, 

That  thou  and  I,  for  honours  ancestral, 
Base  war  should  wage.     Take  all  my  spacious 

field; 
My  flocks  and  brindled  herds,  I  cede  them 

all, 

Which  from  my  sire  thy  daring  stealth 
Forced,  and  yet  feeds  5 — thy  pampered  wealth 
I  grudge  thee  not,  and  view  with  ease 
Thy  house  enhanced  with  spoils  like  these. 
But  what  I  challenge  for  mine  own, 
My  sovereign  sceptre,  and  the  throne 
Whereon  sate  JEson,  when  the  law  divine 
His  horsemen  hosts  received — these,  Pelias,  must 
be  mine : 

"  These,  without  conflict  from  thy  hand, 

Lest  ill  betide  thee,  yield  us  back." — 

Thus  urged  the  prince  his  just  demand  : 

And  thus  e'en  Pelias  kindly  spake  : 
"  Thy  will  be  mine ;  but  me  the  late 
Remains  of  life's  declining  hour  await ; 

Thy  youth  now  wantons  in  its  bloom  ; 
Thou  canst  appease  the  subterranean  powers  ; 

The  soul  of  Phryxus  from  the  tomb 
Calls  me  to  bear  him  from  Aietes'  towers, 
And  seize  the  ponderous  ram's  refulgent  hide, 
That  saved  him  from  the  raging  tide  ; 

"  Saved  from  the  incestuous  step-dame's  angrier 

dart. 

This  to  mine  ear  a  dream  miraculous 
Hath  told :  for  this  have  I  with  anxious  heart 
Castalia's  counsels  asked,  that  urged  me  thus 
Thither  with  bark  and  band  to  speed — 
Dare  thou  for  me  the  adventurous  deed, 
And  I  will  leave  thee  lord  and  king: 
Jove,  from  whom  all  our  races  spring, 
Be  Jove  himself  our  binding  oath, 
Witness  and  warrant  of  our  troth." 
This  compact  to  the  chiefs  propounded,  they 
With  full  consent  approved,  and,  parting,  went 
their  way.* 

From  the  Same, 

THE  SAILING  OF  THE  AKGO. 

AND  soon  as  by  the  vessel's  bow, 
The  anchor  was  hung  up  ; 
Then  took  the  leader  on  the  prow, 
In  hands,  a  golden  cup  ; 
And  on  great  father  Jove  did  call ; 
And  on  the  winds,  and  waters  all 
Swept  by  the  hurrying  blast ; 
And  on  the  nights,  and  ocean  ways ; 
And  on  the  fair  auspicious  days, 


*  "  We  know  nothing  that  gives  us  a  more  lively  idea 
of  the  heroic  age  of  Greece,  than  the  original  lines;  the 
splendid  appearance  of  Jason  in  the  forum  so  strikingly 
painted — his  frank  answer  to  the  crafty  Pelias — the  ten- 
der joy  of  the  aged  JEson  at  meeting  his  son— the  five 
days  feasting  in  preparation  for  the  attack,  and  Jason's 
noble  address — even  the  thoughtless  easiness  with  which 
he  is  diverted  from  his  purpose  by  the  lure  of  a  perilous 
and  honourable  adventure — all  these  savour  of  that  time, 
at  once  patriarchal  and  heroic,  to  which  our  fancies  recur 
with  ever  new  delight." — Quarterly  Review. 


And  sweet  return  at  last. 

From  out  the  clouds,  in  answer  kind, 

A  voice  of  thunder  came ; 

And,  shook  in  glistering  beams  around, 

Burst  out  the  lightning  flame. 

The  chiefs  breath'd  free ;  arid  at  the  sign, 

Trusted  in  the  power  divine. 

Hinting  sweet  hopes,  the  seer  cried, 

Forthwith  their  oars  to  ply ; 

And  swift  went  backward  from  rough  hands, 

The  rowing  ceaselessly. 

Conducted  by  the  breezy  south, 
They  reached  the  stormy  Axine's  mouth ; 
There  a  shrine  for  Neptune  rear'd ; 
Of  Thracian  bulls,  a  crimson  herd 
Was  ready ;  and  heav'n  founded-stone, 
Wide-spread,  to  lay  the  altar  on. 
Peril  deep  before  them  lay; 
And  to  the  Lord  of  ships  they  pray, 
Amidst  their  ever-raging  shocks, 
To  'scape  the  justle  of  fierce  rocks. 
For  twain  there  were,  alive,  that  whirl'd 
Swifter  than  bellowing  winds  are  hurl'd. 
But  now  to  them,  that  voyage  blest 
Brought  their  final  day  of  rest. 


FROM  NEMEAN  I. 

THE  INFANT  HERCULES. 

I  PHAISE  not  him,  whose  palace  stored 
Reserves  unsunn'd  the  secret  hoard, 
For  private  aims  design'd. 

Riches,  for  happiness  employ 'd, 
Are  with  applause  of  all  enjoy'd  ; 
By  friends,  that  share  them,  blest. 
For  common  hopes  to  man  are  given ; 
Labour  his  lot,  by  will  of  heaven ; 
And  naught,  for  self,  possest. 

Worth  the  theme,  on  Hercules 
Gladly  doth  my  spirit  seize ; 
From  the  records  of  old  story, 
Waking  up  a  tale  of  glory : 
How,  escaped  the  mother's  pang, 
Into  wondrous-gleaming  light, 
With  his  twin-born  brother  sprang 
The  son  of  Jove ;  and  from  the  height, 
Seated  on  her  throne  of  gold, 
How  Juno  did  the  babe  behold, 
Where  wrapt  from  jealous  eye  of  day, 
In  yellow  swaddling-bands,  he  lay. 

Forthwith  the  queen,  whom  heav'n  adores, 
In  angry  mood,  her  dragons  sent, 
And  rushing  through  the  open  doors, 
To  the  wide  chambers  in  they  went ; 
Eager  the  children  to  enfold 
With  keen  jaws  in  ravine  roll'd. 
But  he  against  them,  raised  upright 
His  head,  and  first  essay'd  the  fight ; 
Grasping  by  their  necks  the  twain 
With  hands  they  struggled  from  in  vain. 
They  hung  and  gasp'd,  till  life  was  tir'd ; 
Then  from  enormous  folds  expired. 
Opprest  the  women  sunk  with  dread, 
That  watched  about  Alcmena's  bed ; 


PINDAR. 


83 


For  she  unclad  had  leapt  to  scare 
The  serpents  from  her  infant  lair. 
Swift  the  Cadmean  princes,  arm'd 
In  glittering  steel,  throng'd  in,  alarm'd ; 
Amphitryon  foremost  of  the  ring, 
His  naked  falchion  brandishing, 
Smitten  with  a  pang  severe. 
Others  pain  we  lightly  bear ;  - 
But  the  woes,  that  home  befal, 
Press  alike  the  hearts  of  all. 

He  stood.     Delight  and  wonder  mix'd 
His  step  suspense,  in  silence,  fix'd  ; 
Surveying  with  a  rapture  wild, 
The  might  and  courage  of  his  child  : 
And  heav'n  beyond  his  utmost  thought, 
Had  turn'd  the  fearful  news  to  nought. 
A  neighbouring  seer  he  summoned  straight, 
Tiresias,  who  best  knew 
To  read  the  dark  decrees  of  fate  ; 
Of  Jove,  a  prophet  true  : 
Who,  to  him  and  all  the  host, 
His  fortunes  did  explain : 
What  monsters  he  shall  slay  by  land, 
And  what  amidst  the  main  : 
And  who,  with  fell  ambition  flown, 
Shall  from  a  high  estate  be  thrown, 
To  meet,  beneath  his  righteous  doom, 
A  bitter  lot,  a  timeless  tomb. 
And  last  of  all,  on  Phlegra's  coast, 
When  gods  against  the  giant  host 
Should  stand  in  dread  array ; 
That  underneath  his  weapons,  must 
Their  radiant  locks  be  smcar'd  in  dust, 
Did  that  diviner  say. 
And  he  with  peace,  his  lot  to  close, 
Shall  dwell  for  aye  in  sweet  repose; 
Amid  those  mansions  wondrous  fair, 
A  portion  with  the  gods  to  share ; 
And  of  his  mighty  toils  the  meed, 
Hebe,  the  destined  bride,  shall  lead, 
In  youthful  beauty's  bloom ; 
And  the  blessed  spousals  ending, 
Near  Saturnian  Jove  ascending, 
Gaze  round  upon  the  awful  dome : 


FROM  NEMEAN  III. 

INNATE  WORTH. 

GREAT  is  the  power  of  inbred  nobleness: 
But  he,  that  all  he  hath  to  schooling  owes, 
A  shallow  wight  obscure, 
Plants  not  his  step  secure  ; 
Feeding  vain  thoughts  on  phantoms  number- 
less, 
Of  genuine  excellence  mere  outward  shows. 

In  Phillyra's  house,  a  flaxen  boy, 
Achilles  oft  iu  rapturous  joy 
His  feats  of  strength  essny'd. 
Aloof,  like  wind,  his  little  javelin  flew  : 
The  lion  and  the  brindled  boar  he  slew 
Then  homeward  to  old  Chiron  drew 
Their  printing  08 
This,  when  six  years  had  fled. 
And  all  the  after  time 
Of  his  rejoicing  prime, 


It  was  to  Dian  and  the  blue-eyed  Maid, 
A  wonder  how  he  brought  to  ground 
The  stag  without  or  toils  or  hound : 
So  fleet  of  foot  was  he. 


FROM  NEMEAN  VIII. 

THE    POETS    PRATER    FOR    A    GUILELESS    AND 
BENEVOLENT    DISPOSITION. 

HATEFUL  of  old  the  glozing  plea, 
With  bland  imposture  at  his  side, 
Still  meditating  guile ; 
Fit  I'd  with  reproaches  vile; 
Who  pulls  the  splendid  down, 
And  bids  th'  obscure  in  fest'ring  glory  shine. 

Such  temper  far  remove,  O  Father  Jove,  from 

me. 

The  simple  paths  of  life  be  mine  j 
That  when  this  being  I  resign, 
I  to  my  children  may  bequeath 
A  name  they  shall  not  blush  to  hear. 
Others  for  gold  the  vow  may  breathe, 
Or  lands  that  see  no  limit  near : 
But  fain  would  I  live  out  my  days, 
Beloved  by  those  with  whom  they're  past, 
In  mine  own  city,  till  at  last 
In  earth  my  limbs  are  clad  ; 
Still  praising  what  is  worthy  praise, 
But  scatt'ring  censure  on  the  bad. 
For  virtue  by  the  wise  and  just 
Exalted,  grows  up  as  a  tree, 
That  springeth  from  the  dust, 
And  by  the  green  dews  fed, 
Doth  raise  aloft  her  head, 
And  in  the  blithe  air  waves  her  branches  free. 


FROM  NEMEAN  X. 

CASTOR    AND    POLLUX. 

THEIR  days  with  mutual  interchange  are 

spent, 

One  with  Father  Jove  on  high, 
And  one  within  earth's  caverns  pent, 
In  the  glens  of  Therapnse. 
Such  their  equal  doom  dispensed  j 
And  this  the  life  that  Pollux  chose 
Rather  than  a  god  to  be 
And  dwell  in  heav'n  perpetually, 
When  Castor  fell  by  blows 
Of  Idas'  javelin,  for  his  herd  incensed. 
As  from  Taygetus  around  he  spied", 
Lynceus,  of  mortals,  keenest 
Had  seen  them  ambush'd  in  a  hollow  oak. 
On  speedy  foot  forthwith  they  ran, 
And  swift  their  deed  of  blood  began, 
Those  sons  of  Aphareus ;  on  whom 
Jove  signal  vengeance  took. 
For,  after  them,  flew  Leda's  son; 
And  they,  beside  tln-ir  father's  tomb, 
Stood  to  bide  his  coming  on. 

Snatchincr  thence  a  carved  stone, 
The  scutcheon  of  the  dead, 
They,  at  the  breast  of  Pollux  levell'd  it: 
But  him  they  did  not  bruise, 


84 


PINDAR. 


Nor  forced  a  step  retreat. 

Then  rushing  on  with  violent  spear, 

In  Lynceus'  sides  he  drove 

The  steely  point :  while  Jove, 

On  Idas,  thunder  dire 

Flash'd,  in  whose  smould'ring  fire, 

Deserted  and  alone,  both  perish'd  there. 

So  ill  are  like  to  fare 

Who  levy  war  against  their  better's  head. 

Back  to  his  brother,  Pollux  strode  in  haste, 
Whom  not  yet  dead  he  found, 
But  stretch'd  upon  the  ground, 
With  short  breath,  shudd'ring,  all  aghast  5 
And  dewing   his  warm  tears  with  many  a 

groan, 

Aloud  he  made  his  moan. 
"  Oh,  Father  Jove !  what  end 
Shall  to  this  anguish  be  ? 
Command  death  too  for  me 
With  him,  O  king !  Honour  no  more  is  left 
To  one  of  friends  bereft ; 
And  few  of  mortals  faithful  are  to  lend 
Their  succour  in  calamity." 
He  ended ;  and  before  him  stood 
The  Almighty  Sire, 'and  thus 
Was  heard  in  answering  voice  : 
"  Thou  art  my  son :  but  him  of  mortal  brood, 
Engender'd  after  thee, 
Thy  mother  to  her  husband  bare. 
But  come :  of  these  things  yet  I  give  thee  choice. 
If  thou  the  doom  of  death 
And  hated  age  wouldst  flee, 
And  in  Olympus  still  abide  with  us 
And  Pallas  and  stern  Mars  of  ebon  spear ; 
This  henceforth  is  thy  lot. 
But  for  thy  brother  if  thou  yet  dost  fight, 
And  art  resolved  of  all 
T'  allow  him  equal  share, 
Then  under  earth,  o'erwhelm'd, 
Thou  half  thy  days  must  breathe, 
And  half  in  heav'n  amidst  our  golden  hall." 
Such  were  the  words :  and  he 
In  counsel  waver'd  not, 
But  straight  unclosed  the  sight 
And  then  the  voice  of  Castor  brazen-helm'd. 


FROM  ISTHMIAN  III. 

JOVE  !  our  greatest  virtues  we, 
Mortal  beings  owe  to  thee. 
Bliss  thrives  with  such  as  fear  thy  sway, 
But  from  the  froward  falls  away. 
The  brave  and  good,  in  warbled  strains, 
Should  win  requital  of  their  pains, 
And,  wafted  by  the  choral  throng, 
Be  borne  in  graceful  pomp  along. 


FROM  ISTHMIAN  IV. 

THEY,  who  their  puissance  never  try, 
Are  lost  in  dumb  obscurity ; 
And  such,  as  strive,  may  haply  meet, 
Before  the  end,  some  strange  defeat. 
For  Fortune,  at  her  will,  bestows 
On  mortal  works  the  appointed  close. 


And  sometimes  have  the  better  men, 
Through  guile  of  worse,  supplanted  been  * 

FROM  ISTHMIAN  VIII. 

MAIIRIAGE  OF  PELEUS  AND   THETIS. 

AJSD  Jove  for  Thetis  with  bright  Neptune  vied, 
Each  wishing  her  his  bride, 
By  spell  of  love  possest. 

But  they,  the  pow'rs  divine  averr'd, 
Must  from  that  nuptial  bed  refrain, 
Soon  as  presageful  lips  they  heard 
Utter  the  sure  prophetic  strain. 
For  Themis,  in  the  midst  who  sat, 
Reveal'd  the  stern  decree  of  fate ; 
That  from  the  sea-nymph  born,  an  heir, 
Stronger  than  his  sire,  shall  bear 
Another  weapon  grasp'd  in  hand, 
Mightier  than  the  levin-brand, 
Or  than  that  three-forked  mace  ; 
If  she  meet  in  strict  embrace 
With  the  Sovran  of  the  Sky, 
Or  his  brother-deity. 

"  Cease  then  your  suit.     And  let  her  brook 
A  mortal  bed,  and  look 
Upon  a  son  in  fight  laid  low ; 
With  hands  like  Mars'  to  chase  the  foe, 
And  speed  of  foot,  as  lightning-shine. 
To  bid  the  spousal  rites,  be  mine : 
So  her  to  Peleus  I  assign, 
Son  of  .rfEacus,  renown'd 
O'er  lolcos'  ample  bound 
For  the  man  that  honours  most 
With  pious  pray'r  our  saintly  host. 
To  Chiron's  everlasting  den 
Be  the  tidings  swiftly  sped: 
Nor  Nereus'  child  for  us  again 
The  petals  of  contention  spread. 
But  when  next  that  solemn  eve 
Duly  doth  the  moon  divide, 
For  the  chieftain  let  her  leave 
Her  lovely  virgin  zone  aside." 

The  Goddess  ended.     And  her  speech 
When  the  pow'rs  Saturnian  heard, 
Their  deathless  brows  they  nodded  each. 
Nor  without  fruit  her  heav'nly  word 
Fell  to  the  ground.     For,  as  they  say, 
Jove  himself  did  keep  the  day 
Of  Thetis'  nuptials  ;  and  the  rhymes 
Of  poets  sage  to  stranger  climes 
Achilles  early  prowess  show'd, 
He,  who  the  viny  Mysian  shore. 
Sprinkling  with  empurpled  gore 
Of  Telephus,  bedew'd; 
And  for  th'  Atridoe  bridged  their  homeward  way; 


* Compute  the  chances, 

And  deem  there's  ne'er  a  one,  in  dangerous  times, 

Who  wins  the  race  of  glory,  but  than  him 

A  thousand  men  more  gloriously  endowed 

Have  fallen  upon  the  course ;  a  thousand  others 

Have  had  their  fortunes  foundered  by  a  chance, 

Whilst  lighter  barks  pushed  past  them  ;  to  whom  add 

A  smaller  tally  of  the  singular  few 

Who,  gifted  with  predominating  powers, 

Bear  yet  a  temperate  will  and  keep  the  peace.— 

The  world  knows  nothing  of  its  greatest  men. 

Taylor's  Philip  Van  Artevelde. 


PRATINAS. 


85 


And  ransom'd  beauteous  Helena ; 

And  cut  the  nerves  of  Troy  in  twain, 

That  erst  amid  the  battle  fray 

Had  stopt  his  lance's  furious  way ; 

Memnon's  might  and  Hector's  pride ; 

And  many  a  glorious  prince  beside ; 

Whom  he  pointing  down  their  road 

To  Proserpine's  dark  abode, 

In  lustre  gave  alike  to  shine 

^Egina  and  his  noble  line. 

Nor  when  in  death  himself  he  lay, 

La.ck'd  he  a  sweet  recording  lay. 

But  at  his  funeral  pyre  and  sacred  tomb, 

The  Heliconian  maidens,  standing  round, 

Pour'd  forth  in  many  a  lamentable  sound 

The  dirgeful  strain  that  told  his  timeless  doom. 

For  fav'ring  Gods  the  brave  consign 

E'en  in  their  death  to  song  divine. 

A  FRAGMENT. 

TO  THE  SUX  UJTDER  A3T  ECLIPSE. 

BEAM  of  the  Sun,  Heaven-watcher,  Thou,  whose 

glance 

Lights  far  and  wide,  unveil  to  me,  unveil 
Thy  brow,  that  once  again  mine  eye  may  hail 

The  lustre  of  thy  cloudless  countenance. 

Surpassing  star !  Why  thus  at  noon  of  day 
Withdrawing,  would'st  thou  mar 


Man's  stalwart  strength  and  bar 
With  dark  obstruction  Wisdom's  winding  way  ? 

Lo !  on  thy  chariot-track 

Hangs  midnight  pitchy-black ; 

While  thou,  from  out  thine  ancient  path  afar, 

Hurriest  thy  belated  car. 

But  thee,  by  mightiest  Jove,  do  I  implore — 

O'er  Thebes  thy  fleet  steeds'  flight 

To  rein,  with  presage  bright 
Of  plenteousness  and  peace  for  evermore. 

Fountain  of  Light ! — O  venerated  Power ! — 

To  all  of  earthly  line 

A  wonder  and  a  sign, 
What  terror  threatenest  thou  at  this  dread  hour  ? 

Doom  of  battle  dost  thou  bring ; 

Or  cankerous  blight,  fruit-withering ; 

Or  crushing  snow-showers'  giant  weight ; 

Or  faction,  shatterer  of  the  state ; 

Or  breaching  seas  poured  o'er  the  plain ; 
Or  frost  that  fettereth  land  and  spring ; 
Or  summer  dank  whose  drenching  wing 

Droops  heavily  with  rain? 

Such  fate,  portendeth  such,  thy  gloomy  brow  ? 

Or,  deluging  beneath  the  imprison'd  deep, 
This  earth  once  more,  man's  infant  race  wilt 
thou 

Afresh  from  off  the  face  of  nature  sweep  ? 


PRATINAS. 


[About  525  B.  C.] 


A  PELOPOXESIAN  of  the  city  of  Phlius,  and  au- 
thor of  several  tragic  and  satiric  dramas,  now 
lost.  On  one  occasion,  during  his  acting  at 
Athens,  the  wooden  stage  broke  down  under  the 


weight  of  the  crowd,  and  much  mischief  having 
ensued,  the  Athenians  set  about  building  a  theatre 
of  more  solid  materials,  and  better  adapted  to 
the  improving  character  of  the  Greek  drama. 


"Pratinas"  (says  Mr.  Cumberland,)  "struck 
out  a  considerable  improvement  in  the  orchestral 
part  of  his  drama,  by  revoking  the  custom  of  al- 
lowing the  minstrels  to  join  the  chaunt  or  strain 
with  the  chorus,  and  suffering  them  only  to  ac- 
company with  their  pipes.  The  people,  how- 
ever, not  yet  weaned  from  their  old  prejudice  for 
the  noisy  Bacchanalian  songs  of  their  village 
masques,  opposed  themselves  violently  against 
the  innovation,  when,  in  the  midst  of  the  tumult, 
Pratinas  appeared  on  the  stage  in  person,  and, 
in  a  kind  of  Salian  song,  accompanied  with 
dancing,  addressed  his  audience  to  the  following 
effect : 

What  means  this  tumult1?  Why  this  rage  ? 
What  thunder  shakes  the  Athenian  stage  ? 
:Tis  frantic  Bromius  bids  me  sing; 
He  tunes  the  pipe,  he  smites  the  string; 


The  Dryads  with  their  chief  accord, 
Submit  and  hail  the  Drama's  Lord.* 
Be  still !  and  let  distraction  cease, 
Nor  thus  profane  the  Muse's  peace. 
By  sacred  fiat  I  preside 
The  Minstrel's  master  and  his  guide : 
He,  while  the  choral  strains  proceed, 
Shall  follow,  with  responsive  reed ; 
To  measured  notes,  whilst  they  advance, 
He,  in  wild  maze,  shall  lead  the  dance. 
So  generals  in  the  front  appear, 
Whilst  Music  echoes  from  the  rear. — 
Now  silence  each  discordant  sound ! 
For,  see,  with  ivy-chaplet  crown'd, 
Bacchus  appears !  he  speaks  in  me — 
Hear,  and  obey  the  God's  decree. 

*  Pratinas  had  been  the  first  to  introduce  satyrs  and 
dryads  with  these  lively  songs  and  movements,  and  was, 
therefore,  regarded  as  the  inventor  of  the  satiric  drama. 
H 


EPICHARMUS. 


[About  500  B.  C.] 


A  NATIVE  of  Cos,  and  an  inhabitant  of  Sicily ; 
called  by  Theocritus  the  Inventor,  and  by  Plato 
the  "Homer,"  of  Comedy.  His  dramas  were 
partly  mythological,  and  partly  political ;  and  the 
style  and  language  as  varied  as  the  subjects  of 
them  j  sometimes  full  of  moral  and  gnomic  sen- 


MARRIAGE. 

Marriage  is  like 

A  cast  of  dice ! — Happy  indeed  his  lot 
Who  gets  a  good  wife,  one  of  morals  pure 
And  withal  easy  temper ; — but  alight  on 
A  gadding,  gossiping,  expensive  jade, 
And  heaven  deliver  thee !  'Tis  not  a  wife 
Thou  weddest,  but  an  everlasting  plague, 
A  devil  in  she's  clothing.     There  is  not 
In  the  habitable  globe  so  dire  a  torment ; 
I  know  it  to  my  cost : — the  better  luck 
Is  his  who  never  tried  it. 


GENEALOGIES. 

GOOD  gossip,  if  you  love  me,  prate  no  more  ;- 
What  are  your  genealogies  to  me  ? 


timent,  and.  at  others,  degenerating  into  wildest 
buffoonery.  The  "  Mensechmi"  of  Plautus  is  said 
to  have  been  founded  on  one  of  his  plays.  Though 
he  composed  at  least  thirty-five,  only  an  occa- 
sional fragment  or  sentence  of  any  of  them  has 
descended  to  us. 


Away  to  those  who  have  more  need  of  them ! ' 
Let  the  degenerate  wretches,  if  they  can, 
Dig  up  dead  honour  from  their  fathers'  tombs 
And    boast    it    for    their    own, —  vain,    empty 

boast ! 

When  every  common  fellow,  that  they  meet, 
If  accident  hath  not  cut  off  the  scroll, 
Can  show  a  list  of  ancestry  as  long. — 
You  call  the  Scythians  barbarous,  and    despise 

them ; 

Yet  Anacharsis  was  a  Scythian  born  : 
And  every  man  of  a  like  noble  nature, 
Though  he  were  mpulded   from   an    ^Ethiop's 

loins, 
Is  nobler  than  your  pedigrees  can  make  him. 


ONOMACRITUS. 


[About  500  B.  C.] 


OUOMACRITUS  was  a  priest  and  soothsayer  of 
Athens,  who  professed  to  be  in  possession  of  cer- 
tain oracular  verses  of  the  poet  Musams.  He 
stood  high  in  favour  with  Hipparchus ;  but  being 
at  length  convicted  of  interpolating  his  own  verses 
amongst  those  of  Musseus,  was  banished  by  him 
as  an  impostor.  He  was  afterwards  one  of  the 
deputies  from  the  princes  of  Thessaly  to  the 
Persian  king,  inviting  him  to  invade  Greece,  and 


FROM  THE  ARGONAUTICS. 

VISIT  OF  THE  AHGOXAUTS  TO  THE   CAVE  OF 

CHiaosr. 


with  a  whistling  breeze 
did  Juno  fill  the  sail, 
And  Argo,  self-impell'd, 

shot  swift  before  the  gale. 


is  said  to  have  predicted  to  Xerxes  that  he  should 
throw  a  bridge  over  the  Hellespont;  a  prophecy 
which  naturally  enough  tended  to  its  own  fulfil- 
ment. He  was  thought  to  be  the  real  author  of 
the  poems  ascribed  to  Orpheus.  The  probability, 
however,  is  that,  being  in  possession  of  certain 
genuine  Orphic  fragments,  he  used  them,  (like 
another  Macpherson,)  as  the  groundwork  of  his 
own  fabrications. 


The  kings  with  nerve  and  heart 

the  oar  unwearied  plied  ; 
Plough'd  by  the  keel,  foam'd  white 

th'  immeasurable  tide. 
But  when  from  Ocean's  streams 

the  sacred  dawn  appear'd, 
And  morning's  pleasant  light 

both  gods  and  mortals  cheer'd ; 


ONOMACRITUS. 


87 


Then,  from  the  shore,  the  rocks 

and  windy  summits  high 
Of  wood-topt  Pelion  rear'd 

their  beacon  midst  the  sky. 
The  helm,  with  both  his  hands, 

the  pilot  Tiphys  held  ; 
The  vessel  cut  the  wave, 

with  quiet  course  impell'd; 
Then  swift  they  near'd  the  shore ; 

the  wooden  ladder  cast, 
And  forth  the  heroes  leap'd, 

relieved  from  labours  past. 
Then  to  the  circling  throng 

the  horseman  Peleus  cried'; 
"Mark,  friends!  yon  snadowing  crag, 

midway  the  mountain  side  : 
There  Chiron  dwells,  most  just 

of  all  the  Centaur  race, 
That  haunt  high  Pelion's  top  ; 

a  cave  his  dwelling  place. 
He  there  awards  the  right, 

or  heals  the  body's  pains ; 
And  chaunts  to  neighbouring  tribes, 

oracular,  his  strains. 
To  Phoebus'  chorded  harp, 

the  laws,  in  wisdom,  sings ; 
Or  Hermes'  hollow  lute, 

of  shell  sonorous,  strings ; 
And  therefore  Thetis  came, 

with  silver  feet,  to  trace 
High  Pelion's  waving  woods, 

my  babe  in  her  embrace  ; 
And  here  to  Chiron's  hands, 

the  new-born  infant  brought, 
To  cherish  with  a  father's  eye, 

and  rear  with  prudent  thought 
Indulge  my  longing,  friends ! 

with  me  the  cavern  tread, 
To  mark  how  fares  my  boy ; 

how  gifted,  and  how  bred." 
He  trod  the  beaten  path ; 

we  followed  where  he  led ; 
We  enter'd  straight  a  grot, 

of  gloomy  twilight  shade : 
There  on  a  lowly  couch, 

the  Centaur  huge  was  laid. 
At  length  unmeasured  stretch'd, 

his  rapid  legs  were  thrown; 
And,  shod  with  horny  hoofs, 

reclin'd  upon  the  stone. 
The  boy  Achilles  stood, 

erect,  beside  the  sire  ; 
And  smote  with  pliant  hand 

the  spirit-soothing  lyre. 
But,  when  the  Centaur  saw 
the  noble  kings  appear, 
He  rose  with  courteous  act,  and  kiss'd, 

and  brought  them  dainty  cheer. 
The  wine  in  beakers  served, 

the  branchy  couches  spread 
With  scatter'd  leaves,  and  placed 

each  guest  upon  his  bed. 
In  dishes  rude  the  flesh 

of  boars  and  stags  bestowed  ; 
While  draughts  of  luscious  wine 
in  equal  measure  flow'd. 


But  now,  when  food  and  drink 

had  satisfied  the  heart, 
With  loud,  applauding  hands, 

they  urged  my  minstrel's  art : 
That  I,  in  contest  -match'd 

againsfthe  Centaur  sire, 
Should,  to  some  wide-famed  strain, 

attune  the  ringing  lyre. 
But  I,  averse,  forbore 

in  contest  to  engage, 
And  blush'd,  that  youth  should  vie 

with  more  experienced  age, 
Till  Chiron  join'd  the  wish, 

himself  prepared  to  sing ; 
And  forced  me  to  contend, 

reluctant,  on  the  string. 
Achilles  stretch'd  his  hand, 

and  gave  the  beauteous  shell, 
Which  Chiron  took,  and  sang 

the  Centaur  combat  fell : 
How  them  the  Lapithue 

for  daring  outrage  slew  ; 
How,  mad  with  strength  of  wine, 

'gainst  Hercules  they  flew  ; 
And  him,  on  Pholoe's  mount, 

to  stubborn  conflict  drew. 
I  next  the  lute  received, 

of  echo  sweet  and  shrill. 
And  bade  my  breathing  lips 

their  honour'd  song  distil : 
In  dark  and  mystic  hymn, 

I  sang  of  Chaos  old, 
How  the  disparted  elements 

in  round  alternate  roll'd; 
Heaven  flow'd  through  boundless  space, 

and  earth  her  teeming  train 
Fed  from  her  ample  breast,  and  deep 

in  whirlpools  heaved  the  main. 
I  sang  of  elder  Love, 

who,  self-sufficing,  wrought 
Creation's  differing  forms, 

with  many-counsell'd  thought. 
Of  baneful  Saturn  next, 

and  how  the  heaven  above 
Fell  with  its  regal  sway 

to  thunder-launching  Jove. 
I  sang  the  younger  gods, 

whence  rose  their  various  birth, 
How  spread  their  separate  powers 

through  sea,  and  air,  and  earth. 
Of  Brimus,  and  of  Bacchus  last, 

and  giants'  mystic  fame, 
And  whence  man's  weaker  race  arose, 

of  many-nation'd  name. 
Through  winding  cavities, 

that  scoop'd  the  rocky  cell, 
With  tone  sonorous  thrill'd 

my  sweetly  vocal  shell. 
High  Pelion's  mountain-heads, 

and  woody  valleys  round, 
And  all  his  lofty  oaks 

ivmurmur'd  to  the  sound. 
His  oaks  uprooted  rush, 

and  all  tumultuous  wave, 
Around  the  darken'd  mouth 

of  Chiron's  hollow  cave. 


88 


ONOMACRITUS. 


The  rocks  re-echo  shrill; 

the  beasts  of  forest  wild 
Stand  at  the  cavern's  mouth, 

in  listening  trance  beguil'd  : 
The  birds  surround  the  den ; 

and,  as  in  weary  rest,  • 
They  drop  their  fluttering  wings, 

forgetful  of  the  nest. 
Amazed  the  Centaur  saw  : 

his  clapping  hands  he  beat, 
And  stamp'd  in  extasy  the  rock 

with  hoof 'd  and  horny  feet. 
When  Tiphys  threads  the  cave, 

and  bids  the  Minyan  train 
To  hurry  swift  on  board  ; 

and  thus  I  ceased  my  strain. 
The  Argonauts  leap'd  up  in  haste, 

and  snatch'd  their  arms  again. 
Then  Peleus  to  his  breast 

his  boy,  embracing,  rears ; 
Kissing  his  head  and  beauteous  eyes, 

and  smiling  through  his  tears. 
Achilles  so  was  soothed  ; 

and,  as  I  left  the  cave, 
A  leopard's  spotted  skin, 

in  pledge,  the  Centaur  gave. 
Forth  from  the  den  we  sprang, 

down  from  the  mountain  high ; 
The  aged  Centaur  spread 

his  raised  hands  tow'rds  the  sky : 
And  call'cl  on  all  the  gods 

a  safe  return  to  give, 
That,  fam'd  in  ages  yet  unborn, 

the  youthful  kings  might  live. 
Descending  to  the  shore, 

we  climb'd  the  bark  again ; 
Each  press'd  his  former  bench 

and  lash'd  with  oar  the  main ; 
Huge  Pelion's  mountain  swift 

receded  from  our  view, 
And  o'er  vast  Ocean's  green  expanse 

the  foam  white-chafing  flew. 


TO  THE  MOON. 

HEAVENLY  Selene !  goddess  queen ! 

that  shedd'st  abroad  the  light ! 
Bull-horned  moon !  air-habiting ! 

thou  wanderer  through  the  night ! 
Moon,  bearer  of  the  nightly  torch ! 

thou  star-encircled  maid ! 
Female  at  once,  and  male  the  same ; 

still  fresh,  and  still  decay'd ! 
Thou !  that  in  thy  steeds  delight'st, 

as  they  whirl  thee  through  the  sky : 
Clothed  in  brightness !  mighty  mother 

of  the  rapid  years  that  fly ! 
Fruit-dispenser !  amber- visaged  ! 

melancholy,  yet  serene ! 
All-beholding !  sleep-enamour'd ! 

still  with  trooping  planets  seen ! 
Quiet-loving !  who  in  pleasaunce, 

and  in  plenty  takest  delight ! 
Joy-diffusing !  fruit-maturing ! 

sparkling  ornament  of  night ! 


Swiftly-pacing !  ample-vested ! 

star-bright !  all-divining  maid  ! 
Come  benignant !  come  spontaneous ! 

with  thy  starry  sheen  array'd ! 
Sweetly-shining !  save  us,  virgin ! 

give  thy  holy  suppliants  aid ! 


FROM  THE  ORPHIC  REMAINS. 


OSTE  self-existent  lives :  created  things 
Arise  from  him ;  and  he  is  all  in  all. 
No  mortal  sight  may  see  him ;  yet  himself 
Sees  all  that  live.     He  out  of  good  can  bring 
Evil  to  men :  dread  battle  ;  tearful  woes  j 
He,  and  no  other.     Open  to  thy  sight 
Were  all  the  chain  of  things,  could'st  thou  behold 
The  Godhead,  ere  as  yet  he  stepp'd  on  earth. 
My  son !  I  will  display  before  thine  eyes 
His  footsteps,  and  his  mighty  hand  of  power. 
Himself  I  cannot  see.     The  rest  is  veil'd 
In  clouds ;  and  ten-fold  darkness  intercepts 
His  presence.     None  discerns  the  Lord  of  men, 
But  he,  the  sole  begotten,  of  the  tribe 
Of  old  Chaldeans :  he,  to  whom  was  known 
The  path  of  stars,  and  how  the  moving  sphere 
Rolls  round  this  earth,  in  equal  circle  framed, 
Self-balanced  on  her  centre.     'Tis  the  God, 
Who  rules  the  breathing  winds,  that  sweep  around 
The  vault  of  air,  and  round  the  flowing  swell 
Of  the  deep,  watery  element ;  and  shows 
Forth,  from  on  high,  the  glittering  strength  of 

flame. 

Himself,  above  the  firmament's  broad  arch, 
Sits,  on  a  throne  of  gold  :  the  round  earth  lies 
Under  his  feet.     He  stretches  his  right  hand 
To  th'  uttermost  bounds  of  ocean,  and  the  root 
Of  mountains  trembles  at  his  touch  ;  nor  stands 
Before  his  mighty  power.     For  he,  alone, 
All-heavenly  is,  and  all  terrestrial  things 
Are  wrought  by  him.     First,  midst,  and  last,  he 

holds 

With  his  omniscient  grasp.     So  speaks  the  lore 
Of  ancient  wisdom :  so  the  man,  who  sprang 
Forth  from  the  cradling  waters,  speaks :  who  took 
The  double  tables  of  the  law  from  God  ; 
Other  to  speak,  were  impious.     Every  limb 
I  tremble,  and  my  spirit  quakes  within. 

II. 
JOVE  is  the  first  and  last; 

who  th'  infant  thunder  hurl'd ; 
Jove  is  the  head  and  midst ; 

the  framer  of  the  world  ; 
Jove  is  a  male ;  a  nymph 

of  bloom  immortal,  Jove  ; 
Jove  is  the  base  of  earth, 

and  starry  Heaven  above. 
Jove  is  the  breath  of  all ; 
«  the  force  of  quenchless  flame ; 

The  root  of  ocean,  Jove ; 

the  sun  and  moon,  the  same. 
Jove  is  the  King,  the  Sire, 

whence  generation  sprang ; 
One  strength,  one  Demon,  great, 

on  whom  all  beings  hang ; 


SOPHOCLES. 


89 


His  regal  body  grasps 

the  vast  material  round  ; 
There  fire,  earth,  air,  and  wave, 

and  day,  and  night  are  found  ; 
Wisdom,  first  maker,  there, 

and  joy-prolific  Love ; 
All  these  concentering  fill 

the  mighty  frame  of  Jove. 


FROM  THE  LITHICS. 

TH'  immortal  gods  will  view  thee  with  delight, 
If  thou  should'st  hold  the  agate,  branching  bright 


With  veins,  like  many  a  tree,  that  rears  its  head 
In  some  fair  garden,  with  thick  boughs  bespread : 
As  the  tree  agate,  thus,  to  mortals  known, 
In  part  a  branchy  wood  ;  in  part  a  stone. 
If  on  thy  oxen's  horns  this  gem  be  bound, 
When  with  the  cleaving  share   they  turn  the 

ground ; 

Or  on  th'  unwearied  ploughman's  shoulder  borne, 
Then  shall  thy  furrows  spring  with  thickening 

corn : 

Full-bosom'd  Ceres,  with  the  wheaten  crown, 
Shall  lean  from  Heaven  and   scatter  harvests 

down. 


Son 


SOPHOCLES. 


[Born  495,  Died  405,  B.  C.] 


PHOCLES  was  born,  at  Colonos  near  Athens, 
of  respectable  and  opulent  parents,  who  had  him 
educated  in  all  the  learning  and  accomplish- 
ments of  the  times.  His  first  exhibition  was  at 
the  early  age  of  sixteen,  when  he  appeared  in 
the  character  of  exarch,  or  leader  of  the  Athe- 
nian youths,  who  had  been  selected  to  perform 
the  triumphant  Paean  around  the  trophy  of  Sa- 
lamis.  In  468,  being  then  twenty-seven,  as  well 
as  in  many  subsequent  years,  he  bore  off  the  first 
prizes  in  Tragedy,— on  one  occasion,  from  ^s- 
chylus  himself,  whose  vast  but  rugged  grandeur 
was  less  in  harmony  with  the  reigning  taste  than 
the  artful  and  polished  genius  of  his  younger 
rival.  In  440,  Sophocles  was  amongst  the  col- 
leagues of  Pericles  and  Thucydides  in  the  Sa- 
mian  war, — an  appointment  said  to  have  been 
the  reward  of  his  political  wisdom,  as  displayed 
in  his  Tragedy  of  Antigone,  but  which  he  more 
probably  owed  to  his  popular  manners,  serenity 
of  temper,  and  even  laxity,  or  rather  want  of 
public  principle.*  He  held  other  high  offices  of 

*  "  His  serenity,  like  that  of  Goethe,  has  in  it  something 
of  enviable,  rather  than  honourable,  indifference.  He 
owed  his  first  distinction  to  Cimon,  and  he  served  after- 
wards under  Pericles;— on  his  entrance  into  life,  he  led 


State,  but  it  was  by  his  Tragedies,  and  not  by 
his  military  or  political  services,  that  he  earned 
for  himself  the  immortality  which  is  so  justly  his 
due,  and  which  can  only  cease  with  the  divine 
language  in  which  he  wrote.  The  story  of  his  son 
lophon  having  attempted  to  remove  him  from 
the  management  of  his  property  on  the  ground 
of  dotage  or  lunacy,  and  of  his  having  repelled 
the  charge  by  reading  to  the  Judges  his  beautiful 
Ode  in  praise  of  his  native  Colonos,  though  re- 
ceived by  Cicero,  is  now  supposed,  on  further 
examination  and  comparison  of  dates,  circum- 
stances, and  historical  allusions,  to  be  very  apo- 
cryphal, if  not  altogether  void  of  foundation. 

Sophocles  died  at  the  age  of  90,  leaving  behind 
him  upwards  of  one  hundred  Tragedies,  of 
which  only  seven  have  come  down  to  our  times. 


the  youths  that  circled  the  trophy  of  Grecian  freedom, 
and,  on  the  verge  of  death,  he  calmly  assented  to  the  sur- 
render of  Athenian  liberties.  In  short,  Aristophanes 
perhaps  mingled  more  truth  than  usual  with  his  wit, 
when,  even  in  the  shades  below,  he  says  of  Sophocles, 
'He  was  contented  here  — he  is  contented  there.'  A 
disposition  thus  facile,  united  with  an  admirable  genius, 
will  not  unfrequently  effect  a  miracle  and  reconcile  pros- 
perity with  fame  "  -Bulwer  Lytton's  Athens. 


FROM  KING  (EDIPUS. 

LAIUS,  king  of  Thebes,  having  learned  from 
the  Oracle,  that  he  was  destined  to  perish  by  the 
hand  of  his  own  son,  commands  his  wife,  Jocas- 
ta,  to  destroy  the  infant  as  soon  as  born.  The 
mother  accordingly  gave  the  child  to  a  domestic, 
with  orders  to  expose  him  on  Mount  Citheron. 
There  he  is  found  by  one  of  the  shepherds  of 
Polybus,  king  of  Corinth,  who,  having  no  chil- 
dren, adopts  him  as  his  own.  On  arriving  at 
years  of  maturity,  (Edipus  goes  to  consult  the 
12 


Oracle  concerning  his  parents  and  history;  and 
being  told  that  he  would  commit  both  parri- 
cide and  incest,  resolves  on  returning  to  Co- 
rinth no  more.  Travelling,  however,  towards 
Phocis  he  meets  Lains,  and  in  a  dispute  which 
ensues, — ignorant  of  the  name  and  quality  of  his 
opponent,  —  slays  him.  He  then  proceeds  to 
Thebes,  destroys  the  Sphynx,  a  monster  which 
was  infesting  the  land,  and,  in  reward,  is  raised 
to  the  throne  and  honoured  with  the  hand  of  the 
widowed  queen.  (Edipus  reigns,  for  a  while, 
powerful  and  beloved ;  but  a  pestilence  at  length 
•  1 


90 


SOPHOCLES. 


ensues,  and  Creon,  the  brother  of  Jocasta,  having 
been  despatched  to  Delphi  to  learn  the  cause, 
brings  back  word  that  the  plague  will  never 
cease  until  the  blood  of  Laius  is  avenged.  An 
investigation  follows,  and  the  horrid  secret  is 
brought  to  light;  whereupon  Jocasta  destroys 
herself,  and  CEdipus,  having  torn  out  his  own 
eyes,  relinquishes  the  throne,  and  departs  an 
exile  from  Thebes. 

(EDIPUS,  TIRESIAS,  CHORUS. 
CEd.  Tiresias,  whose  expansive  mind  surveys 
All  man  can  learn,  or  solemn  silence  seal, 
The  signs  of  heaven,  and  secrets  of  the  earth  ; 
Though  sight  is  quenched  in  darkness,  well  thou 

know'st 

The  fatal  plague  that  desolates  our  Thebes ; 
From  which,  O  prince,  we  hope  to  find  in  thee 
Our  help,  and  sole  preserver.     List,  if  yet 
Thou  hast  not  heard  his  mandate, — the  response 
Return'd  by  Phoebus.    Never  shall  this  pest 
Cease  its  wide  desolation,  till  we  seize, 
And  on  the  assassins  of  the  murdered  king 
Avenge  his  fall  by  exile  or  by  death. 

0  then  refuse  not  thou,  if  thou  hast  aught 
Of  augury  or  divination  sure, 

To  save  thyself,  thy  country,  and  thy  king, 
And  ward  this  foul  pollution  of  the  dead. 
We  trust  in  thee.     Of  all  our  earthly  toils 
The  best  and  noblest  is  to  aid  mankind. 

Ti.  Ah !  woe  is  me !  for  wisdom  is  but  woe, 
When  to  be  wise  avails  not.     This  I  knew, 
But  ill  remembered,  or  I  ne'er  had  come. 

(Ed.  What  may  this  mean !  and  whence  this 
strange  dismay? 

Ti.  Dismiss  me  to  my  home :  this  grace  con- 
ferred, 
Thou  wilt  endure  thy  griefs,  I  mine,  more  lightly. 

(Ed.  It  were  unjust,  ungrateful  to  the  state, 
Which   hath    sustained  thee,   to   withhold    thy 
counsel. 

Ti.  Thy  words  are  most  untimely  to  thyself. 
Let  me  beware,  lest  I  too  swerve  from  caution. 

Ch.  Oh,  by  the  gods,   refuse  not  what  thou 

canst. 
In  one  assenting  prayer  we  all  implore  thee. 

Ti.  For  ye  are  all  unwise.     Be  well  assured, 

1  will  not  speak  and  publish  thy  despair. 

(Ed.  Dost  thou  then  know  and  wilt  not  speak 

the  truth  ? 

Wilt  thou  betray  us,  and  subvert  thy  country  ? 
Ti.  I  would  not  injure  thee,  nor  wound  my- 
self. 
Why  urge  me  thus  ?  nought  shalt  thou  hear  from 

me. 

(Ed.  Basest  of  villains !  for  thou  wouldst  excite 
The  insensate  rock  to  wrath,  wilt  thou  not  speak? 
Still  dost  thou  stand  unpitying  and  unmoved  ? 
Ti.  Thou  hast  reproved  my  warmth,  yet  little 

know'st 

What  dwells  in  thine  own  bosom,  though  on  me 
Thou  heap'st  reproach. 

(Ed.  And  who  could  calmly  hear 

Such  words,  so  shameful  to  thine  injured  country? 
Ti.  Soon  will  these  things  appear,  though  I  be 
silent. 


(Ed.  Doth  it  not  then  behove  thee  to  declare 
What  soon  shall  come  to  light  ? 

Ti.  Til  speak  no  more. 

Indulge  this  lawless  passion  at  thy  will. 

(Ed.  Naught  will  I  now  suppress,  since  anger 

prompts 

My  unreserved  speech.     I  do  suspect  thee 
Accomplice  of  the  deed,  save  that  thy  hand 
Struck  not  the  mortal  blow  ;  had  sight  been  thine, 
I  then  had  charged  thee  as  the  only  villain ! 
Ti.  Ha!    is   it  thus?     Nay,  then,  I  tell  thee, 

king! 

Adhere  to  thine  own  edict ;  from  this  hour 
No  more  hold  converse  or  with  these  or  me. 
Thou  art  the  sole  polluter  of  our  land. 

(Ed.  Art  thou  so  lost  to  shame,  as  to  indulge 
A   taunt  like  this.     Think'st  thou  to  'scape  un- 
scathed ! 

Ti.  I  have  escaped :  the  might  of  truth  is  mine. 
(Ed.  By  whom   informed? — not  through  thy 

prescient  art. 
Ti.  By  thee ;  thy  will  constrained  me  thus  to 

speak, 

Though  most  reluctant. 

.  (Ed.  What !  Repeat  thy  words 

That  I  may  learn  more  clearly. 

Ti.  Know'st  thou  not 

Before,  or  wouldst  thou  tempt  me  to  speak  on  ? 
(Ed.  I  have  not  caught  thy  purport.     Speak 

again. 
Ti.  I  say  thou  art  the  murderer  whom  thou 

seekest. 
(Ed.  Thou  shalt  not  vent  that  slander  twice 

unpunished. 

Ti.  Shall  I  proceed  and  fire  thy  rage  to  frenzy  ? 
(Ed.  Speak  what  thou  wilt,  it  will  be  said  in 

vain. 
Ti.  Thou  dost  not  know  what  guilty  ties  unite 

thee 
To  those  thou  deem'st  most  dear ;  thou  dost  not 

see 
The  ills  that  close  thee  round. 

(Ed.  And  dost  thou  hope 

Again  to  triumph  in  thy  vaunt  unharmed  ? 
Ti.  If  there  be  aught  of  potency  in  truth. 
(Ed.  There  is,  but  not  for  thee.  Thou  hast  it 

not, 
Dark  in  thine  eye,  in  heart  and  ear  yet  darker. 

Ti.  Wretched  art  thou  in  thus  upbraiding  me, 

Whom  all,  ere  long,  shall  urge  with  like  reproach. 

(Ed.  Nurtured  in  night  alone,  thou  canst  not 

harm 
The  man  who  views  the  living  light  of  heaven. 

Ti.  'Tis  not  thy  doom  to  fall  by  me ;  for  this 
Phoebus  is  mighty,  who  will  work  the  whole. 
(Ed.  Didst  thou,  or  Creon,  frame  these  sage 

inventions  ? 
Ti.  Not  Creon  wrongs  thee,  thou  dost  wrong 

thyself. 

(Ed.  0  wealth,  0  empire,  and  thou  nobler  art, 
Potent  o'er  all  to  brighten  life  with  joy, 
What  baleful  envy  on  your  splendour  waits! 
Since  for  these  regal  honours,  which  the  state 
Confided  to  my  hand,  a  boon  unsought, 
Creon,  my  first  and  once  most  faithful  friend, 
By  traitorous  cunning  saps  my  rightful  sway, 


SOPHOCLES. 


91 


And  hath  suborned  this  dark  designing  wizard, 
This  scheming  specious  sorcerer,  skilled  alone 
To  seek  his  profit,  sightless  in  his  art. 
When  didst  thou  ever  prove  a  faithful  prophet? 
Why,  when  the  monster   screamed  her  mystic 

charm 

Didst  thou  not  break  it  to  redeem  thy  country  ? 
To  solve  th'  enigma  was  no  chance  emprize ; 
Well  might  such  task  demand  the  prophet's  aid ! 
Yet  nought  from  divination  could st  thou  learn  ; 
Nought  did  the  gods  inform  thee  :  then  I  came, 
This  unexperienced  CEdipus,  and,  led 
By  reason,  not  by  auguries,  quelled  the  foe ; — 
Whom  now  thou  seek'st  to  banish,  deeming  thus 
To  stand  in  state  usurped  near  Creon's  throne ; 
But  thou,  with  him  who  shared  thy  base  designs, 
Shall  feel  our  righteous  vengeance.     Save  that 

age 
Some  reverence  claims,  now  would  I  teach  thee 

wisdom. 

Ch.  If  we  conjecture  right,  the  prophet  spake 
In   vehement   wrath ;    thus   too,    0   king,   thou 

speakest. 

Such  ill  beseems  our  state :  'twere  best  to  seek 
How  we  may  trace  the  pleasure  of  the  god. 
Ti.  Though  thou  art  monarch,  yet  with  like 

reproach 

Thy  slanders  will  I  quiet,  for  this  I  can ; 
To  thee  I  am  no  vassal,  but  to  Phoebus ; 
Nor  will  I  look  to  Creon  as  my  patron. 
Know,    since    my   blindness   wakes    thy   keen 

reproach, 

Clear-sighted  as  thou  art,  thou  dost  not  see 
What  ills    enclose  thee — where  thou  hast  thy 

home — 

With  whom  that  home  is  shared.     Art  thou  ap- 
prized 

Who  gave  thee  birth  ?  Thou  art  th'  unconscious  foe 
Of  thine  own  race  on  earth,  and  in  the  tomb : 
Soon  shall  thy  father's,  soon  thy  mother's,  curse 
With  fearful  stride  expel  thee  from  the  land ; 
Now  blest  with  sight, — then,  plunged  in  endless 

gloom. 

Ere  long  what  shore  shall  not  attest  thy  cries  ? 
How  will  they  echo  from  Cithaeron's  brow, 
When  thou    shalt  learn  that   marriage,    where 

impelled, 

As,  with  propitious  gales,  in  evil  port 
Thy  heedless  bark  had  anchored.  Seest  thou  not 
A  gathering  storm  of  miseries,  doomed  ere  long 
To  burst  alike  on  thee  and  on  thy  children? 
Vent  now  on  Creon  and  my  prescient  word 
Thy  keen  upbraidings.     None  of  mortal  race 
Hath  ever  fallen  so  low  as  thou  shalt  fall. 

(Ed.  Must  I  then  brook  such  shameless  taunts 

from  thee? 

A  curse  light  on  thee,  babbler !  to  thy  home 
Away,  and  rid  us  of  thy  hateful  presence. 
Ti.  But  for  thy  summons,  I  had  never  come. 
(Ed.  I  little  dreamed  that  thou  wouldst  prate 

so  weakly, 
Or  never  had  I  sought  thy  presence  here. 

Ti.  Though  to  thy  better  wisdom  void  of  sense 
We  seem,  thy  parents  once  esteemed  us  wise. 
(Ed.  Who  are  they?     Stop  and  tell  who  gave 

me  birth. 


Ti.  This  day  will  show  thy  birth,  and  seal  thy 

ruin. 
(Ed.  How  wild,  and  how  mysterious  are  thy 

words ! 

Ti.  Art  thou  not  skilled  t'  unriddle  this  enigma? 
(Ed.  Reproach  the  path  that  led  me  up  to 

greatness. 

Ti.  That  very  path  hath  led  thee  to  perdition. 
(Ed.  I  reck  not  that,  so  I  preserve  the  state. 
Ti.  Then  I  depart.     Thou,  boy,  conduct  me 

hence. 
(Ed.  Aye,  let  him  lead  thee  hence.  Here  thou 

dost  nought 

But  plague  us ;  rid  of  thee  we  may  have  peace. 
Ti.  I  go ;  but  first  will  do  mine  errand  here, 
By  thy  stern   looks   unawed.     Thou   canst   not 

harm  me. 

I  tell  thee,  king,  the  man  whom  thou  hast  sought 
With  fearful  menaces,  denouncing  death 
On  Laius'  murderer,  that  man  is  here. 
In  words  he  seems  an  alien,  yet  shall  prove 
By  birth  a  Theban,  nor  in  this  disclosure 
Shall  long  exult.  From  sight  reduced  to  blindness, 
To  penury  from  wealth,  he  shall  go  forth 
To  foreign  climes  by  a  frail  staff  directed. 
Then  to  his  children  shall  be  proved  at  once 
A  brother  and  a  father ;  and  to  her 
Who  gave  him  birth  a  husband  and  a  son, 
Co-rival  of  the  father  whom  he  slew. 
Seek  now  thy  palace,  and  reflect  on  this ; 
And,  if  thou  find  my  bodings  unfulfilled, 
Deem  me  untutored  in  prophetic  lore. 

{Exeunt  TIRESIAS  ABTD  (EDIPUS. 

CHEOST,  CHORUS. 

Cr.  0  citizens,  of  that  atrocious  crime 
With  which  the  king  doth  charge  me,  late  apprized, 
Such  charge  I  cannot  brook.     If,  in  the  hour 
Of  general  suffering,  he  suspect  that  I 
Have  sought  to  wrong  him,  or  in  word  or  act, 
E'en  life  itself  were  valueless  to  me, 
Thus  coupled  with  dishonour. 

Ch.  He  but  spoke 

From  passion,  not  from  cool  deliberate  judgment. 

Cr.  Whence  could  it  seem,  that,  by  our  wiles 

suborned, 
The  prophet  framed  these  falsehoods  ? 

Ch.  So  indeed 

The  king  affirmed ;  but  on  what  grounds,  I  know 
not. 

Cr.  With  mind  unwarped,  and  unperverted  eye 
Did  he  thus  charge  me  ? 

Ch.  Sooth  I  cannot  tell ; 

I  do  not  scrutinize  the  acts  of  princes. 
But  lo !  himself  approaches  from  the  palace. 

.  Enter  (EDIPCS. 

(Ed.  Ha,  wherefore  cam'st  thou  hither  ?  Is  thy 

brow 

So  armed  with  bold  presumption,  that  thou  dar'st 
Still  tread  our  courts,  a  false  convicted  traitor, 
Convicted  in  thy  scheme  to  shed  our  blood, 
And  steal  into  a  throne  ?     Say,  by  the  gods 
What  folly,  what  supineness,  hast  thou  marked 
In  me,  to  form  an  enterprise  like  this  ? 
Or  didst  thou  think  I  had  no  eye  to  trace 


92 


SOPHOCLES. 


Thy  wiles — when  traced,  no  firmness  to  revenge 

them  ? 
Cr.  Know'st  thou  what  thou  wouldst  do  ?    To 

our  reply 

Grant  first  impartial  audience  ;  learn,  then  judge. 
(Ed.  Aye,   thou  art   mighty  in  the   strife    of 

words ; 

But  I  am  slow  to  learn  of  one  like  thee, 
Whom  I  have  proved  rebellious  and  perverse. 
Cr.  First  do  thou  hear  what   I   would    fain 

reply. 

(Ed.  So  thou  reply  not  thus,  "  I  am  no  villain." 
Cr.  If  thou  dost  deem  this  self-willed  senseless 

pride 

Will  aught  avail  thee,  thou  art  most  unwise. 
(Ed.  And   if  thou  deem'st  to  mock  thy  kins- 
man's wrongs 

And  'scape  unpunished,  thou  art  most  unwise. 
Cr.  Thy   words   have    show   of  justice,   but 

explain 
Wherein  I  thus  have  wronged  thee. 

(Ed.  Didst  thou  then, 

Or  didst  thou  not,  persuade  me  here  to  summon 
This  holy  and  most  venerable  prophet  ? 
Cr.  I  did,  and  still  my  counsel  is  the  same. 
(Ed.  How  long  a  space  hath  now  elapsed  since 

Laius — 
Cr.  What  act  performed  ?     I  cannot  see  thy 

drift. 

(Ed.  Fell  thus  obscurely  by  a  ruffian  hand  ? 
Cr.  We  must  retrace  a  length  of  years  obscure. 
(Ed.  Did  this  sage  prophet  then  profess  his  art? 
Cr.  Unmatched,  as  now,  in  wisdom,  and  es- 
teemed 
With  equal  reverence. 

(Ed.  Did  he  at  the  time 

Make  mention  of  my  name  ? 

Cr.  Never ;  at  least 

Not  in  my  presence. 

(Ed.  Did  ye  not  enforce 

Strict  inquisition  for  your  murdered  lord? 

Cr.  How  could  we  pass  it  by?     Our  search 

was  vain. 
(Ed.  Why  spake  not  then  this  sage  diviner 

thus? 
Cr.  I   know   not,   and    strict    silence   would 

preserve 
On  points  unknown. 

(Ed.  One  point  at  least  thou  know'st, 

And,  if  true  wisdom  guide  thee,  will  disclose  it. 
Cr.  Name  it !  I  will  not  aught  I  know  deny. 
(Ed.  Were  not  the  prophet  basely  leagued 

with  thee, 

He  had  not  charged  me  with  the  death  of  Laius. 
Cr.  If  thus  he  speaks,  thou  know'st.     I  claim 

in  turn 
To  ask  of  thee  as  thou  hast  ask'd  of  me. 

(Ed.  Ask  what  thou  wilt,  I  never  shall  be 

proved 
A  base  assassin. 

Cr.  Is  my  sister  thine, 

Thine  by  the  nuptial  tie  ? 

(Ed.  To  such  a  question 

I  cannot  give  denial. 

Cr.  Dost  thou  not 

Divide  with  her  the  empire  of  the  land  ? 


(Ed.  'Tis  my  chief  pride  to  grant  her  every 
wish. 

Cr.  Do  not  I  hold  an  equal  rank  with  both  ? 

(Ed.  Thence  dost  thou  seem  indeed  a  faithless 
friend. 

Cr.  Not  if  thou  weigh  my  words,  as  I  weighed 

thine, 

With  cool  and  temperate  judgment.  First  reflect, 
Who  would  prefer  the  terrors  of  a  throne 
To  fearless  sleep,  with  equal  power  combined  ? 
Nor  I,  nor  any  whom  true  wisdom  guides, 
Would  seek  the  empty  pageant  of  a  crown, 
Before  the  real  potency  of  kings. 
Now,  void  of  fears,  I  gain  my  wish  with  thee ; 
Were  I  a  king,  full  oft  must  I  renounce  it. 
How,  then,  could  empire  be  to  me  more  dear 
Than  this  serene,  yet  not  less  potent,  sway  ? 
I  am  not  thus  by  flattering  hope  beguiled, 
To  quit  substantial  good  for  empty  honour. 
All  now  is  pleasure ;  all  men  court  me  now  ; 
They  who  desire  thy  favour  seek  my  aid 
To  advocate  their  cause ;  through  me  they  gain 
The  boon  solicited,  and  should  I  then 
Renounce  such  pleasures  for  the  pomp  of  em- 
pire? 

So  wild  a  scheme  the  prudent  soul  discards. 
Such  plots  I  never  loved,  and  would  disdain 
To  mingle  with  the  guilty  band  who  frame  them. 
If  thou  dost  seek  a  proof,  to  Delphi  send ; 
Ask  if  aright  the  oracle  I  brought  thee. 
Shouldst  thou  detect  me  leaguing  with  the  seer 
To  work  thee  wrong,  be  instant  death  my  meed, 
Twice  doomed, — by  thy  decree,  and  by  mine 

own ; 

But  tax  me  not  with  guilt  on  vague  suspicion. 
To  deem  the  good  unworthy,  or  account 
Alike  the  base  and  noble,  is  unjust. 
The  man  who  drives  an  upright  friend  to  exile, 
Doth  wound  himself  no  less,  than  if  he  struck 
At  his  own  valued  life.     Of  this,  in  time, 
Shalt  thou  be  well  convinced ;  long  space  it  asks 
To  prove  the  stainless  honour  of  the  just, 
One  day  suffices  to  detect  a  traitor. 

Ch.  Well  hath  he   said,  O  king,  to  one  fore- 
warned 
Of  falling ;  quick  resolves  are  rarely  safe. 

(Ed.  When  one  is  quick  to  frame  insidious 

plots, 

I  too  have  need  of  quickness  to  repel  him. 
If  I  remain  inactive,  he  will  gain 
His  traitorous  end,  while  my  slow  cares  avail  not. 

Cr.  What    is  thy  will? — To    force    me    into 
exile? 

(Ed.  Nay,  exile  shall  not  be  thy  doom,  but 
death. 

Cr.  When  thou  hast  proved  what  merits  such 
a  sentence. 

(Ed.  Yet  will  I  rule. 

Cr.  Thou  shalt  not  tyrannise. 

(Ed.  Thebes!  Thebes! 

Cr.  And  I  too  have  a  part  in  Thebes ; 

It  is  not  thine  alone. 

Ch.  Princes,  forbear !    . 

In  happy  moment,  lo  !  from  out  the  palace 
Jocasta  comes  ;  her  presence  may  appease 
The  growing  rancour  of  this  desperate  strife. 


SOPHOCLES. 


93 


Enter  JOCASTA. 

Joe.  Why,  0  unhappy  princes!  have  ye  raised 
This  unadvised  strife,  nor  blush  to  wake 
Your  private  feuds  when  public  woes  distract  us? 
Wilt  thou  not  home,  my  lord,  and  thou  too,  Creon, 
Nor  from  slight  cause  excite  severer  ills  ? 

Cr.  My  sister,  (Edipus,  thy  husband,  wills  me 
Foul  wrong.    One  of  two  ills  awaits  my  choice ; 
Or  death,  or  exile  from  my  native  land. 

(Ed.  I  own  it ;  for  I  have  detected  him 
In  basest  practices  against  my  life. 

Cr.  If  I  have  done  it,  if  the  charge  be  true, 
May  heaven's  dread  curse  descend  at  once  to 
blast  me. 

Joe.  Oh,  by  the  gods,  my  (Edipus,  believe  him; 
Revere  the  solemn  test  that  seals  his  truth ; 
Regard  me,  too,  and  these  thy  faithful  friends. 

Strophe  I. 

Ch.  By  prompt  reflection  swayed, 
0  king!  I  pray  thee,  yield. 

(Ed.  Wherein  shall  I  accord  thy  prayer? 

Ch.  Revere  the  prince,  before 
Not  senseless  proved,  now  bound  by  solemn  oath. 

(Ed.  Know'st  thou  what  thou  would'st  ask  ? 

Ch.  I  know. 

(Ed.  Then  speak. 

Ch.  Forbear  to  charge  a  friend  with  crimes 

unproved, 
Who  calls  the  gods  to  witness  for  his  truth. 

(Ed.  In  such  request,  know  well,  thou  dost  but 

seek 
Thy  monarch's  death,  or  exile  from  the  land. 

Strophe  II. 

Ch.  No !  by  yon  radiant  sun, 
Prince  of  the  powers  above, 
Low  may  I  fall,  a  godless,  friendless  wretch, 
If  e'er  my  bosom  harboured  thought  like  this. 
Tis  my  poor  country's  woe 
That  rankles  in  my  breast, 
And  now  must  strike  a  deeper  blow, 
If  to  our  common  ills  be  added  yours. 

(Ed.  Then  let  him  hence/though  certain  death 

ensue, 

Or  I  be  thrust  with  infamy  to  exile. 
Thy  plea  awakes  my  sympathy,  not  his ; 
Go  where  he  will,  my  quenchless  hate  attend  him. 

Cr.  Even  in  relenting  art  thou  stern  ;  thy  wrath 
Too  far  imlulgfd,  most  fearful.  Souls  like  thine 
Are  the  just  authors  of  their  own  remorse. 

(Ed.  Wilt  thou  not  leave  me,  and  depart? 

Cr.  I  go, 

Unknown  by  thee,  but  still  by  these  deemed 
righteous. 

[Exit  CIIEOK. 
Antistrophe  I. 

Ch.  Why,  lady,  dost  thou  pause 
To  lead  thy  lord  away? 

Joe.  First  tell  me  what  inflamed  their  wrath? 

Ch.  Suspicion  from  dark  words 
Arose ;  and  e'en  a  groundless  charge  offends. 

Joe.  By  both  preferred  ? 

Ch.  E'en  so. 

Joe.  And  what  the  cause  ? 


Ch.  Enough,  enough  I  deem  it,  when  the  State 
Is    plunged    in   grief,   to  cease  where  they  too 

ceased. 
(Ed.  Mark  how  thy  speech,  although  I  know 

thee  worthy, 
Tends  but  to  trouble  and  depress  my  heart! 

Antistrophe  II. 

Ch.  My  lord,  I  spoke  not  once 
Unmeaning  words  alone. 
But  deem  me  void  of  wisdom,  and  bereft 
Of  sage  reflection,  if  I  fall  from  thee, 
Who,  when  in  adverse  storms 
My  much-loved  country  strove, 
Didst  steer  her  to  a  prosperous  port. 
O,  if  thou  canst,  be  thus  our  pilot  now ! 

Joe.  Nay,  by  the  gods,  inform  me  too,  O  king! 
What  to  such  rancour  first  inflamed  thy  wrath  ? 

(Ed.  I  will,  for  I  revere  thee  more  than  these; 
'Twas  Creon,  who  hath  framed  a  treacherous  wile. 

Joe.  Say,  if  thou  canst  convict  him  of  the  crime. 

(Ed.  He  dares  to  tax  me  wi|h  the  death  of 
Laius. 

Joe.  Himself  th'  accuser,  or  apprized  by  others  ? 

(Ed.  He  hath  suborned  that  false  malignant 

seer, 
Who  claims  free  license  for  his  slanderous  tongue. 

Joe.  Dispel  the  thoughts  that  agitate  thy  breast. 
Hear  me,  and  learn,  that  none  of  mortal  birth 
Can  trace  the  future  by  prophetic  skill. 
The  proof  of  this  concisely  will  I  show. 
An  oracle  to  Laius  once  came  forth, 
(I  will  not  say  by  Phoebus  self  denounced, 
But  by  his  ministers,)  that  fate  ordained  him 
To  perish  by  a  son  whom  I  should  bear ; — 
And  yet,  as  rumour  tells,  where  three  ways  meet, 
By  foreign  ruffians  was  the  monarch  slain. 
Our  child  was  born,  but  ere  three  days  had  past, 
Piercing  the  joints,  he  bound  the  infant's  feet, 
And  cast  him  forth  by  menial  hands  to  die 
On  an  untrodden  rock.     In  nought  the  word 
Of  Phcebus  was  fulfilled ; — nor  was  the  child 
His  father's  murderer,  nor  did  Laius  meet 
The  doom  he  dreaded  from  a  filial  hand ; 
Yet  thus  the  doughty  oracles  declared. 
Then   heed   them   not.      If  Phoebus  wills   the 

search, 
He  will  himself  the  latent  truth  disclose. 

(Ed.  0  lady,  as  I  listen,  how  my  thoughts 
Distempered  wander,  and  my  soul  is  torn ! 

Joe.  What  strange    solicitude  prompts  words 
like  these  ? 

(Ed.  I  heard,  or  seem  to  hear,  that  Laius  fell 
Beneath  the  ruffian  band,  where  three  ways  meet. 

Joe.  So  rumour  whispered  then,  and  still  pro- 
claims. 

(Ed.  What  region  was  the  scene  of  this  dark 
deed? 

Joe.  Phocis  the  realm  is  called,  the  parted  road 
From  Delphi  and  from  Daulia  blends  in  one. 

(Ed.  What  time  hath  now  elapsed  since  this 
befel  ? 

Joe.  Twas  through  the  State  divulged,  short 

time  ere  thou 
Didst  rise  in  glory  to  the  throne  of  Thebes. 


94 


SOPHOCLES. 


(Ed.  Almighty  Jove!  to  what  hast  thou  re- 
served me  ? 

Joe.  My  CEdipus,  what  means  this  wild  dis- 
may? 

(Ed.  Oh,  ask  not,  ask  not,  tell  me  of  this  Laius. 
What  was  his  aspect,  what  his  age,  0  speak ! 

Joe.  His  port  was  lofty,  the  first  snows  of  age 
Had  tinged  his  locks ;  his  form  resembled  thine. 

(Ed.  Wretch  that  I  am,  on  mine  own  head,  it 

seems 
Have  I  called  down  this  dread  destroying  curse. 

Joe.  How  say'st  thou,  king!  I  tremble  to  be- 
hold thee. 

(Ed.  I  fear  the  prophet  saw,  alas !  too  clearly. 
One  question  more,  and  all  will  be  disclosed. 

Joe.  I  tremble — but  will  truly  tell  thee  all. 

(Ed.  Went  the  king  private,  or  with  many 

guards 
Encompassed,  as  became  his  regal  sway1? 

Joe.  His  followers  were  but  five — a  herald  one ; 
Sole  rode  the  monarch  in  a  single  car. 

(Ed.  Alas !  Alas  !  'tis  all  too  evident ; 
But,  lady,  who  this  sad  narration  brought? 

Joe.  A  slave,  the  sole  survivor  of  the  train. 

(Ed.  Is  he  now  present  in  the  palace  ? 

Joe.  No. 

Returning  thence,  when  he  beheld  thee  crowned 
Monarch  in  Thebes,  and  Laius  now  no  more, 
Clasping  my  hand,  with  suppliant  prayers  he 

craved 

Some  rural  charge  to  tend  our  herds  afar, 
Where  never  more  might  he  behold  the  city. 
Such  charge  I  gave  assenting ;  though  a  slave, 
He  well  deserved  a  richer  recompense. 

(Ed.  How  can  we  bid  his  instant  presence 
hither  ? 

Joe.  Soon  shall  he  come.    Yet  wherefore  seek'st 
thou  this  ? 

(Ed.  I  tremble,  lady,  for  myself,  and  much 
Hath  now  been  said  to  wake  my  wish  to  see  him. 

Joe.  He  will  arrive  ere  long.     Meanwhile,  0 

king, 
I,  too,  am  worthy  to  partake  thy  cares. 

(Ed.  I  will  not  this  deny  thee,  to  such  height 
Of  expectation  raised  ;  to  whom  more  dear 
Could  I  confide  my  fortunes,  than  to  thee  ? 
My  sire  was  Polybus,  fair  Corinth's  lord, 
My  mother  Merope,  of  Doric  race ; 
I,  too,  was  counted  noblest  of  the  State, 
Till  chanced  a  strange  event  that  claimed  my 

wonder, 

Though  scarce  deserving  of  the  care  it  caused. 
One  at  a  banquet,  in  a  drunken  mood, 
Reviled  me,  as  not  sprung  from  Polybus. 
Oppressed  with  weighty  thoughts,  throughout  the 

day 

I  scarce  could  curb  my  wrath,  and  on  the  next, 
From  both  my  parents  warmly  asked  the  truth. 
They  heard  my  tale,  incensed  with  deepest  rage 
Against  th'  inebriate  babbler.  Though  with  them 
I  was  delighted,  yet  th'  opprobious  taunt 
Burnt  in  my  breast,  and  rankled  in  my  soul. 
Unknown  to  both,  I  hastened  to  the  shrine 
Of  Delphi ;  Phoebus,  reckless  of  my  prayer, 
Dismissed  me  thence  dishonoured;  butdenounced 
A  long,  long  train  of  dark  and  fearful  sorrows ; — 


That  I,  in  wedlock  to  my  mother  bound, 
Should  bring  to  light  a  race  accursed  of  men, 
And  in  a  father's  blood  my  hands  imbrue. 
Hearing  these  bodings  dire,  I  bade  farewell 
To  the  loved  realm  of  Corinth,  by  the  stars 
My  wandering  course  directing  far  away, 
That  never,  never  might  I  see  the  shame 
Of  those  dread  oracles  fulfilled  in  me. 
I  passed  those  very  regions  in  my  course 
Where  fell  the  murdered  monarch.     To  thee, 

lady, 

I  will  reveal  the  truth.     As  I  pursued 
My  onward  journey,  nigh  the  triple  path 
A  herald  there  encountered  me,  with  one 
Borne,  as  thou  said'st  in  single  car  sublime. 
The  leader  then,  and  that  old  chieftain  too, 
With  violent  impulse  thrust  me  from  the  path; 
I  struck  the  rude  aggressor  in  mine  anger, 
But  the  old  man  observing,  when  I  passed 
Beside  his  chariot,  with  his  double  goad 
Smote  on  my  brow.     Unequal  was  the  meed 
My  hand  returned.     I  raised  my  vengeful  staff, 
And  straight  he  rolled  expiring  from  the  car. 
I  slew  the  whole.     But,  if  this  stranger  prove 
The  murdered  Laius,  who  of  all  mankind 
Exists  more  deeply  wretched  than  myself. 
Oh !  who  more  hateful  to  th'  avenging  gods  ? 
Nor  citizen,  nor  stranger  to  my  need 
Henceforth  may  grant  the  refuge  of  a  home  ; 
And  I,  howe'er  unconscious,  on  myself 
Invoked  the  withering  curse.    I,  by  whose  hand 
His  blood  was  shed,  pollute  his  nuptial  couch — 
Am  I  not  all  abandoned,  all  defiled  ? 
If  I  must  fly,  and,  flying,  ne'er  behold 
My  best-loved  friends,  or  tread  my  natal  earth, 
Or  else  am  doom'd,  in  most  unnatural  ties, 
To  wed  my  mother,  and  my  father  slay, 
Good  Polybus,  who  gave  me  life  and  nurture, 
Would  he  not  rightly  judge  who  deemed  these 

woes 

The  work  of  some  inexorable  god  ? 
Never,  0  never,  ye  most  Holy  Powers, 
May  I  behold  that  day.     Oh.  may  I  sink 
To  death's  more  friendly  darkness,  ere  my  life 
Be  marked  and  sullied  by  a  stain  so  foul. 

Ch.  Thy  words,  O  king!  are  fearful;  yet  retain 
Thy  hope,   till  from  this   herdsman  thou  hast 
heard. 

(Ed.   I  but  await  his  presence,  for  in  him 
Concentrates  all  the  hope  that  now  is  left  me. 

Joe.  When  he  arrives,  what  is   thy  purpose 
next? 

(Ed.   I  will  inform  thee ;  if  his  tale  agree 
With  thine  in  all  things,  I  escape  the  crime. 

Joe.  What   of  such   moment  did    my  words 
imply? 

(Ed.  Thou  said'st,  the  man  ascribed  the  death 

of  Laius 

To  banded  ruffians ;  if  he  still  adhere 
To  this  report,  I  am  at  once  absolved ; — 
The  deed  of  numbers  is  no  deed  of  one  : 
If  he  but  name  a  single  murderer, 
'Tis  but  too  plain  the  deadly  act  was  mine. 

Joe.  But   this,   be    well    convinced,   he   then 

affirmed, 
Nor  can  he  now  retract  his  former  tale — 


SOPHOCLES. 


95 


Not  I  alone,  th'  assembled  State  is  witness. 
If  aught  he  change  the  tenor  of  his  words, 
Still,  my  good  lord,  it  cannot  thence  appear 
That  Laius  fell,  as  Phcebus'  voice  foretold, 
Slain  by  my  son.     Alas !  my  hapless  child 
Slew  not, — but  perished  ere  his  father  fell. 
So  lightly  do  I  hold  each  oracle, 
No  longer  would  I  waste  a  thought  on  either. 
(Ed.  Nor  can  I  blame  thee ;  but  with  speed 

despatch 

A  summons  to  this  herdsman, — linger  not. 
Joe.  Straight  will  I  send.     But  pass  we  now 

within. 
Nought  of  thy  pleasure  shall  be  left  undone. 

[Exit  (EDIPTTS. 
Joe.  Princes  of  Thebes,  v/e  deemed  it  meet  to 

seek 

The  temples  of  the  gods,  and  in  our  hands 
These  votive  wreaths,  this  odorous  incense  bear. 
The  soul  of  CEdipus  on  a  wild  sea 
Of  anxious  care  is  tossed ; — nor,  as  becomes 
The  prudent,  weighs  by  former  oracles 
This  late  response,  but  lends  a  willing  ear 
To  all  who  speak  of  terrors.     Since  my  voice 
Avails  no  more,  Lyca>an  king,  to  thee 
I  fly,  for  thou  art  nearest  to  our  need, 
And  come  in  prayer,  a  suppliant  to  thy  shrine, 
That  thou  mayst  grant  us  thine  auspicious  aid ; 
Since  all  now  tremble,  when  we  thus  behold 
Our  very  pilot  shuddering  and  appalled. 

Enter  COBIXTHIAX. 
Cor.  Can  ye  inform  me,  strangers,  where  your 

king, 

Great  (Edipus,  his  regal  state  maintains ; 
Or,  if  ye  know,  where  I  may  find  the  monarch? 
Ch.  These    are    th'    imperial    halls  —  he    is 

within — 

This  is  his  wife,  the  mother  of  his  children. 
Cor.  Blest  may   she    be,  and   ever  with  the 

blest 

Hold  glad  communion  ;  to  her  royal  lord 
A  most  accomplished  consort. 

Joe.  Equal  joy 

Attend  thee,  stranger, — thy  kind  greeting  claims 
This  dut.'  return  of  courtesy.     But  say, 
Whence  cam'st  thou  to  our  Thebes,  and  what 

thy  tidings'? 

Cor.  Joy  to  thine  house,  O  lady !  and  thy  lord. 
Joe.  What  joy? — and   from   what  region    art 

thou  come  ? 
Cor.  From  Corinth.     At  my  words  thou  wilt 

rrjoire : 
Why  should'st  thou  not — yet  fond  regrets  will 

rise. 
Joe.  What  dost  thou  mean,  and  whence  this 

two-fold  influence? 
Coc.  The  assembled  States  of  Isthmus,  rumour 

tells, 

Will  choose  thy  lord  to  mount  the  vacant  throne. 
Joe.  How    vacant?      Reigns    not    Polybus    in 

Corinth  ? 

Cor.  No  more! — His  only  kingdom  is  the  tomb. 
Joe.  Mean'st  thou,  old   man,  that  Polybus  is 

dead? 
Cor.  May  I,  too,  perish  if  my  words  be  false. 


Joe.  Haste,  haste,  attendant,  and  convey  with 

speed 

These  tidings  to  your  lord.     Vain  oracles! 
Where  are  your  bodings  now?     My  CEdipus, 
Fearing  to  slay  this  man,  forsook  his  country  ; 
Now  Fate,  and  not  his  hand,  had  laid  him  low. 

Enter  (EDIPCS. 

(Ed.  Why,  my  beloved  Jocasta,  hast  thou  sent 
To  bid  my  presence  hither  ? 

Joe.  Hear  this  man  — 

Attend  his  tiding?,  and  observe  the  end 
Of  these  most  true  and  reverend  oracles. 

(Ed.  Who  is  this  stranger  —  with  what  message 

charged? 
Joe.  He  is  from  Corinth,  thence  despatched  to 

tell  thee 
That  Polybus,  thy  father,  is  no  more. 

(Ed.  What  sayest  thou,  stranger  ?    Be  thyself 

the  speaker. 
Cor.  Then,  in  plain  terms,  the  king  is  dead 

and  gone. 
(Ed.  Died  he  by  treason,  or  the  chance  of  sick- 

ness? 

Cor.  Slight  ills  dismiss  the  aged  to  their  rest. 
(Ed.  Then  by  disease,  it  seems,  the  monarch 

died. 
Cor.  And  bowed  beneath  a  withering  weight 

of  years. 
(Ed.  Ha  !  is  it  thus  ?    Then,  lady,  who  would 

heed 

The  Pythian  shrine  oracular,  or  birds 
Clanging  in  air,  by  whose  vain  auspices 
I  was  fore-doomed  the  murderer  of  my  father  ? 
In  the  still  silence  of  the  tomb  he  sleeps. 
While  I  am  here  —  the  fatal  sword  untouched 
Unless  he  languished  for  his  absent  child, 
And  I  was  thus  the  author  of  his  doom. 
Now  in  the  grave  he  lies,  and  with  him  rest 
Those  vain  predictions,  worthy  of  our  scorn. 
Joe.  Did  I  not  tell  thee  this  before  ? 
(Ed.  Thou  didst, 

But  terror  urged  me  onward. 

Joe.  Banish  now 

This  vain  solicitude. 

(Ed.  Should  I  not  fear 

The  dark  pollution  of  my  mother's  bed  ? 

Joe.  Oh  why  should  mortals   tear,  when   for- 

tune's sway 

Rules  all,  and  wariest  foresight  nought  avails? 
Best  to  live  on  unheeding,  as  thou  mny'st. 
And    dread    not    thou    thy    mother's    lawless 

couch  ; 

Oft  is  the  soul  dismayed  by  hidcnux  dr. 
Of  guilt  like  this,  —  but  life's  rough  path  is  found 
Smoothest  to  him,  wlio  spurns  su-ii  wild  illusions. 

(Ed.  I  should  admit  the  justice  of  thy  plea, 
Save  that  my  mother  lives;  while  she  survive, 
Though  t!><  '  well,  I  cannot  choose  but 

fear. 
Joe.  Proof  strong  and  sure   thy  father's   fate 

;i  (lords. 
(Ed.  Strong,  I  confess  ;  —  my  fears  are  for  the 

living; 
Cor.  And  by  what  woman  are  these  terrors 


(Ed.  By  Merope,  the  wife  of  Polybus. 


96 


SOPHOCLES. 


Cor.  And  what,  to  her  relating,  thus  alarms 

thee? 

(Ed.  Stranger,  a  dark  and  hideous  oracle. 
Cor.  May  it  be   told  7 — or  shouldst  thou  not 

disclose  it 
To  other's  ears  ? 

(Ed.  I  may  and  will  disclose  it. 

Phcebus  foretold  that  I  should  wed  my  mother, 
And  shed  with  impious  hand  a  father's  blood. 
For  this  I  fled  my  own  Corinthian  towers 
To  seek  a  distant  home — that  home  was  blest ; 
Though  still  I  languished  to  embrace  my  parents. 
Cor.  This  fear  then  urged  thee  to  renounce  thy 

country  ? 

(Ed.  Old  man,  I  would  not  be  a  father's  mur- 
derer. 

Cor.  Then  wherefore,  since  thy  welfare  I  re- 
gard, 
Should  I  forbear  to  rid  thee  of  this  terror  ? 

(Ed.  Do  so,  and  rich  shall  be  thy  recompense. 
Cor.  This  hope  impell'd  me  here,  that  when 

our  State 

Hails  thee  her  monarch,  I  might  win  thy  favour. 
(Ed.  Ne'er  will  I  seek  the  authors  of  my  birth. 
Cor.  'Tis  plain,  my  son,  thou  know'st  not  what 

thou  doest ! 
(Ed.  How!  how!  old  man,  by  heaven,  unfold 

thy  meaning. 
Cor.  If    this    preclude    thee   from   returning 

home — 

(Ed.  I  fear  lest  Phoebus  saw,  alas!  too  clearly ! 
Cor.  If  thou  dost  dread   pollution   from  thy 

parents — 
(Ed.  That  restless  dread  for  ever  haunts  my 

soul. 
Cor.  Know,  then,  thy  terrors  all  are  causeless 

here. 

(Ed.  How  so?  if  of  these  parents  I  was  born1? 
Cor.  But  Polybus  is  nought  allied  to  thee. 
(Ed.  How  say'st  thou?  was  not  Polybus  my 

father  ? 
Cor.  No  more  than  I— our  claims  are  equal 

here. 

(Ed.  Had  he  who  gave  me  life  no  nearer  claim 
Than  thou,  a  stranger  ? 

Cor.  Nor  to  him  or  me 

Ow'st  thou  thy  birth. 

(Ed.  Then  wherefore  did  he  grant 

A  son's  beloved  name  ? 

Cor.  He  from  my  hand 

Received  thee  as  a  gift. 

(Ed.  With  such  fond  love 

How  could  he  cherish  thus  an  alien  child  ? 
Cor.  His  former  childless  state  to  this  impelled 

him. 
(Ed.  Gav'st  thou  a  purchased  slave,  or  thy 

own  child  ? 
Cor.    I    found    thee   in    Cithseron's    shadowy 

glades. 
(Ed.  Why  didst  thou  traverse  those  remoter 

vales? 
Cor.  It  was  my  charge  to  tend  the  mountain 

herds. 
(Ed.  Wert  thou  an  herdsman,  and  engaged  for 

hire? 
Cor.  I  was,  my  son,  but  thy  preserver  too. 


(Ed.   From  what  afflictions    didst  thou   then 

preserve  me? 

Cor.  This  let  thy  scarr'd  and  swollen  feet  attest. 
(Ed.  Ah !  why  dost  thou  revive  a  woe  long 

passed? 

Cor.  I  loosed  thy  bound  and  perforated  feet. 
(Ed.  .Such  foul  reproach  mine  infancy  endured. 
Cor.  From  this   event   arose   the   name  thou 

bear'st. 

(Ed.  Was  it  a  father's  or  a  mother's  act  ? 
By  the  good  gods  inform  me ! 

Cor.  This  I  cannot — 

He  may  know  more,  perchance,  who  gave  thee 

to  me. 
(Ed.  Thou  didst  receive  me  then  from  other 

hands, 
Nor  find  me  as  by  chance  ? 

Cor.  No ;  to  my  hand 

Another  herdsman  gave  thee. 

(Ed.  Who  was  he  ? 

Canst  thou  inform  me  this  ? 

Cor.  He  was,  I  believe, 

A  slave  of  Laius. 

(Ed.  What !  of  him  who  erst 

Ruled  o'er  this  land  ? 

Cor.  The  same  ; — this  man  to  him 

Discharged  an  herdsman's  office. 

(Ed.  Lives  he  yet 

That  I  may  see  him  ? 

Cor.  Ye,  his  countrymen, 

Are  best  prepared  this  question  to  resolve. 

(Ed.  Is    there    of  you  who    now  attend    our 

presence, 

One  who  would  know  the  herdsman  he  describes, 
Familiar  erst  or  here,  or  in  the  field  ? 
Speak — for  the  time  demands  a  prompt  disclosure. 

Ch.  He  is,  I  deem,  no  other  than  the  man 
Whom  thou  before  didst  summon  from  the  fields. 
This  none  can  know  more  than  the  Queen. 
(Ed.  Think'st  thou,  0  Queen,  the  man  whose 

presence  late 

We  bade,  is  he  of  whom  this  stranger  speaks  ? 
Joe.  Who — spake  of  whom  ? — Regard  him  not, 

nor  dwell, 

With  vain  remembrance,  on  unmeaning  words ! 
(Ed.  Nay,  heaven  forfend,  when  traces  of  my 

birth 

Are  thus  unfolding,  I  should  cease  to  follow. 
Joe.  Nay,  by  the  gods  I  charge  thee !  search 

no  more, 

If  life  be  precious  still.     Be  it  enough  , 

That  I  am  most  afflicted. 

(Ed.  Cheer  thee,  lady, 

Though   my  descent  were  proved   e'en  trebly 

servile, 
No  stain  of  infamy  would  light  on  thee. 

Joe.  Ah  yield,  I  do  conjure  thee — seek  no  more. 
(Ed.  I  will  not  yield,  till  all  be  clearly  known. 
Joe.  'Tis  for  thy  peace  I  warn  thee — yet  be  wise. 
(Ed.  That  very  wisdom  wounds  my  peace 

most  deeply. 
Joe.  Unhappy — never  may'st  thou  know  thy 

birth. 
(Ed.  Will  none  conduct  this  shepherd  to  our 

presence  ? 
Leave  her  to  triumph  in  her  lordly  race. 


SOPHOCLES. 


97 


Joe.  Woe!  woe!  unhappy!  henceforth  by  that 

name 

Alone  can  I  address  thee,  and  by  that 
Alone  for  ever. 

[Exit  Jo  CAST  A. 

Ch.  Whither,  my  good  lord, 

Hath  the  queen  parted,  urged  by  wild  dismay? 
I  fear,  I  fear,  lest  this  portentous  silence 
Be  but  the  prelude  to  impending  woe. 

(Ed.  Let  the  storm  burst,  I  reck  not.     I  will  on 
To  trace  my  birth,  though  it  be  most  obscure. 
Pride  swells  her  thus,  for  in  a  woman's  breast 
Pride  reigns  despotic,  and  she  thinks  foul  scorn 
Of  my  ignoble  birth.     I  deem  myself 
The  child  of  Fortune,  in  whose  favouring  smile 
I  shall  not  be  dishonoured.     She  alone 
Hath  been  my  fostering  parent;  from  low  state 
My  kindred  months  have  raised  me  into  great- 
ness. 

Sprung  from  such  lineage,  none  I  heed  beside, 
Nor  blush  reluctant  to  explore  my  birth. 

*  *  *  *  *  *          * 

(Ed.  If  aught  I  may  conjecture,  friends,  of  one 
With  whom  I  ne'er  held  converse,  I  behold 
Th'  expected  herdsman :  for  his  lengthened  years 
Accord ;  and  those  who  lead  him,  I  discern 
For  mine  own  menial  train.     But  haply  thou, 
To  whom  familiar  erst  his  face  hath  been, 
Can  speak  with  more  assurance. 

Ch.  Yea,  I  know  him — 

The  herdsman  he  of  Laius,  in  his  charge 
Proved  to  his  lord  most  faithful. 

(Ed.  First  I  ask 

Of  thee,  Corinthian — is  this  man  the  same 
Whom  thou  didst  row  describe  ? 

Cor.  This  is  the  man. 

Enter  HEHDSMAIT. 

(Ed.  Approach,  old  man !  look  on  me,  and  reply 
To  my  demand.     Wert  thou  the  slave  of  Laius  ? 

Herd.  I  was  his  slave — bred  in  his  house — not 
purchased. 

(Ed.  What  office  didst  thou  hold  ?    What  task 
discharge  ? 

Herd.  My  better  part  of  life  was  passed  in 

tending 
The  monarch's  flocks. 

(Ed.  What  regions  wert  thou  then 

Wont  to  frequent? 

Herd.  Citha>ron,  and  the  meads 

Adjacent. 

(Ed.         Dost  thou  e'er  remember  there 
To  have  beheld  this  man  ? 

Herd.  What  task  performing — 

But  which  man  meanest  thou? 

(Ed.  I  mean  this  man 

Here  present; — hadst  thou  converse  with  him 
there  ? 

Herd.  Not  such,  that  I  can  instantly  retrace  it. 

Cor.  No  marvel  this,  0  king !  But  I  will  soon 
Revive  events  forgotten,  for  I  know 
He  cannot  but  recal  what  time  he  fed 
Two  flocks,  I  one,  in  green  Cithneron's  vales. 
Three  months  we  thus  consorted,  from  the  spring 
Till  cold  Arcturus  brings  the  wintry  blast. 
To  mine  own  stalls  I  then  drove  back  my  herds, 
13 


He  to  the  stalls  of  Laius  led  his  charge. 
Say,  are  my  words  unwarranted  by  fact? 

Herd.  Thy  tale  is  true,  though  told  of  times 

long  passed. 

Cor.  Then  answer,  dost  thou  recollect  the  babe 
Thou  gav'st  me  there,  as  mine  own  child  to 

cherish  ? 
Herd.  What  would'st  thou  ?    Whither  do  thy 

questions  tend? 
Cor.  This  is  that  child,  my  friend,  who  stands 

before  thee. 
Herd.  A  curse  light  on  thee !  wilt  thou  not  be 

silent? 
(Ed.  Reprove  him  not,  old  man,  for  thine  own 

words, 

Far  more  than  his,  demand  a  stern  reprover. 
Herd.  In  what  do  I  offend  thee,  my  good  lord? 
(Ed.  In  that  thou  speak'st  not  plainly  of  the 

child 
Of  whom  he  ask  thee. 

Herd.  But  he  speaks  in  darkness, 

Mere  empty  babbling — 

(Ed.  If  thou  wilt  not  answer 

To  mild  persuasion,  force  shall  soon  compel  thee. 

Herd.  Oh !  for  the  love  of  heaven,  respect  mine 

age. 

(Ed.  Here,  quickly  seize  him!   Bind  the  fel- 
low's hands. 
Herd.  Alas!  what  is  my  crime?  what  wouldst 

thou  learn  ? 
(Ed.  Didst  thou  commit  to  him  the  child  he 

spake  of? 
Herd.  I  did : — 0,  had  that  moment  been  my 

last! 
(Ed.  This  shall  be,  if  thou  wilt  not  speak  the 

truth. 

Herd.  And  if  I  speak  it,  I  am  trebly  lost. 
(Ed.  This   man,   it   seems,  still    struggles   to 

elude  us. 
Herd.  No,  I  confessed  long  since  I  gave  the 

child. 
(Ed.  And  whence  received?    thine  own,  or 

from  another? 
Herd.  No,  not  mine  own;   I  from  another's 

hand 
Bare  him. 

(Ed.  And  from  what  Theban,  from  what  roof? 
Herd.  0,  by  the   gods!    my  lord,  inquire   no 

further. 

(Ed.  If  I  repeat  th'  inquiry,  thou  art  lost. 
Herd.  The  palace  of  King  Laius  gave  him  birth. 
(Ed.  Sprung  from  a  slave,  or  of  the  royal  stock? 
Herd.  Ah  !  how  I  shrink  to  breathe  the  fatal 

truth ! 

(Ed.  And  I  to  hear  it ;  yet  it  must  be  heard. 
Herd.  The  child  was  called  the  son  of  Laius ; 

here 

Thy  royal  consort  can  inform  thee  better. 
(Ed.  Didst  thou  from  her  receive  him  ? 
Herd.  Yea,  0  king!— 

(Ed.  And  for  what  purpose  ? 
Herd.  That  I  might  destroy  him — 

(Ed.  What — the  unnatural  mother ! 
Herd.  She  was  awed 

By  woe  denouncing  oracles. 

(Ed.  What  woe  ? 

I 


SOPHOCLES. 


Herd.  That  he  should  prove  the  murderer  of 
his  parents. 

(Ed.  Why,  then,  to  this  old  man  thy  charge 
consign  ? 

Herd.  From  pity,  0  my  lord,  I  deemed  that  he 
To  his  own  land  would  bear  the  child  afar. 
He  saved  him  to  despair.     If  thou  art  he 
Of  whom  he  spake,  how  dark  a  doom  is  thine ! 

(Ed.  Woe  !  woe  !  'tis  all  too  fatally  unveiled. 
Thou,  Light !  0  may  I  now  behold  thy  beams 
For  the  last  time  !  Unhallowed  was  my  birth, 
In  closest  ties  united,  where  such  ties 
Were  most  unnatural ; — with  that  blood  defiled, 
From  whose  pollution  most  the  heart  recoils. 

FROM  THE   CONCLUDING  SCENE. 

(EDIPUS,  blind  and  about  to  go  into  exile. 
For  my  fate,  let  it  pass  !     My  children,  Creon ! 
My  sons — nay,  they  the  bitter  wants  of  life 
May  master — they  are  men !  My  girls — my  dar- 
lings— 

Why,  never  sate  I  at  my  household  board 
Without  their  blessed  looks — our  very  bread 
We  brake  together ; — Thou'lt  be  kind  to  them 
For  my  sake,  Creon — and  (0  latest  prayer!) 
Let  me  but  touch  them — feel  them  with  these 

hands, 

And  pour  such  sorrow  as  may  speak  farewell ! 
O'er  ills  that  must  be  theirs !    By  thy  pure  line — 
For  thine  is  pure — do  this,  sweet  prince.     Me- 

thinks, 
I  should  not  miss  these  eyes,  could  I  but  touch 

them. 
What  shall  I  say  to  move  thee  ? — Hark !  those 

sobs ! 

And  do  I  hear  my  sweet  ones  ?     Hast  thou  sent, 
In  mercy  sent,  my  children  to  my  arms  ? 
Speak — speak — I  do  not  dream  ! 

Creon.  They  are  thy  children, 

I  would  not  shut  thee  from  the  dear  delight 
In  the  old  time  they  gave  thee. 

(Ed.  Blessings  on  thee ! 

For  this  one  mercy  mayst  thou  find  above 
A  kinder  god  than  I  have.    Ye, — where  are  ye? 
My  children— come ! — Nearer  and  nearer  yet. 


FROM  (EDIPUS  AT  COLONOS. 

THIS  Tragedy  is  a  continuation  of  the  history 
of  (Edipus,  who,  condemned  to  perpetual  banish- 
ment from  Thebes,  arrives  with  his  daughter 
Antigone,  at  Colonos,  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Athens,  where  he  solicits  and  obtains  the  pro- 
tection of  King  Theseus.  In  the  meantime,  Creon 
having  learned  from  the  oracle,  that  prosperity 
awaits  the  country  which  should  possess  the 
bones  of  (Edipus,  endeavours  to  remove  him 
from  Colonos,  but  is  prevented  from  effecting  his 
purpose  by  Theseus.  At  this  juncture  Polyriices 
arrives  with  the  design  of  reconciling  his  father 
to  his  intended  invasion  of  Thebes,  but  the  exiled 
monarch  utters  bitterest  imprecations  on  his  im- 
pious purpose,  and  prophesies  the  horrid  fate  that 
awaits  him. — After  this,  finding  his  end  fast  ap- 
proaching, he  sends  for  Theseus  and  informs  him 


that  an  uninterrupted  course  of  prosperity  will 
befall  Athens,  as  long  as  his  burial  place  remains 
unknown  to  all  but  the  reigning  monarch  of  the 
country.  Then  taking  leave  of  his  daughters, 
and  being  left  alone  with  Theseus,  he  calmly 
resigns  himself  to  his  fate. 

(EDIPUS,  ANTIGONE. 

(Ed.  Say,  daughter  of  a  blind  and  aged  sire, 
Antigone,  what  region  have  we  reached, 
Or  whose  the  city?     Who  will  here  extend 
A  scanty  pittance  for  the  passing  day 
To  the  poor  wandering  (Edipus,  who  asks 
But  for  a  little,  and,  receiving  less 
Ev'n  than  that  little,  counts  the  boon  enough. 
For,  stern  afflictions,  long-protracted  years, 
And  fortitude  of  soul,  have  taught  me  patience. 
But  now,  my  child,  if  haply  thou  espy 
A  resting-place,  be  it  near  the  common  way, 
Or  by  some  consecrated  grove,  there  seat  me, 
And  ask  what  land  we  are  come  to?     Strangers 

here, 

We  seek  the  natives  of  the  State,  to  learn, 
And  what  we  hear,  perform. 

Ant.  0,  (Edipus, 

My  much  afflicted  father,  if  mine  eyes 
Deceive  me  not,  some  city's  shining  towers 
Rise  in  far  prospect;  but  the  spot  we  tread 
Is  holy,  for  thick  groves  of  laurel,  vine, 
And  olive,  bloom  around,  while,  all  within, 
Wing'd  nightingales  make  sweetest  melody. 
Rest    now    thy    faltering    limbs    on    this    rude 

stone ; 

Such  lengthened  wanderings  ill  befit  thine  age. 
(Ed.  Then  seat  me  here,  and  watch  beside  the 

blind. 
Jint.  That  mournful  office  time  too  well  hath 

taught  me. 
(Ed.  Canst  thou  then  tell  me  on  what  place  we 

stand  ? 
Ant.  The    land   is    that   of  Athens;    but  the 

spot 

I  know  not.     I'll  go  ask  what  place  it  is ; 
But  no  |  I  need  not  quit  thee ;  for  even  now 
A  stranger  comes  this  way ;  he  will  inform  us. 

Enter  an  ATHENIAN. 
(Ed.  Stranger,  apprized  by  her,  whose  sight 

alone 

Guides  both  herself  and  me,  that  thou  art  here, 
Arrived  in  welcome  moment  to  unfold 
What  much  we  long  to  know. — 

Ath.  Ere  thou  dost  urge 

Inquiry  further,  quit  that  sacred  seat ; 
No  foot  of  man  may  tread  this  hallowed  soil. 
(Ed.  What   is    the    place?    devoted    to    what 

power  ? 
Ath.  From  mortal  touch  and  mortal  dwelling 

pure 

Is  that  mysterious  grove,  the  awful  powers, 
Daughters  of  Eartji  and  Darkness,  dwell  within. 
(Ed.  By  what  most  holy  name  should  I  invoke 

them  ? 

Ath.  We  call  them  in  this  land  th'  Eumenides, 
The  all-beholding  Powers;  in  other  lands, 
By  various  lofty  titles  men  adore  them. 


SOPHOCLES. 


99 


(Ed.  Propitious  now  may  they  receive  their 

suppliant, 

That  never  may  I  quit  their  fated  seat. 
Ath.  What  may  this  mean  ? 
(Ed.  A  symbol  of  my  doom. 

Ath.  'Twere  bold  in  me  to  force  thee  from  the 

spot, 
Ere  thus  the  mandate  of  the  State  enjoin. 

(Ed.  O  stranger,  by  the  gods,  disdain  thou  not 
To  answer  all  a  wretched  wanderer  asks  thee. 
Ath.  Speak ;  and  from  me  thou  shalt  not  meet 

disdain. 

(Ed.  What  is  the  region,  then,  which  now  re- 
ceives us  ? 
Ath.  Far  as  I  know,  thou  too  shalt  hear  the 

whole. 

The  place  is  holy  all.     Here  reigns  supreme 
The  mighty  Neptune ;  here  the  Power  of  Flame, 
The  Titan-god,  Prometheus ;  where  thy  feet 
Are  resting  now,  i»  called  the  brazen  way, 
The  bulwark  of  great  Athens ;  while  the  fields 
Adjacent  claim  for  their  illustrious  lord 
Colonus,  the  equestrian,  and  from  him 
The  circling  regions  all  deduce  their  name. 
Such  are  the  things  I  tell  thee ;  not  alone 
By  words  ennobled,  but  familiar  use. 

(Ed.  Do  any  dwell  around  this  hallowed  spot? 
Ath.  Yes,  they  who  from  the  God  their  name 

derive. 

(Ed.  Is  there  a  king,  or  bear  the  people  sway? 
Ath.  The  king  who  rules  the  city  rules  here 

also. 
(Ed.  Stands  his    high    throne   in  equity   and 

might  ? 

Ath.  His  name  may  answer  this.     ;Tis  The- 
seus, son 
Of  JEgeus,  late  our  lord. 

(Ed.  Is  there  of  you 

One  who  will  bear  our  message  to  his  ear? 
Ath.  Aught   to    recount,  or  ask   his   presence 

hither? 

(Ed.  That,  for  a  trivial  succour,  he  may  reap 
A  rich  reward. 

Ath.  Reward  !  and  what  reward 

Can  a  blind  wanderer  on  a  king  confer? 

(Ed.  The  things  we  would  reveal  are  not  less 

clear 
Than  if  our  sight  had  traced  them. 

Ath.  Know'st  thou,  stranger, 

That    thou    art    not    deceived?    and    yet   thou 

seemVt 

In  all.  except  thy  fortunes,  truly  noble. 
Remain  where  now  I  see  thee,  till  I  seek 
Those  who  inhabit  the  encircling  meads, 
Not  the  f;ir  city,  and  relate  my  tale. 
Be  it  their  task  to  judge,  if  in  this  grove 
Thou  mayest  remain,  or  must  a-ain  depart. 

[Exit  ATHF.XIATT. 

(Ed.  My   daughter,  is   the    stranger   now    de- 
parted ? 
Ant.  He  is.  my  father;  all  around  is  still. 

v  what  thou  li<t.  for  I  alone  am  nigh  thee. 
(Ed.  Dread   Powers   of  fearful    aspect,  since 

your  seats 

Have  lent  my  wearied  limbs  their  first  repose, 
Be  not  relentless  or  to  me  or  Phoebus, 


Who,  when  his  voice   my  countless  woes  de- 
nounced, 

Foretold  a  welcome,  though  a  distant,  end, 
When  I  should  reach  the  destined  realm — where 

find 

A  rest  and  refuge  in  the  sheltering  grove 
Of  venerable  Powers — that  there  my  course 
Of  sorrow  and  of  agony  should  close  ; 
With  rich  reward  to  those  who  should  receive  me, 
To   those,  who   thrust  me   from  their  land,  de- 
struction ; 

And  that  undoubted  signals  should  proclaim 
The    hour   ordained   by   fate— or   earthquake's 

roar, 

Thunders,  or  lightnings  of  Almighty  Jove. 
Hence  well  I  know  'twas  your  own  augury, 
That  to  this  hallowed  grove  my  wanderings  led. 
I  had  not  else  thus  lighted  first  on  you, 
The  wine-abhorring,  pure  myself  from  wine, 
And  on  this  rude,  yet  awful,  seat  reclined. 
Now,  gracious  Powers,  Apollo's  word  confirm, 
And  grant  at  length  a  limit  to  my  woes, 
If  I  have  felt  enough  of  wretchedness, — 
The  slave  of  miseries  far  beyond  the  lot 
To   man's    sad    race  assigned.     Come,  then,  O 

come, 

Propitious  daughters  of  primeval  Night ; 
And  thou,  from  thine  own  patron  Pallas  named, 
Fair  Athens,  noblest  of  our  Grecian  states ; 
Pity  the  shade  of  wretched  QEdipusj 
Alas !  I  am  not  now  what  I  have  been. 

Ant.   Cease,   cease.     I    see  .some    aged   men 

advance, 

Perchance  with  purpose  to  explore  thy  seat. 
(Ed.  I    will   forbear.     Conduct  me   from  the 

path, 

And  screen  me  in  the  grove,  that  I  may  learn 
Their  secret  conference.     Knowledge    thus  ob- 
tained 
May  best  direct  us  how  to  act  with  prudence. 

[Exeunt  (£DIPUS  and  AXTIOONE. 

CHORUS. 

Strophe. 

Look !   look !   wM>   was   he  ?   where  abides  he 

now? 

Or  whither  from  the  spot  hath  fled, 
Restless,  most  restless  of  mankind  ? 
Dost  thou  behold  him  ?     Search  around, 
And  shout  on  every  side. 
Who— who  is  this  sad  aged  wanderer? 
Doubtless  of  foreign  land,  or  his  rash  foot 
Had  never  trod  the  grove 
Of  those  unconquered  Virgin  Powers, 
Whose  name  we  tremble  but  to  breathe, 
Whose  mystic  shrine  we  pass 
With  far-averted  eye, 
And  pondering,  silent  and  devout 
On  happier  omens  there. 
But  rumour  tells  that  one  hath  now  arrived, 

:ig  not  the  laws, 
Whom    I    have    sought    with    keen    observant 

glance 

Throughout  the  sacred  grove, 
Yet  still  he  mocks  my  search. 


100 


SOPHOCLES. 


Enter  (EDIPUS  and  ANTIGONE. 

(Ed.  Behold  him  here ;  for  by  your  words  I 

know 
I  am  the  man  ye  seek. 

Ch.  Ah  me !  to  hear  and  to  behold  how  fearful ! 

(Ed.  0  deem  me  not  a  scorner  of  your  laws. 

Ch.  Protector  Jove,  who  is  this  aged  man ? 

(Ed.  One  on  whose  lot  no  favouring  Power 

hath  smiled, 
Ye  rulers  of  the  land  ! 

Be  this  the  proof, — I  had  not  wandered  else, 
Led  by  another's  eye, 
Or  leaned,  though  weighty,  on  so  frail  a  stay. 

Antistrophe. 

Ch.  Woe !  woe !  unhappy !  thou,  it  seems,  art 

doomed 

To  pine  with  sightless  orbs,  oppressed 
By  years,  and  bowed  with  wretchedness. 
Yet,  if  my  power  avail,  to  woe 
Thou  shalt  not  add  this  curse; 
For  thou  hast  passed,  far  passed,  the  bound  as- 
signed. 
Ah!   tread  not  thou  that  green  and  hallowed 

grove, 

Where  with  the  honied  draught 
Commingling,  its  pure  limpid  stream 
The  full  and  flowing  goblet  pours. 
This,  hapless  stranger,  this 
With  cautious  step  beware. 
Recede — depart — a  lengthened  space 
Remains  between  us  still. 
Dost  thou  not  hear,  unhappy  wanderer  ? 
If  thou  hast  ought  to  ask 
In  conference,  quit  that  sacred  spot, 
And  where  the  laws  allow 
Demand ;  till  then  refrain. 

(Ed.  What,  0  my  daughter !  should  we  now 
resolve  ? 

Ant.  Father,  we  must  obey  the  citizens, 
And  yield,  as  fits  our  state,  without  reluctance. 

(Ed.  Sustain  me  then. 

Ant.  My  hand  e'en  now  sustains  thee. 

(Ed.  0  strangers  wrong  me  not, 
Since  yielding  now,  I  quit  the  sacred  seat. 

Ch.  Maiden,    do    thou  his   footsteps    onward 

guide. 
Thou  seest  the  bound  prescribed. 

•Ant.  Follow  me  then; 

Follow,  my  father,  whither  now  I  lead  thee. 
A  stranger  in  a  foreign  land, 
O  thou  of  many  woes ! 
Whate'er  the  State  abhors 
Endure  to  hate,  and  what  it  wills,  revere. 

(Ed.  Then  lead  me,  0  my  child,  where  guiltless 

all 

We  may  securely  speak, 
And  unoffending  hear, 
Nor  strive  we  more  with  stern  necessity. 

Ch.  Stop!    nor   beyond   the    rocky   pavement 

aught 
Thy  venturous  foot  advance. 

(Ed.  May  I  now  sit? 

Ch.  On  the  crag's  sloping  verge 
Cautious  with  reverent  awe  thy  form  incline. 


Ant.  Father,  let  me  conduct  you.  [Takes  hold 
~>f  her  father  and  leading  him  forward  seats  him  on 
a  stone.] 

Ch.  Since  thou  hast  now  obeyed,  ill-fated  man, 
Disclose  who  gave  thee  birth, 
What  mighty  woe  constrains  thee  thus  to  roam, 
And  where  thy  country  ? 

(Ed.  Strangers,    I  have   no  country — Ask  no 
more. 

Ch.  Why  thus  evade,  old  man? 

(Ed.  Ask  not,  I  pray  thee,  ask  not  of  my  race, 
Nor  question  aught  beyond. 

Ch.  Ha !  what  means  this  ? 

(Ed.  Ah  me,  my  daughter,  how  can  I  reply  ? 

Ch.  Say  of  what  line  thou  cam'st, 
Who,  stranger,  was  thy  sire  ? 

(Ed.  What  shall  I  do,  my  daughter  ?    Woe  is 
me! 

Ant.  Speak,  since  the  hand  of  fate  lies  heavy 
on  thee. 

Ch.  Thou  tarriest   long,  but   speed — at  once 
reply. 

(Ed.  Know  ye  a  certain  child  of  Laius  ? 

Ch.  Ha! 

(Ed.  Sprung  from  the  race  of  Labdacus ! 

Ch.  Great  Jove ! 

(Ed.  The  hapless  (Edipus ! 

Ch.  Art  thou  that  wretch ! 

(Ed.  Oh,  start  not  thus  appalled.     I  am,  I  am. 

Ch.  Away,  away,  and  quit  this  land  for  ever. 

(Ed.  What  thou  hast  promised,  how  will  thou 
fulfil  ? 

Ch.  Nay,  Heaven's  avenging  justice  smites  not 

him 

Who  wreaks  but  wrong  for  wrong ; 
And  fraud  doth  merit  fraud  for  its  reward. 
Thou  from  these  seats,  once  more 
An  outcast,  speed  thee — speed  thee  from  the  land, 
Lest  thine  unhallowed  presence  blast  the  city. 

Ant.  0  venerable  strangers,  though  ye  shrunk 
Recoiling  from  the  tale 
Of  my  poor  aged  sire ; 
I  do  conjure  you,  turn  not  thus  from  me, 
Me,  while  in  suppliant  anguish,  I  implore 
Compassion  for  a  father ;  deem  me  now  as  one 
Of  your  own  kindred,  and  let  pity  wake 
To  aid  the  lost.     On  you,  as  on  the  gods, 
Our  hopes  depend.     Oh  !  then  relent,  and  grant 
This  unexpected  boon. 
I  here  adjure  you  by  each  hallowed  tie, 
Your  child,  your  wife,  your  duty,  and  your  God. 

Ch.  Know,  child  of  (Edipus,  we  pity  thee, 
Nor  gaze  relentless  on  thy  woe-worn  sire ; 
But  we  revere  the  gods,  nor  dare  rescind 
The  firm  decision  of  our  former  mandate. 

(Ed.  What  then  doth  Glory's  vaunted  name 

avail, 

What  the  fair  honours  of  illustrious  fame, 
Unproved  by  deeds  as  noble  ?    Rumour  boasts 
Of  Athens,  most  observant  of  the  gods. 
Athens  alone,  of  all  our  States,  the  first 
To  save  the  stranger,  and  the  lost  to  aid. 
What  are  those  vaunts  to  me  ?     Ye  from  those 

seats 

Allured,  and  now  expel  me  from  your  land, 
Awed  by  a  name  alone.     It  is  not  me, 


SOPHOCLES. 


101 


Nor  yet  my  deeds  ye  fear;  for  in  those  deeds 
I  have  but  suffered — not  inflicted — wrong, 
If  I  may  dare  my  wretched  parents  name 
For  whom  ye  thus  contemn  me.     This  I  know 
Full  well.     And  shall  I  then  be  foully  branded 
Base  e'en  by  nature,  when  my  sole  offence 
Is — to  have  borne  injustice,  and  revenged  it? 
Nay,  had  I  e'en  been  conscious  of  the  crime, 
I  were  not  thus  abandoned.     But  I  went, 
Oh  how  unconscious  of  the  path  I  trod  ! 
But  much  have  I  endured  from  those  who  knew 
The  fearful  wreck  they  wrought.     By  the  great 

gods, 

I  now  adjure  you,  strangers,  at  your  will 
Hither  removed,  0  save  me,  save  me  here, 
Nor  while  ye  think  to  venerate  your  gods, 
Contemn  their  holiest  laws.     Know,  while  they 

gaze 

Approving  on  the  righteous,  they  behold 
The  impious  too,  and  guilt  shall  never  win 
Escape  or  shelter  from  the  wrath  of  heaven. 

0  then  forbear  to  dim  the  radiant  fame 

Of  generous  Athens  leaguing  with  the  lawless ; 

But  as  relying  on  thy  plighted  faith, 

Thou  hast  received  me,  save  and  shield  me  still, 

Nor  spurn  with  cold  contempt  this  abject  frame, 

Thus  worn  and  wasted  by  consuming  woes. 

Sacred  I  come,  and  pious,  charged  alone 

With  blessings  to  your  State  5  and  when  your 

king, 
Whoe'er  he  be,  is  present  to  my  tale, 

1  will  inform  thee  all ; — till  he  arrive 
Insult  me  not. 

Ch.  Thine  arguments,  old  man, 

Are  urged  by  weighty  reasonings,  and  constrain 

me 

Much  to  revere  thee.     Things  of  import  high 
Thy  words  involve.     Be  it  enough  for  me 
To  wait  the  wise  decision  of  our  monarch. 

(Ed.  Where,  strangers,  doth  your  monarch  hold 
his  court? 

Ch.  In  his  ancestral  city ;  and  the  man 
Who  saw  thee  first,  and  bade  my  presence  here, 
Passed  with  like  tidings  to  the  monarch  charged. 

(Ed.  Will  he  then  deem  me  worthy  of  regard, 
And  deign  his  audience  to  a  blind  old  man  ? 

Ch.  Doubtless,  when  he  shall  hear  thy  name. 

(Ed.  And  who 

Will  be  the  bearer  of  a  word  like  this? 

Ch.  Long   have    thy   wanderings   been,   and 

travellers  soon 

Diffuse  their  tales  afar;  these  he  will  hear 
And,  be  assured,  will  come.     Widely,  old  man, 
Thy   fame   is  blazoned ;  though   his   step  were 

slow, 
Thy  name  would  urge  him  to  redoubling  spood. 

(Ed.  O!  be  his  coming  prosperous  to  his  Starr, 
Prosperous  to  me.  What  man  of  virtuous  deeds 
Befriendeth  not  himself? 

Ant.  Almighty  Jove ! 

What  shall  I  say,  and  whither  lead  my  thoughts? 

(Ed.  What  mean'st  thou.  my  Anti-one? 

Ant.  I  see 

A  woman,  on  a  fleet  Sicilian  steed. 
Advancing  hither:   from  the  sun's  full  beams 
A  close  Thessalian  bonnet  shades  her  brow. 


What  shall  I  say  ?     Oh !  is  it  she  indeed, 
Or  do  my  fond  imaginings  deceive  me  ? 
Again  I  doubt,  and  am  assured  by  turns, 
Uncertain  what  to  think. — My  doubts  are  o'er ; 
I  know  her  now  ;  that  sweet  and  welcome  smile 
Hath  scattered  all  misgivings,  and  I  see 
:Tis  she,  my  dear,  my  ever-loved  Ismene. 

(Ed.  What  hast  thou  said,  my  daughter  ? 

Ant.  That  I  see 

Thy  child,  my  father,  my  dear  sister  too. 
A  moment — and  Her',acp&n4s»  wHl  assme  thee*. 


Enter  ISMENE". 


Ism.  0  ye,  die  names  rrx>%t;  <te4^j je«J ah  mv 
heart,-  ,•/*••**_•.«      " » *  •    *  ' 

My  father  and  my  sister,  though  in  pain 

I  traced  your  wanderings,  now  a  keener  grief 

Dims  my  sad  eye  while  gazing  on  your  sorrows. 

(Ed.  And  art  thou  here,  my  child  ? 

Ism.  Unhappy  father ! 

(Ed.  Sprung  from  my  blood — 

Ism.  To  share  thy  miseries. 

(Ed.  And  art  thou  come  ? 

Ism.  Not  without  desperate  peril. 

(Ed.  Embrace  me,  dearest  child. 

Ism.  In  one  fond  clasp 

I  thus  embrace  you  both. 

(Ed.  Her,  too,  and  me. 

Ism.  Myself  the  third  in  sorrow. 

(Ed.  O  my  child, 

What  brought  thee  hither  ? 

Ism.  Anxious  thought  for  thee. 

(Ed.  Concern  for  me  ! 

Ism.  Yea,  fraught  with  mighty  tidings, 

And  unattended,  save  by  this  true  slave, 
Alone  of  all  yet  faithful. 

(Ed.  Where  are  now 

Thy  brothers,  nerved  by  youth  for  martial  toils  ? 

Ism.  They  are,  where  Fate  constrains,  in  dark- 
est peril ! 

(Ed.  How,  have  they  bowed  their  manners 

and  their  mind 

To  the  base  customs  of  inglorious  Egypt? 
Where  men,  immured  at  home,  direct  the  loom, 
While  in  the  field  their  women  still  procure 
The  sustenance  of  life.     Thus  too  of  you, 
My  children,  those  whom  best  such  toil  behoved 
Like  timid  maids,  rest  idly  in  their  home; 
While  ye,  my  daughters,  in  their  stead  partake 
A  wretched  father's  sorrows.     She  indeed, 

[To  AXTIGOSTE. 
Since  feebler  childhood  passed,  and  blooming 

youth 
Breathed  vigour  through  her  frame,  still  on  my 

path 

Attendant,  over  wanders  where  I  roam, 
Guides  my  weak  steps,  and  oft  through  pathless 

wilds 

Strays  with  unsandalled  foot,  bereft  of  food 
Endures  the  frequent  showers  and  sultry  sun, 
Nor  heeds  the  splendours  of  a  kingly  board, 
So  her  fond  care  may  tend  a  father's  need. 
Thou  too,  Ismene,  oft  unknown  to  Thebes 
Ha~t  left  thy  home,  to  tell  thy  wandering  sire 
The  oracles  relating  to  his  doom ; 
And  when  they  thrust  me  from  my  native  land, 


102 


SOPHOCLES. 


Didst  thou  stand  forth,  my  firm  and  faithful  guide. 
And  now,  beloved  daughter,  to  thy  sire 
What  errand  dost  thou  bear  ?  what  mighty  cause 
Moved  thee  to  quit  thy  home  ?     Thou  dost  not 

come, 

Full  well  I  know,  with  serious  charge  unfraught, 
And  much  I  fear  lest  new  alarms  impend. 

Ism.  I  will  not  tell  thee,  father,  all  the  toils, 
The  ills  I  bore  in  seeking  thine  abode ; 
These  no"w  are  vanquished, — and  'twere  worse 

than  vain 

Once;  li^e  to  wkker>,  Jay  j-e.counting,  woes. 
My  errand  here  was  to  relate  the  ills 
(-In  whic-h.tby  hapics.s  so>.is  ,y,ve  now  immersed. 
It  seemed.  &'i  iirst  tlici"  oa}y  wish  to  yield 
The  throne  to  Creon,  nor  pollute  the  State, 
Weighing  the  curse  entailed  on  all  their  race 
Which  plunged  in  ruin  thy  devoted  house. 
Now  by  some  god  or  frenzy  of  the  mind, 
Unhappy  pair  !  perverted,  mutual  strife 
Fires  them  to  rancour,  struggling  for  the  throne. 
Reckless  of  natural  rights,  the  younger  spurns 
His  elder,  Polynices,  arid  expels  him 
Both  from  his  rightful  throne  and  father-land. 
He,  as  the  voice  of  Rumour  widely  tells, 
Fled  to  the  vales  of  Argos,  and  contracts 
A  new  alliance  ;  arms  his  martial  friends ; 
And  vaunts  that  Argos  shall  requite  his  wrongs 
On  guilty  Thebes,  and  raise  his  name  to  heaven. 
No  vague  and  vain  reports  are  these,  my  father, 
But  facts  too  surely  proved.     But  when  the  gods 
Will  look  in  mercy  on  thy  lengthened  woes, 
Alas !  I  cannot  learn. 

(Ed.  Hast  thou  then  hope 

That  Heaven  will  yet  regard,  and  save  me  still ? 

Ism.  I  have,  my  father  ;  for  I  firmly  trust 
The  recent  voice  oracular. 

(Ed.  What  voice  ? 

What,  daughter,  hath  it  presaged  1 

Ism.  That  an  hour 

Will  come  when  Thebes  shall  seek  thee,  living 

still, 
Or  dead,  for  her  deliverance. 

(Ed.  Who  can  look 

For  prosperous  fortune  to  a  wretch  like  me  ? 

Ism.  The  oracles  proclaim  thou  art  their  might. 

(Ed.  I  deemed  that  I  was  nothing ;  am  I  then 
Once  more  a  man  ? 

Ism.  The  gods  exalt  thee  now ; 

Before — they  willed  thy  downfall. 

(Ed.  What  avails  it 

To  raise  in  age  the  wretch  whose  youth  they 
blasted  ? 

Ism.  Know,  for  this  cause  will  Creon  quickly 
come. 

(Ed.  With  what  intent,  my  daughter  ?  tell  me 
all. 

Ism.  That  near  the  Theban  confines  they  may 

hold  thee, 
Though  ne'er  allowed  to  pass  the  sacred  bound. 

(Ed.  What   can    one    prostrate   at  their   gate 
avail  them  ? 

Ism.  Thy  tomb,  if  reared  in  other  lands,  to  them 
Would  prove  most  fatal. 

(Ed.  Though  the  god  withheld 

His  certain  presage,  this  were  promptly  learnt. 


Ism.  And  therefore  seek  the  Thebans  to  con- 
fine thee 
Near  their  own  realms,  not  thine  own  master 

there. 
(Ed.  Would   they   inter   me  too   in   Theban 

ground  ? 
Ism.  This   must   not   be ;    the   kindred  blood 

forbids. 
(Ed.  Then  never,  never,  shall  they  work  their 

will. 
Ism.  An  hour  must  come  when  Thebes  shall 

rue  thy  vengeance. 
.  (Ed.  What  strange  event,  my  child,  shall  work 

this  marvel? 
Ism.  Thy  quenchless  wrath,  when  round  thy 

tomb  they  stand. 

(Ed.  From  whom  didst  thou  these  oracles  re- 
ceive ? 

Ism.  From  those  who  late  returned  from  Del- 
phi's shrine. 

(Ed.  Hath  then  Apollo  thus  foretold  of  me  ? 
Ism.  So  those  declared,  who  came  but  now  to 

Thebes. 
(Ed.  Which  of  my  shameless  sons  heard  aught 

of  this  ? 
Ism.  Each  heard  alike,  and  both  must  know 

it  well. 
(Ed.  Yet  those  degenerate  wretches,  warned 

of  this, 

Could  grasp  at  empire,  and  neglect  a  father. 
Ism.  I  grieve  to  hear  such  tidings, — yet  I  bear 

them. 
(Ed.  Ne'er  may  the  gods  extinguish  the  fierce 

flames 

Of  this  dread  fatal  strife,  but  to  my  will 
Award  the  issue  of  that  deadly  feud, 
Which  now  with  equal  weapons  they  prepare : 
So  should  the  proud  usurper  vaunt  no  more 
His  sceptre  and  his  throne,  nor  e'er  to  Thebes 
Should  he,  who  left  his  native  towers,  return. 
They,  they  at  least  nor  succoured  nor  retained 
Their  wretched  father,  from  his  country  spurned 
With  foul  dishonour ;  but,  assenting,  joined 
In  the  stern  edict  which  proclaimed  me  exile. 
Thou  wilt  reply,  to  mine  own  earnest  prayer 
The  state  that  melancholy  boon  assigned : 
But  'tis  not  thus ; — on  that  disastrous  day, 
When  frenzy  fired  my  soul,  and  all  I  asked 
Was  but  to  die,  and  hide  my  shame  for  ever, 
Crushed    by  o'erwhelming  rocks ; — no  friendly 

hand 

Was  stretched  to  rid  me  of  the  life  I  hated ; 
But  when  the  lenient  hand  of  time  had  soothed 
Despair  to  resignation,  and  I  learned 
That  mine  own  desperate  frenzy  had  inflicted 
A  wound  more  piercing  than  the  crime  deserved  ; 
Then,  then  the  city  thrust  me  sternly  forth 
To  most  reluctant  exile ;  and  these  sons, 
My  noble  offspring,  who  had  power  to  aid 
Their  father  in  his  need,  that  power  withheld, 
Deigned  not  to  raise  a  word  in  my  defence ; 
While  by  these  virgins,  far  as  their  weak  sex 
Avails  to  aid  me,  all  hath  been  supplied, — 
Meet  sustenance,  serene  though  lowly  rest, 
And  all  the  tender  cares  of  duteous  love  ; 
While  my  base  sons  with  impious  ardour  grasp 


SOPHOCLES. 


103 


Crowns,  sceptres,  kingdoms,  and  forget  a  father. 
But  never  shall  they  gain  support  from  me, 
Nor  shall  they  flourish  on  the  throne  of  Thebes 
In  glad  and  prosperous  grandeur ;  this  I  know, 
Hearing  these  oracles,  and  pondering  well 
The  sure  response  by  Phoebus  breathed  *f  old. 
And  let  them  send  their  Creon,  or  some  chief 
As  potent  and  as  base,  to  seek  me  here ; 
If  ye,  0  strangers,  with  these  awful  Powers, 
Your  tutelary  gods,  will  here  stand  forth 
To  grant  me  succour,  much  will  ye  promote 
Your  country's  welfare  and  my  foes'  despair. 

Enter  THESEUS. 

Thes.  Long  by  the  voic-3  of  general  fame  ap- 
prized 

Of  thy  sad  tale,  and  that  infuriate  deed 
Which  quenched  thy  visual  orbs  in  utter  gloom, 
I  knew  thee,  son  of  Laius ;  as  I  came 
Much  have  I  heard,  and  know  thee  now  more 

surely. 

Thine  abject  garb  and  aspect  of  despair 
Too  plainly  speak  thy  fortunes.     Hapless  king, 
Thou  wak'st  my  pity ;  and  I  would  but  ask 
What  boon  thou  seek'st  from  me,  or  from  my 

State, 

Thou  and  the  sad  associate  of  thy  sorrows. 
Unfold  thy  wish ;  and  arduous  were  th'  emprize 
Where  thou  shouldst  ask  my  utmost  aid  in  vain. 
I  too  was  nurtured  in  a  foreign  land, 
As  thou  art  now ;  an  exile's  woes  to  me, 
An  exile's  perils,  are  familiar  all. 
Then  never,  never,  from  the  stranger's  prayer, 
Who  comes  like  thee,  relentless  will  I  turn, 
Or  needful  aid  withhold.     I  am  a  man, 
As  thou  art;  and  my  power  to  rule  th'  events 
To-morrow  may  bring  forth,  transcends  not  thine. 
(Ed.  Theseus !  in  these  brief  words  thy  gener- 
ous soul 

Hath  shone  conspicuous  ;  hence  a  brief  reply 
May  well  suffice  me.     Who  I  am,  and  who 
My  father,  what  my  country,  thou  hast  said. 
Nought  then  remains,  save  to  prefer  my  prayer 
For  all  I  need,  and  then  our  conference  close. 
Thes.  Speak,  then,  at  once,  that  I  may  know 

thy  wish. 

(Ed.  I  come  to  proffer  thee  this  withered  frame, 
A  gift  to  sight  unseemly ;  yet  endowed 
With  costlier  treasures  than  the  loveliest  form. 
Thes.  What  rich  requital  dost  thou  bring  me 

here? 
(Ed.  This  mayst  thou  learn  in  time — thou  canst 

not  now. 
Thes.  When  shall  thy  proffered  good  approve 

its  worth? 
(Ed.  When  I  am  dead,  and  thou  hast  reared 

my  tomb. 

Thes.  The  last  and  saddest  boon  of  life  is  all 
Thy  prayer  regards.  The  care  of  all  between 
Is  unremembered,  or  contemned  by  i; 

(Ed.  In  this  one  prayer  are  these  concentred  all. 
Thes.  Yet  light  and  trivial  is  the  grace  implored. 
(Ed.  Mark  me  !  no  trivial  contest  shall  ensue. 
Thes.  Of  me,  or  of  thy  sons,  dost  thou  presage  ? 
(Ed.  They  would  constrain  me  to  return  to 
Thebes. 


Thes.  If  such  their  wish,  it  ill  becomes  thee 

thus 
To  roam  a  willing  exile. 

(Ed.  When  I  sought 

Such  refuge,  they  refused. 

Thes.  Oh,  most  unwise ! 

How  vain  is  wrath  in  wretchedness  like  thine ! 

(Ed.  Forbear  reproaches,  till  thou  hear  my  plea. 

Thes.  Speak — I  were  wrong  to  judge  thee  un- 
informed. 

(Ed.  0  Theseus !  I  have  suffered  woes  on  woes 
Exhaustless  heaped. 

Thes.  Dost  thou  by  this  intend 

The  ancient  ruin  of  thy  fated  house  ? 

(Ed.  Ah  no !  in  this  the  general  voice  of  Greece 
Hath  left  me  nought  to  tell  thee. 

Thes.  Do  thy  griefs 

Transcend  the  common  sufferings  of  our  race  ? 

(Ed.  They  do,  indeed.    By  mine  own  heartless 

sons 

To  exile  thrust,  like  some  loathed  parricide, 
Ne'er  may  I  tread  my  native  soil  again. 

Thes.  Why,  then,  recall  thee,  if  consigned  to 

dwell 
For  evermore  apart. 

(Ed.  The  voice  of  heaven 

Constrains  them  thus  to  act. 

Thes.  And  of  what  ills 

Do  these  predictions  wake  the  boding  dread? 

(Ed.  Discomfiture  and  death  from  this  fair  land. 

Thes.  Whence  shall  such  fatal  feud  between 
us  rise  ? 

(Ed.  Most  honoured  son  of  ^Egeus,  the  great 

gods 

Alone  the  high  prerogative  may  claim 
To  shun  the  blight  of  age,  the  stroke  of  death  ; 
All  else  must  yield  to  Time's  unconquered  sway. 
The  vigour  of  the  earth,  man's  martial  might 
Are  doomed  alike  to  fade ;  fair  faith  expires, 
And  falsehood  springs  florescent.     So  in  men 
By  dearest  ties  united,  and  in  states 
By  firmest  leagues  to  amity  constrained, 
The  same  true  soul  remains  not.    What  we  now 
Delight  to  cherish,  in  the  lapse  of  time 
Or  wakes  abhorrence,  or  revives  desire. 
Thus  now,  though  all  is  peace  with  thee  and 

Thebes, 

Thanks  to  thy  generous  faith,  revolving  time, 
Which  in  its  ceaseless  course  gives  constant  birth 
To  countless  days  and  nights,  shall  yet  produce 
The  fated  season,  when  for  trivial  wrongs, 
Your  plighted  concord  shall  dissolve  in  air. 
Then  this  cold  body  in  the  sleep  of  death 
Entombed,  shall  drink  their  warm  and  vital  blood. 
If  Jove  be  mightier  still,  and  Jove-born  Phoebus 
Retains  his  truth  unbroken.     But  I  pause — 
Let  me  not  breathe  what  heaven  has  veiled  in 

darkness. 

Guard  thou  thy  proffered  faith,  nor  shalt  thou  say 
In  (Edipus,  thy  hospitable  land, 
A  vain  and  useless  habitant  received, 
Unless  in  this  the  gods  themselves  deceive  me. 

Ch.  Before,  O  King !  to  thee  and  to  the  State 
Such  promises  he  proffered  to  fulfil. 

Thes.  Oh,  who  would  spurn  the  warm  bene- 
volence 


104 


SOPHOCLES. 


Of  one  like  him,  to  whom  this  altar  first 

Common  to  all,  its  friendly  refuge  lends. 

Then,  though  a  suppliant  to  these  Powers  he  came, 

To  me  and  to  my  people  doth  repay 

No  trivial  recompense.     Whom  I,  impressed 

With  deepest  reverence,  never  will  repulse ; 

But  in  my  realms  a  safe  asylum  grant. 

If  here  it  please  the  stranger  to  remain, 

To  guard  him  be  your  charge.     If  thou  prefer 

With  me  to  quit  the  spot,  O  CEdipus, 

Choose  which  thou  wilt,  I  my  assent. 

(Ed.  Pour  down  thy  richest  blessings  on  such 

men, 
Almighty  Jove! 

Thes.  What  then  dost  thou  resolve  ? 

Say,  wilt  thou  to  the  palace  ? 

(Ed.  Would  to  heaven 

I  might  attend  thee ;  but  the  spot  is  here — 
Thes.  Destined  for  what?  I  will  in  nought  op- 
pose thee. 
(Ed.  Here  shall  I  triumph  o'er  the  foes  who 

wronged  me. 
Thes.  Great  recompense  thou  nam'st  for  thine 

abode 
In  these  our  realms. 

(Ed.  If  to  thy  purpose  true 

Thou  dost  remain  unchanged,  till  all  be  o'er. 
Thes.  Distrust  me  not,  I  never  will  betray  thee. 
(Ed.   I  will  not  bind  thee,  like  the  base,  by  oath. 
Thes.  I  count  no  oath  more  binding  than  a 

promise 

(Ed.  How  wilt  thou  act  ? — 
Thes.  What  terror  thus  alarms  thee  ? 

(Ed.  Men  will  approach — 
Thes.  That  charge  belongs  to  these. 

(Ed.  Beware,  lest  if  thou  leave  me — 
Thes.  Tell  me  not 

What  is  my  duty. 

(Ed.  He  who  fears  must  tell  thee. 

Thes.  Fear  is  a  stranger  to  rny  breast. 
(Ed.  And  yet 

Thou  little  know'st  what  threats — 

Thes.  One  thing  I  know  ; 

No  mortal  hand  shall  force  thee  from  this  spot, 
In  my  despite.     The  impotence  of  wrath 
Vents  its  wild  rage  in  vain  and  vehement  threats, 
Which,  when  cool  Thought  its  sober  sway  resumes, 
Unheeded  pass  away.     Thus,  too,  for  these ; 
Though  now  they  proudly  menace,  should  they 

strive 

To  drag  thee  hence  by  violence,  such  emprize 
Will  prove  a  stormy  ocean,  where,  immerged, 
Their  shattered  bark  will  sink.  Take  courage 

then — 

If  Phoebus  hither  was  thy  guide, 
Without  my  feebler  aid  his  arm  can  save  thee : 
And  though  ourselves  be  distant,  yet  our  name 
Shall  still  avail  from  insult  to  protect  thee. 

[Exit  THESEUS. 

CHOBUS. 

Strophe  I. 

Well  did  Fate  thy  wanderings  lead, 

Stranger,  to  this  field  of  fame, 
Birth-place  of  the  generous  steed, 
Graced  by  white  Colonus'  name. 


Frequent  in  the  dewy  glade, 

Here  the  nightingale  is  dwelling ; 
Through  embowering  ivy's  shade, 

Here  her  plaintive  notes  are  swelling ; 
Through  yon  grove,  from  footsteps  pure, 

Where  unnumbered  fruits  are  blushing — 
From  the  summer  sun  secure, 

Screened  from  wintry  whirlwinds  rushing ; 
Where,  with  his  fostering  nymphs, amid  the  grove, 
The  sportive  Bacchus  joys  to  revel  or  to  rove. 

dntistrophe  I. 
Bathed  in  heaven's  ambrosial  dew, 

Here  the  fair  narcissus  flowers, 
Graced  each  morn  with  clusters  new, 

Ancient  crown  of  mightiest  Powers ; 
Here  the  golden  crocus  blows ; 

Here  exhaustless  fountains  gushing, 
Where  the  cool  Cephisus  flows, 

Restless  o'er  the  plains  are  rushing ; 
Ever  as  the  crystal  flood 

Winds  in  pure  transparent  lightness ; 
Fresher  herbage  decks  the  sod, 

Flowers  spring  forth  in  lovelier  brightness, 
Here  dance  the  Muses ;  and  the  Queen  of  Love 
Oft  guides  her  golden  car  through  this  enchanting 
grove. 

Strophe  II. 

What  nor  Asia's  rich  domain, 

Nor  by  Pelops'  ancient  reign, 

Famed  afar,  the  Doric  coast 

Through  its  thousand  vales  can  boast — 

Here,  by  mortal  hands  unsown, 

Here,  spontaneous  and  alone, 

Mark  the  hallowed  plant  expand, 

Terror  of  each  hostile  band ! 

Here,  with  kindly  fruit  mature, 

Springs  the  azure  olive  pure ; 

Youth  and  hoary  age  combine 

To  revere  the  plant  divine  ; 

Morian  Jove,*  with  guardian  care, 

Watches  ever  wakeful  there  ; 

And  Athena's  eye  of  blue 

Guards  her  own  loved  olive  too. 

Jlntistrophc  II. 

Let  me  still  my  country's  fame, 
Still  her  matchless  praise  proclaim, 
Sing  the  wondrous  gifts  bestowed 
By  her  potent  Patron-God, 
Steeds  in  fleetness  ne'er  outvied, 
And  the  gallant  navy's  pride. 
Son  of  Saturn,  King  whose  sway 
Ocean's  restless  waves  obey. 
Thou  to  this  transcendent  praise 
Didst  thy  favoured  Athens  raise; 
Taught  by  thee  the  courser's  flame 
By  the  golden  curb  to  tame — 
While  the  light  oar,  framed  by  thee, 
Speeds  the  swift  bark  o'er  the  sea, 
Bounding  through  the  foaming  main 
Fleeter  than  the  Nereid  train. 


*  The  sacred  olives  in  the  Academia  were  called  Mo/xa/  j 
lence  Jupiter,  who  had  an  altar  there  as  protector  of  the 
place,  had  the  name  of  "Morian." 


SOPHOCLES. 


105 


(En  I  PUS  cursing  his  son  Polynices. 
Hearken  now  our  firm  response — 
Oh  most  abandoned !  when  the  very  throne 
Was  thine,  which  now  in  Thebes  thy  brother 

holds 

Thou  didst  thyself  expel  thy  wretched  sire, 
Didst  spurn  me  from  my  country,  and  consign  me 
To  this  most  abject  penury,  which  now 
Excites  thy  tears ;  but  never  did  my  woes 
Inflict  one  pang,  till  they  became  thine  own. 
Those  ills  I  may  not  weep,  but  must  endure ; 
And  ever,  ever  must  remembrance  wake 
Thy  worse  than  parricide.  Thou  didst  enfold  me 
In  all  this  web  of  misery ;  by  thy  will 
Constrained,  I  wandered  sadly  forth  to  crave 
The  slender  pittance  of  my  daily  food. 
Save  that  the  care  of  duteous  daughters  soothed 

me, 

Long  since,  for  thee,  should  I  have  ceased  to  live ; 
But  they  have  saved  me,  they  sustain  me  still; 
Unlike  their  weaker  sex,  with  manly  hearts 
They  toil  unwearied  in  a  father's  cause ; — 
Ye  are  not  mine,  but  aliens  from  my  blood. 
Wherefore   with  other  eyes  will   heaven   look 

down 

On  this  emprize  ere  long,  when  these  thy  troops 
Are  marched  to  Thebes.     It  shall  not  be  thy  lot 
To  win  the  city; — rather  shall  thy  blood, 
And  thy  base  brother's,  stain  her  fatal  plain. 
Such  were  the  curses  of  my  first  despair ; 
Such  now  with  keener  hatred  I  invoke 
To  wreak  my  vengeance,  that  ye  late  may  learn 
The  reverence  due  to  parents ;  nor,  though  blind, 
With  causeless  insult  wound  a  powerless  father. 
My  gentle  daughters  never  acted  thus. 
For  this,  on  thy  proud  throne  and  royal  seat 
Shall  sit  the  avenging  curse,  if  Justice,  famed 
Of  old,  by  Jove's  august  tribunal  throned, 
Maintain  the  ancient  laws  unbroken  still. 
Hence  to  thy  doom,  accursed !  I  disclaim 
A  father's  part  in  thee,  thou  scorn  of  men, 
And  with  thee  bear  the  curse  I  call  to  blast  thee: 
That  thou  may'st  ne'er  thy  rightful  throne  regain, 
And  never  to  the  Argive  vales  return ; 
But  fall  unpitied  by  a  kindred  hand, 
Requiting  first  thine  exile  by  his  death. 
Thus  do  I  curse  thee :  and  I  here  invoke 
Dark  Erebus,  the  hated  sire  of  hell, 
To  give  thee  dwelling  in  his  deepest  gloom  ; — 
These  venerable  Powers,  and  mighty  Mars, 
Whose  anger  cursed  thee  with  this  deadly  feud. 
Depart  with  this  mine  answer.     Hence,  and  tell 
Th'  assembled  Thebans  and  thy  bold  allies, 
Such  is  the  meed  which  CEdipus  repays 
To  his  abhorred  and  most  unnatural  offspring. 

THE  DEATH  OF   (EDIPUS. 

(Edipus  has  led  the  way  to  a  cavern  well 
known  in  legendary  lore,  as  one  of  the  entrances 
to  the  infernal  regions,  and  as  the  spot  where 
Perithous  and  Theseus  had  pledged  their  faith, 
and  there — 

Betwixt  that  place  and  the  Thorician  rock, 
The    old    man    sate   him    down,   and,   having 
called 


His  daughters  to  his  side,  he  bade  them  bring 

A  pure  libation  from  the  living  stream, 

And  holy  layers :     They  to  Ceres'  hill, 

Clad  with  fresh-glistening  verdure,  haste    with 

speed 

To  do  his  bidding — 

These  sadly  pleasing  rites  at  length  discharged, 
Nor  aught  unfinished  of  the  sire's  command, 
The  infernal  Jove  deep  thundered  from  beneath. 
The  timid  virgins  trembled  as  they  heard, 
And  smote  their  breasts  with  wailings  long  and 

loud. 

Then  over  them  his  hands  the  old  man  clasped, 
And  "  0  my  children,"  said  he — "  from  this  day 
Ye  have  no  more  a  father — all  of  me 
Withers  away — the  burthen  and  the  toil 
Of  mine  old  age  fall  on  ye  nevermore  : 
Sad  travail  have  ye  borne  for  me,  and  yet 
Let  one  thought  soften  grief  when  I  am  gone — 
The  thought  that  none  upon  the  desolate  world 
Loved  you  as  I  did ; — and  in  death  I  leave 
A  happier  life  to  you !" — Thus  movingly, 
With  clinging  arms  and  passionate  sobs,  the  three 
Wept  out  aloud,  until  the  sorrow  grew 
Into  a  deadly  hush — nor  cry  nor  wail 
Starts  the  drear  silence  of  the  solitude. 
Then  suddenly  a  bodiless  voice  is  heard — 
It  called  on  him ;  it  called — "Ho,  (Edipus, 
Why  linger  we  so  long?" — 

CEdipus  then  solemnly  consigns  his  children  to 
Theseus,  dismisses  them,  and  Theseus  alone  is 
left  with  the  old  man. 

So  groaning  we  depart — and  when  once  more 
We  turned  our  eyes  to  gaze,  behold,  the  place 
Knew  not  the  man !     The  king  alone  was  there, 
With  close-press'd  hand  over  his  shaded  brow, 
As  if  to  shut  from  out  the  quailing  gaze 
The  horrid  aspect  of  some  ghastly  thing 
That  nature  durst  not  look  on. 
A  little  after  we  beheld  him  bent, 
In  humble  adoration  to  the  earth, 
And  then  to  heaven  prefering  ardent  prayer. 
But  how  the  old  man  perished,  none  can  tell 
Save  Theseus ;  for  nor  lightning-breath  of  heaven, 
Nor  blasting  tempest  from  the  ocean  borne, 
Was  heard  or  seen ;  but  either  was  he  rapt 
Aloft  by  wings  divine,  or  else  the  shades, 
Whose  darkness  never  looked  upon  the  sun, 
Opened,  in  mercy,  to  receive  him.* 

FROM  THE  ANTIGONE. 

THE  curses  of  CEdipus  have  been  fulfilled ; 
Etenrles  and  Polynices  have  fallen  by  each 
other's  hands,  and  the  Argive  army  defeated 
before  the  walls  of  Thebes.  Creon,  who  has  ob- 
tained the  tyranny,  interdicts,  on  the  penalty  of 
death,  the  burial  of  Polynices.  Antigone,  how- 
ever, mindful  of  her  brother's  request  to  her  in 
their  last  interview,  resolves  to  brave  the  edict 
and  perform  those  rites  so  indispensably  sacred 
in  the  eyes  of  a  Greek.  Acting  on  these  resolu- 


*The  description  here  has  been  highly  extolled  by 
Longinus.— 8.  xv. 


106 


SOPHOCLES. 


tions,  she  baffles  the  vigilance  of  the  guards,  and 
buries  the  corpse.  Creon,  on  learning  that  his 
edict  has  been  disobeyed,  orders  the  remains  to 
be  disinterred,  and  Antigone,  in  a  second  attempt 
to  inter  them,  is  discovered,  brought  before  him, 
and  condemned  to  perish  by  hunger  in  the  cavern 
of  a  rock.  Antigone  is  borne  away  to  her  doom, 
sustaining  herself  with  this  one  comfort,  that  she 
shall  go  to  her  grave  dear  to  her  parents  and  to 
her  brother. — In  the  end,  through  the  denuncia- 
tions of  Tiresias  and  the  intercessions  of  the 
Chorus,  Creon  relents.  But  it  is  too  late  ;  on  en- 
tering the  cavern,  he  finds  Antigone  dead,  and 
her  affianced  lover,  Hsemon,  lying  beside,  with 
his  arms  clasped  round  her  waist.  The  conclu- 
sion of  the  play  leaves  Creon  the  survivor.  His 
wife  and  children  have  perished ;  but  he  himself 
does  not,  for  he  has  never  excited,  our  sympathies.* 

CKEOX,  ANTIGONE,  CHORUS. 

Cr.  Answer  then, — 

Bending  thy  head  to  earth, — dost  thou  confess, 
Or  canst  deny  the  charge  ? 

Ant.  I  do  confess  it 

Freely ;  I  scorn  to  disavow  the  act. 

Cr.  Reply  with  answer  brief  to    one   plain 

question, 

Without,  evasion.     Didst  thou  know  the  law, 
That  none  should  do  this  deed  ? 

Ant.  I  knew  it  well ; 

How  could  I  fail  to  know;  it  was  most  plain. 

Cr.  Didst  thou  then  dare  transgress  our  royal 
mandate  ? 

Ant.  Ne'er  did  eternal  Jove  such  laws  ordain, 
Or  Justice,  throned  amid  th'  infernal  powers, 
Who  on  mankind  these  holier  rites  imposed, — 
Nor  can  I  deem  thine  edict  armed  with  power 
To  contravene  the  firm  unwritten  laws 
Of  the  just  gods,  thyself  a  weak  frail  mortal ! 
These  are  no  laws  of  yesterday, — they  live 
For  evermore,  and  none  can  trace  their  birth. 
I  would  not  dare,  by  mortal  threat  appalled, 
To  violate  their  sanction,  and  incur 
The  vengeance  of  the  gods.     I  knew  before 
That  I  must  die,  though  thou  hadst  ne'er  pro- 

claim'd  it, 

And  if  I  perish  ere  th'  allotted  term, 
I  deem  that  death  a  blessing.     Who  that  lives, 
Like  me,  encompassed  by  unnumbered  ills, 
But  would  account  it  blessedness  to  die  ? 
If  then  I  meet  the  doom  thy  laws  assign, 
It  nothing  grieves  me.     Had  I  left  my  brother, 
From  mine  own  mother  sprung,  on  the  bare  earth 
To  lie  unburied,  that  indeed  might  grieve  me ; 
But  for  this  deed  I  mourn  not.     If  to  thee 
Mine  actions  seem  unwise,  'tis  thine  own  soul 
That   errs    from  wisdom,   when   it   deems  me 
.  senseless. 

Ch.  This  maiden  shares  her  father's  stubborn 

soul 
And  scorns  to  bend  beneath  misfortune's  power. 


*  According  to  that  maxim  of  Aristotle's,  that  in  tra- 
gedy a  very  bad  man  should  never  be  selected  as  the  ob- 
ject of  chastisement,  since  his  fate  is  not  calculated  to 
excite  our  sympathies. 


Cr.  Yet  thou  might' st  know,  that  loftiest  spirits 

oft 
Are  bowed  to  deepest  shame ;  and  thou  might'st 

mark 

The  hardest  metal  soft  and  ductile  made 
By  the  resistless  energy  of  flame  ; 
Oft,  too,  the  fiery  courser  have  I  seen 
By   a    small    bit    constrained.     High    arrogant 

thoughts 

Beseem  not  one,  whose  duty  is  submission. 
In  this  presumption  she  was  lessoned  first, 
When  our  imperial  laws  she  dared  to  spurn, 
And  to  that  insolent  wrong  fresh  insult  adds, 
In  that  she  glories,  vaunting  of  the  deed. 
Henceforth  no  more  deem  mine  a  manly  soul ; — 
Concede  that  name  to  hers,  if  from  this  crime 
She  shall  escape  unpunished.    Though  she  spring 
From  our  own  sister,  she  shall  not  evade 
A  shameful  death. 

Ant.  And  welcome!  Whence  could  I 

Obtain  a  holier  praise  than  by  committing 
My  brother  to  the  tomb  ?     These,  too,  I  know 
Would  all  approve  the'  action,  but  that  fear 
Curbs  their  free  thoughts  to  base  and   servile 

silence ; 

But  'tis  the  noble  privilege  of  tyrants 
To  say  and  do  whate'er  their  lordly  will, 
Their  only  law,  may  prompt. 

Cr.  Of  all  the  Thebans 

Dost  thou  alone  see  this  ? 

Ant.  They,  too,  behold  it, 

But  fear  constrains  them  to  an  abject  silence. 
Cr.  Doth  it  not  shame  thee  to  dissent  from 

these  ? 
Ant.  I   cannot   think   it   shame   to   love   my 

brother  ? 
Cr.  Was  not  he  too,  who  died  for  Thebes,  thy 

brother. 
Ant.  He   was ;  and  of  the  self-same  parents 

born. 
Cr.  Why  then  dishonour   him   to  grace  the 

guilty  ? 
Ant.  The  dead  entombed  will  not  attest  thy 

words. 

Cr.  Yes ;  if  thou  honour  with  an  equal  doom 
That  impious  wretch. 

Ant.  He  did  not  fall  a  slave, 

He  was  my  brother. 

Cr.  Yet  he  wrong'd  his  country ; 

The  other  fought  undaunted  in  her  cause. 

Ant.  Still  death  at  least  demands  an  equal  law. 
Cr.  Ne'er  should  the  base  be  honoured  like 

the  noble. 

Ant.  Who  knows,  if  this  be  holy  in  the  shades  ? 
Cr.  Death  cannot  change  a  foe  into  a  friend. 
Ant.  My  nature    tends   to   mutual    love,   not 

hatred. 
Cr.  Then  to  the  grave,  and  love  them,  if  thou 

must. 

But  while  I  live,  no  woman  shall  bear  sway. 
*  *  *  *          *  #  » 

CHORUS. 
Strophe  I. 

What  blessedness  is  theirs,  whose  earthly  date 
Glides  unembittered  by  the  taste  of  woe ! 


SOPHOCLES. 


107 


But  when  a  house  is  struck  by  angry  Fate, 
Through  all  its  line  what  ceaseless  miseries 

flow ! 

As  when  from  Thrace  rude  whirlwinds  sweep, 
And  in  thick  darkness  wrap  the  yawning  deep, 
Conflicting  surges  on  the  strand 
Dash  the  black  mass  of  boiling  sand 
Rolled  from  the  deep  abyss, — the  rocky  shore, 
Struck  by  the  swollen  tide,  reverberates  the  roar. 

Jlntistrophe  I. 

I  see  the  ancient  miseries  of  thy  race, 
0  Labdacus !  arising  from  the  dead 
With  fresh  despair ;  nor  sires  from  sons  efface 
The  curse  some  angry  power  hath  rivetted 
For  ever  on  thy  destined  line ! 
Once  more  a  cheering  radiance  seemed  to  shine 
O'er  the  last  relic  of  thy  name  ; — 
This,  too,  the  Powers  of  Darkness  claim, 
Cut  off  by  Hell's  keen  scythe,  combined 
With  haughty  words  unwise,  and  frenzy  of  the 
mind. 

Strophe  II. 
Can  mortal  arrogance  restrain 

Thy  matchless  might,  imperial  Jove ! 
Which  all-subduing  sleep  assaults  in  vain, 

And  months  celestial,  as  they  move, 
In  never-wearied  train  ; — 

Spurning  the  power  of  age,  enthroned  in  might, 
Thou  dwell'st  mid  heaven's  broad  light. 
This  was,  in  ages  past,  thy  firm  decree, 
Is  now,  and  must  for  ever  be ; 
That  none  of  mortal  race  on  earth  shall  know, 
A  life  of  joy  serene,  a  course  unmarked  by  woe. 

Jlntistrophe  II. 
Hope  beams  with  ever- varying  ray ; 

Now  fraught  with  blessings  to  mankind, 
Now  with  vain  dreams  that  lure  but  to  betray; — 

And  man  pursues,  with  ardour  blind, 
Her  still  deluding  way, 
Till  on  the  latent  flame  he  treads  dismayed. 
Wisely  the  sage  hath  said, 
And  time  hath  proved  his  truth,  that  when  by 

heaven 

To  woe  man's  darkened  soul  is  driven, 
Evil  seems  good  to  his  distorted  mind, 
Till  soon  he  meets  and  mourns  the  doom  by  fate 

assigned. 

But  lo !  the  youngest  of  thy  sons, 
Hjvmou  advances — comes  he  wrung  with  grief 
For  the  impending  doom 
Of  his  fair  plighted  bride,  Antigone, 
And  mourning  much  his  blasted  nuptial  joys? 

Enter  H.EMOX. 

Cr.  We  soon  shall  need  no  prophet  to  inform  us. 
Hearing  our  doom  irrevocably  ]> 
On  thy  once-destined  bridf,  rnm'st  thou,  my  son, 
Incensed  against  thy  father?    Or,  thus  acting, 
Still  do  we  share  thy  reverence? 

Hee.  I  am  thine, 

And  thou,  my  father,  dost  direct  my  youth 
By  prudent  counsels,  which  shall  ever  guide  me  ; 
Nor  any  nuptials  can  with  me  outweigh 
A  father's  just  command. 


Cr.  'Tis  well,  my  son : 

A  mind  like  this  befits  thee,  to  esteem 
All  else  subservient  to  a  father's  will. 
Hence  'tis  the  prayer,  the  blessing  of  mankind, 
To  nourish  in  their  homes  a  duteous  race, 
Who  on  their  foes  may  well  requite  their  wrongs, 
And,  as  their  father,  honour  friends  sincere. 
But  he  who  to  a  mean  and  dastard  race 
Gives  life,  engenders  to  himself  regret, 
And  much  derision  to  his  taunting  foes. 
Then  do  not  thou,  my  son,  by  love  betrayed, 
Debase  thy  generous  nature  for  a  woman  ; 
But  think  how  joyless  is  the  cold  embrace 
Of  an  unworthy  consort.     Is  there  wound 
Which  galls  more  keenly  than  a  faithless  friend  ? 
Spurn,  then,  this  maiden,  as  a  foe  abhorred, 
To  seek  in  Hell  a  more  congenial  bridegroom. 
Since  her  have  I  convicted — her  alone 
Of  all  the  city,  daring  to  rebel : 
My  people  shall  not  brand  their  king  a  liar ! 
She  dies.     And  let  her  now  invoke  her  Jove, 
Who  guards  the  rights  of  kindred.     If  I  brook 
Rebellion  thus  from  those  allied  by  blood, 
How  strong  a  plea  may  strangers  justly  urge ! 
He  who  upholds  the  honour  of  his  house, 
By  strict,  impartial  justice,  will  be  proved 
True  to  the  public  weal.     Nor  can  I  doubt 
The  man  who  governs  well,  yet  knows  no  less 
To  render  due  obedience,  will  be  found 
A  just  and  firm  confederate  in  the  storm 
Of  peril  and  of  war.     Who  dares  presume 
With  insolent  pride  to  trample  on  the  laws, 
Shall  never  win  from  me  the  meed  of  praise. 
He  whom  the  State  elects  should  be  obeyed 
In  all  his  mandates,  trivial  though  they  seem, 
Or  just  or  unjust.     Of  all  human  ills, 
None  is  more  fraught  with  woes  than  anarchy ; 
It  lays  proud  states  in  ruin,  it  subverts 
Contending  households ;  'mid  the  battle  strife 
Scatters  the  serried  ranks,  while  to  the  wise, 
Who  promptly  yield,  obedience  brings  success. 
Still,  then,  by  monarchs  this  should  be  maintained, 
Nor  e'er  surrendered  to  a  woman's  will. 
'Tis  better  far,  if  we  must  fall,  to  fall 
By  man,  than  thus  be  branded  the  weak  prey, 
The  abject  prey,  of  female  conquerors. 

Ch.  To  us,  unless  our  soul  be  dull  with  age, 
Thy  words,  0  King,  seem  well  and  wisely  urged. 

Ha.  The  gods,  my  father,  have  on  man  be- 
stowed 

Their  noblest  treasure — Reason.     To  affirm, 
That   in    thy  words    from    prudence   thou  hast 

swerved, 

Nor  power  have  I,  nor  knowledge  to  maintain. 
Such  task  were  meeter  from  a  stranger's  lips. 
'Tis  mine  to  guard  thine  interests ; — to  explore 
How  each  may  think,  and  act,  and  vent  on  thee 
His  cutting  censure.     Thine  indignant  eye 
Appals  the  people,  when  their  uttered  thoughts 
Mi^ht  haply  wound  thine  ear.     But  to  observe 
These  darkly-whispered  murmurs  is  my  office. 

How  the  whole  State  laments  this  hapless  maid, 
Of  all  her  sex  least  worthy  of  such  doom 
As  waits  her  now,  for  deeds  most  truly  noble ; 
Who  could  not  brook  to  leave  her  brother,  slain 
In  fight,  without  a  tomb,  nor  cast  his  corpse 


108 


SOPHOCLES. 


A  prey  to  ravening  dogs  and  birds  obscene. 
Doth  she  not  merit  glory's  brightest  meed1?" 
Such  is  the  general  sentence.     0  my  father, 
No  treasure  can  be  dearer  to  thy  son, 
Than  thine  own  prosperous  honours.    What  re- 
flects 

Such  pride  on  children  as  a  generous  sire, 
Such  joy  on  parents  as  a  noble  offspring  ? 
O,  then,  indulge  not  thou  this  mood  alone, 
To  deem  no  reasoning  cogent  save  thine  own ; 
For  he  who  vaunts  himself  supremely  skilled, 
In  speech  and  judgment  o'er  his  fellow  men, 
When  weighed  in  Wisdom's  balance,  is   found 

wanting. 

It  cannot  shame  a  mortal,  though  most  wise, 
To  learn  much  from  experience,  and  in  much 
Submit.     Thou  seest  the  pliant  trees,  that  bow 
Beneath  the  rushing  torrent,  rise  unstripped ; 
But  all,  that  stem  erect  its  onward  course, 
Uprooted  fall  a^d  perish.     Quell  thy  wrath- 
Unbend  to  softer  feelings.     If  one  ray 
Of  wisdom's  light  my  younger  breast  illume, 
I  deem  the  man,  whose  vast  expansive  mind 
Grasps  the  whole  sphere  of  knowledge — noblest 

far; 

But  since  such  boon  is  rare,  the  second  praise 
Is  this,  to  learn  from  those  whose  words  are  wise. 

Ch.  If  he  hath  spoken  wisely,  my  good  lord, 
'Tis  fit  to  weigh  his  reasoning.    Thou,  too,  youth, 

[To  HJJMON. 
Regard  thy  father's.     Both  have  argued  well. 

Cr.  And  must  we  stoop,  in  this  our  cooler  age, 
Thus  to  be  lessoned  by  a  beardless  boy? 

Hce.  Not  stoop  to  learn  injustice.    I  am  young. 
But  thou  shouldst  weigh  my  actions,  not  my  years. 

Cr.  Thou  deem'st  it  justice,  then,  to  favour 
rebels? 

Ha.  Ne'er  would  I  ask  thy  favour  for  the  guilty. 

Cr.  Is  not  this  maiden  stained  with  manifest 
guilt? 

Hce.  The  general  voice  of  Thebes  repels  the 
charge. 

Cr.  Shall  then  the  city  dictate  laws  to  me  ? 

Hce.  Do  not  thy  words  betray  a  very  youth  ? 

Cr.  Should  I,  or  should  another,  sway  the  State  ? 

Has.  That  is  no  State,  which  crouches  to  one 
despot ! 

Cr.  Is  not  a  monarch  master  of  his  State  ? 

Hce.  How  nobly  would  st  thou  lord  it  o'er  a 
desert ! 

Cr.  Behold,   I   pray   you,  how  this   doughty 

warrior 
Strives  in  a  woman's  cause. 

Hce.  Art  thou  a  woman  ? 

I  strive  for  none,  save  thee. 

Cr.  Oh  thou  most  vile  ! 

Wouldst  thou  withstand  thy  father  ? 

Hce.  When  I  see 

My  father  swerve  from  justice. 

Cr.  Do  I  err, 

Revering  mine  own  laws  ? 

Hce.  Dost  thou  revere  them, 

When    thou  wouldst   trample   on  the   laws  of 
heaven  ? 

Cr.  0  thou  degenerate  wretch !  thou  woman's 
slave ! 


Hce.  Ne'er  shall  thou  find  me  the  vile  slave 
of  baseness. 

Cr.  Thou  ne'er  shalt  wed  her  living. 

Hce.  If  she  die, 

Her  death  shall  crush  another. 

Cr.  Daring  villain, 

Dost  thou  proceed  to  threats  ? 

Hce.  And  does  he  threat 

Who  but  refutes  vain  counsels? 

Cr.  At  thy  cost, 

Shalt  thou  reprove  me,  void  thyself  of  sense. 

Hce.  Now,  but  thou  art  my  father,  I  would  say 
That  thou  art  most  unwise. 

Cr.  Hence,  woman's  slave ! 

And  prate  no  more  to  me. 

Hce.  Wouldst  thou  then  speak 

Whate'er  thou  list,  and  not  endure  reply  ? 

Cr.  Aye,  is  it  true?   Then,  by  Olympian  Jove, 
I  swear  thou  shalt  not  beard  me  thus  unpunished ! 
Ho !  bring  that  hated  thing,  that  she  may  die, 
E'en  in  the  presence  of  her  doting  bridegroom. 

Hce.  Believe  it  not.  Before  mine  eyes,  at  least, 
She  shall  not  die,  nor  thou  such  dream  indulge ; 
I  quit  thy  sight  for  ever.     They  who  list 
May  stand  the  tame  spectators  of  thy  madness. 

[Exit  HJJMOIT. 

Ch.  The  youth  has  passed,  my  lord,  in  despe- 
rate wrath ; 

A  soul  like  his  may  rush  from  rankling  grief 
To  deeds  of  frenzy. 

Cr.  Let  him  do,  and  dare 

Beyond  the  power  of  man,  he  shall  not  save 
her. 

Ch.  What  death  dost  thou  design  her  ? 

Cr.  To  a  spot 

By  mortal  foot  untrodden,  will  I  lead  her ; 
And  deep  immure  her  in  a  rocky  cave, 
Leaving  enough  of  sustenance  to  provide 
A  due  atonement,  that  the  State  may  shun 
Pollution  from  her  death.     There  let  her  call 
On  gloomy  Hades,  the  sole  Power  she  owns, 
To  shield  her  from  her  doom ;  or  learn,  though 

late, 

At  least  this  lesson ;  'tis  a  bootless  task 
To  render  homage  to  the  Powers  of  Hell. 
*****# 
AjfTiooifE  is  brought  in  guarded. 

Strophe  I. 

Ant.  Behold  me,  princes  of  my  native  land ! 
Treading  the  last  sad  path, 
And  gazing  on  the  latest  beam 
Of  yon  resplendent  sun — 
To  gaze  no  more  for  ever !  The  stern  hand 
Of  all-entombing  Death 
Impels  me — living  still — 
To  Acheron's  bleak  shore — ungraced 
By  nuptial  rites  ; — no  hymeneal  strain 
Hath  hymned  my  hour  of  bliss, 
And  joyless  Death  will  be  my  bridegroom  now. 

Ch.  Therefore,  with  endless  praise  renowned, 
To  those  drear  regions  wilt  thou  pass ; 
Unwasted  aught  by  slow  disease, 
Unwounded  by  avenging  sword, 
Spontaneous,  living,  sole  of  mortal  birth, 
Shalt  thou  to  death  descend. 


SOPHOCLES. 


109 


Antistrophe  I. 

Ant.  Yes!    I    have  heard  by   how    severe  a 

doom 

The  Phrygian  stranger  died 
On  Sipy lus'  bleak  brow  sublime; 
Whom,  in  its  cold  embrace, 
The  creeping  rock,  like  wreathing  ivy,  strained. 
Her,  in  chill  dews  dissolved, 
As  antique  legends  tell, 
Ne'er  do  th'  exhaustless  snows  desert, 
Nor  from  her  eyes  do  trickling  torrents  cease 
To  gush.     A  doom  like  hers, 
Alas,  how  like!  hath  fate  reserved  for  me. 

Ch.  A  goddess  she,  and  sprung  from  gods ; — 
We,  mortal  as  our  fathers  were. 
What   matchless   fame    is    mine!    to    fall    like 

those 
Of  ancestry  divine ! 

Strophe  II. 

Ant.  Ah  me !  I  am  derided.     Why,  oh  why, 
3y  my  ancestral  gods, 
Why  do  ye  mock,  ere  yet  the  tomb 
Hath  veiled  me  from  your  sight? 
O  my  loved  Thebes  !  and  ye, 
Her  lordly  habitants ! 

0  ye  Dircaean  streams ! 

Thou  sacred  grove  of  car-compelling  Thebes! 

1  here  invoke  you  to  attest  my  wrongs, 

How,  by  my  friends  unwept,  and  by  what  laws, 

..  sink  into  the  caverned  gloom 

Of  this  untimely  sepulchre! 

Ale  miserable  ! 

Outcast  from  earth,  and  from  the  tomb, 

I  am  not  of  the  living  or  the  dead. 

Ch.  Hurried  to  daring's  wild  excess, 
Deeply,  my  daughter,  hast  thou  sinned, 
Against  the  exalted  throne  of  Right. 
The  woes  that  crushed  thy  father,  fall  on  thee. 

Antistrvplie  II. 

Ant.  Ah !  thou  hast  probed  mine  anguish  to  the 

quick, 

The  source  of  all  my  pangs, 
My  father's  widely-blazoned  fate ; 
And  the  long  train  of  ills, 
Which  eruslied.  in  one  wide  wreck 

:  'ieil    Labdaeida-  ! 

Woe  for  the  withering  curse 
Of  those  maternal  nuptials,  which  impelled 
My  sire,  unconscious,  to  a  parent's  couch ! 
From  whom  I  sprung,  by  birth  a  very  wretch: 

Ch.  Religion  bids  us  grace  the  dead  ; 
But  might,  when  regal  might  bears  sway, 
.\Inst  never,  never,  be  contemned. 
Thine   own   unbending   pride    hath    sealed    thy 
doom. 

Ant.  Unmourned,    unfriended,  'reft  of  bridal 

joys, 

Despairingly  I  tread 
The  path  too  well  prepared. 
N'o  more  for  ever  must  1  hail  thy  beams, 
Thou  glad  and  holy  sun ! 
Yet  to  my  doom  no  sorrowing  friend  accords 
The  tribute  of  a  tear. 


Enter  CREOIT. 

Cr.  What,  know  ye  not,  that  none,  ere  death 

arrive. 
Would  ever  cease  their  plaints,  could  words  avail 

them? 

Instant  conduct  her  hence  ;  and,  as  I  bade, 
Immure  her  in  the  deep  sepulchral  cave  ; 
There  leave  her  lone  and  desolate,  or  to  die 
Or  live  imprisoned  in  that  drear  abode. 
We  from  her  death  shall  thus  be  pure  ;  and  she 
Shall  hold  no  more  communion  with  the  living. 

Ant.  O  tomb  !  O  bridal  bed  !  O  dark  abode  ! 
My  ever-during  prison  !  whither  now 
I  sink  to  join  my  kindred,  a  sad  train, 
Whom  Proserpine  among  the  silent  dead 
Hath  long  received  ;—  of  whom  the  last  in  time, 
The  first  in  sorrow,  I  to  Death  descend, 
Ere  mine  allotted  earthly  term  be  past. 
Yet  e'en  in  death  I  cherish  one  warm  hope, 
That  dear  to  my  loved  father  I  shall  come, 
Dear  to  thee,  mother  !  and  most  dear  to  thee, 
My  brother  !  for  in  death  my  hand  received  you, 
Your  relics  laved,  your  lifeless  limbs  composed, 
And  o'er  your  tomb  libations  poured.  And  now, 
Dear  Polynices,  I  have  honoured  thee 
With  funeral  rites,  and  thus  do  they  requite  me. 
Yet  will  not  justice  blame  my  pious  care  ;  — 
Which  of  your  laws,  ye  Powers,  have  I  trans- 

gressed ?  — 

Yet  wherefore  do  I  turn  me  to  the  gods  ?  — 
Whom  shall  I  call  to  aid  me,  since  I  meet 
For  pious  deeds  the  vengeance  of  the  guilty  ? 
If  acts  like  these  are  sanctioned  by  the  gods, 
I  will  address  me  to  my  doom  in  silence  ; 
If  not,  and  these  offend,  may  heaven  requite 
On  them  such  evils  as  they  wreak  on  me. 

Ch.  The  same  wild  storms  of  frenzied  rage 
Distract  the  unhappy  maiden  still. 

Cr.  For  this  the  lingering  slaves  ere  long 
Shall  learn  in  tears  to  mourn  their  vain  delay. 

Ant.  Alas  !  death  cannot  be  dissevered  far 
From  that  appalling  threat. 

Cr.  Aye,  I  would  warn  thee  not  to  hope 
The  doom,  once  sealed,  may  be  reversed. 

Ant.  0  Thebes,  proud  city  of  my  sires  ! 
O  tutelary  gods  ! 

They  force  me  hence,  and  respite  is  denied. 
Behold,  ye  rulers  of  imperial  Thebes, 
The  last  sad  daughter  of  a  royal  line, 
What  fearful  wrongs  I  suffer,  and  from  whom;  — 
My  only  crime  a  pious  deed. 

is  led  off. 


TIRESIAS,  CREOX,  CHORUS. 

Ti.  Princes  of  Thebes,  we   tread  our  wonted 

path, 

One  sight  directing  both  ;  this  mode  alone 
Remains  to  guide  the  wanderings  of  the  blind. 

Cr.  Hath  aught  occurred  of  import  new  or 

strange, 
Aged  Tiresias? 

Ti.  I  will  tell  thee,  king. 

Do  thou  obey  the  prophet. 

Cr.  Never  yet 

Thy  warning  did  I  slight. 


110 


SOPHOCLES. 


Ti.  Thence  hast  thou  steer'd 

Aright  the  helm  of  empire. 

Cr.  I  admit, 

Thy  counsels  oft  have  led  me  to  success. 

Ti.  Then  heed  them  now.     Thou  art  in  des- 
perate peril. 
Cr.  What  mean'st  thou? — how  I  tremble  at 

thy  words ! 
Ti.  List,  and  the  symbols  of  mine  art  shall  tell 

thee. 

When  on  mine  ancient  stool  of  augury, 
Where  every  bird  flocks  round  me,  I  sat  down, 
Burst  on  mine  ear  a  strange  unwonted  sound 
Of  birds,  with  shrill  and  dissonant  screamings 

wild, 

While  with  ensanguined  talons  I  perceived 
They  tore  each  other ;  this  the  flapping  hoarse 
Of  wings  betokened  plainly.     Struck  with  awe, 
I  next  essayed  the  hallowed  fires  that  burn 
On  the  high  blazing  altars ;  but  the  flame 
Refused  to  shine  upon  the  sacrifice; 
And,  oozing  from  the  limbs,  the  vapour  flowed 
Mid    the    loose    ashes,    where    it    fumed    and 

hissed ; 

The  swollen  entrails  were  dispersed  ;  the  thighs, 
Stripped  of  th'  involving  caul,  lay  bare  around. 
These  fearful  signs  of  import  strange  and  dire 
I  learned  from  mine  attendant — he  recounts 
To  me  the  symbols  I  explain  to  others. 
'Tis  thy  relentless  soul  that  plagues  the  country. 
Our  sacred  altars  and  domestic  hearths 
Are  strewed  by  dogs  and  birds  with  their  foul 

prey, 

The  corpse  of  CEdipus'  ill-fated  son  ; 
For  this  the  gods  reject  our  hallowed  rites, 
Our  prayers,  and  votive  victims, — while  the  birds, 
Sated  with  human  flesh  and  human  blood, 
Can  only  utter  sounds  of  omen  dire. 
Therefore,  my  son,  consider;  since  to  err 
Is  common  to  mankind ;  nor  is  that  man 
Unhappy  or  unwise,  who,  when  betrayed 
To  error,  mourns  his  lapse,  and  doth  not  cleave 
Inflexible  to  ill.     Know,  stubborness 
Doth  ever  argue  folly.     To  the  dead 
Give  way,  nor  trample  on  a  fallen  foe — 
What  courage  needs  it  to  insult  the  lifeless1? 
I  speak  with  soul  benevolent  to  thee ; 
'Tis  sweet  to  learn  from  one  who  counsels  well, 
If  he  regard  our  welfare. 

Cr.  Ay,  old  man 

I  am  your  butt ;  ye  all,  like  archers,  aim 
Your  wily  shafts  at  me.     I  know  you  well, 
The  venal  tribe  of  prophets,  and  by  them 
Too  oft  have  I  been  bartered  and  betrayed. 
Go  on ;  pursue  your  traffic,  and  acquire 
The  Sardian  amber  and  the  Indian  gold, 
If  so  ye  list;  but  never  shall  ye  shroud 
This  wretch  within  the  tomb,  though  Jove's  swift 

bird 

Should  bear  the  mouldering  relics  as  his  prey, 
E'en  to  th'  eternal  throne.     Yea,  though  I  feared 
Pollution  dire  as  this,  I  would  not  yield 
To  honour  him  with  sepulture ; — well  I  know 
That  none  of  mortal  birth  can  e'er  pollute 
The  holy  gods !     And  mark  me,  old  Tiresias ! 
Oft  do  the  sagest  of  our  race  incur 


The  vilest  shame,  when,  lured  by  sordid  gain, 
They  clothe  base  counsels  in  the  garb  of  honour. 
Ti.  Ha !  is  there  one  who  knows — who  thinks — 
Cr.  What  wouldst  thou  ? 

Are  these  thy  words  addressed  alike  to  all? 
Ti.  How  much  is  wisdom  man's  most  precious 

treasure  ? 

Cr.  So  much,  as  folly  is  his  greatest  bane ! 
Ti.  It  is,  in  truth,  a  malady  which  seems 
Conspicuous  in  thy  conduct. 

Cr.  I  forbear 

To  shame  the  prophet  with  a  keen  retort. 

Ti.  Yet  this   thou  dost  in  charging  me  with 

falsehood. 
Cr.  Ah!    ye   are   fond   of  gold,  ye   tribe   of 

prophets. 

Ti.  The  tribe  of  tyrants  seems  indeed  to  love 
Dishonourable  gains*. 

Cr.  Know'st  thou  thy  words 

Are  spoken  to  thy  monarch  ? 

Ti.  Aye,  I  know  it ; 

'Twas  by  my  counsels  thou  didst   save   thine 

empire. 

Cr.  Thou  art  a  skilful  prophet,  but  too  prone 
To  deeds  of  baseness. 

Ti.  Wilt  thou  then  provoke  me 

To  speak  the  awful  secrets  of  my  soul  ? 

Cr.  Well,  speak  then,  so  thou  dost  not  ask 

reward. 

Ti.  And    seem    I,    in    thy  judgment,    to    de- 
mand it? 
Cr.  Know  first,  thou   shalt  not  traffic  in  my 

purpose. 
Ti.  And  know  thou,  too,  proud  monarch,  ere 

the  car 

Of  yon  bright  sun  his  destin'd  course  fulfil, 
Thou  of  thine  own  loved  offspring  shalt  repay 
A  just  and  equal  ransom,  dead  for  dead, 
For  one  whom  thou  hast  plunged  from  upper  air 
To  dwell  beneath,  whom  to  the  dark  abodes, 
Yet  living,  thou  hast  doomed ;  nor  less  for  one, 
Whom  of  the  honours  due  to  hell's  dread  Powers, 
Of  funeral  rites,  of  sacred  obsequies, 
Thou  hast  bereft.     Here  no  concern  hast  thou, 
None  have  the  heavenly  Powers,  but  thou  hast 

wrought 

These  shameless  deeds  by  lawless  violence. 
Wherefore  the  sure  avengers,  who  pursue 
The  track  of  guilt,  the  Furies  of  the  shades, 
Are  ambushed  round  thy  path,  and  soon   will 

plunge  thee 

In  ruin  hopeless  as  thy  rage  inflicted. 
Mark  now,  if  gold  hath  bribed  me  thus  to  pre- 
sage ;— 

Pass  but  a  few  short  moments,  and  the  shriek 
Of  men,  and  wail  of  women,  through  thy  halls 
Shall  ring ;  and  all  the  hostile  states,  whose  slai  i 
The  dogs,  and  beasts,  and  ravening  birds,  havs 

torn, 

Wafting  their  noisome  odours  o'er  the  plain, 
Shall  rise  against  thee.   Such,  then,  are  the  shafts, 
Which,    archer-like,    my   hand   hath    now    die- 
charged, 
For  thou  hast  roused  my  wrath ;  and  from  th>; 

wound 
These  shafts  inflict,  thou  wilt  not  find  relief. 


SOPHOCLES. 


Ill 


Boy,  lead  me  to  my  house ;  and  leave  yon  tyrant 
To  vent  his  impotent  rage  on  younger  heads ; 
And  let  him  learn  to  curb  his  tongue  to  silence, 
And  hold  a  wiser  mind  than  now  he  holds. 

[Exit  TIRESIAS. 

CREOX,  CHORUS. 

Ch.  The  prophet  hath  departed,  0  my  lord, 
Denouncing  dread  events ;  and  well  I  know, 
Since  time's  long  round  hath  silvered  my  dark 

locks, 

The  State  hath  never  proved  his  presage  faithless. 
Cr.  I  know  it  too ;  and  therelbre  doubts  dis- 
tract me. 

To  yield  bespeaks  a  coward,  yet  I  fear 
To  rush  upon  destruction,  if  I  cross  him. 

Ch.  Son  of  Menoeceus,  thou  hast  need  of  pru- 
dence. 
Cr.  What  wouldst  thou  have  me  do?     Give 

thine  advice, 
And  I  will  straight  obey  it. 

Ch.  Then  away ! 

Release  the  virgin  from  her  rock-hewn  cave 
And  grace  th'  unburied  corpse  with  sepulture. 
Cr.  Is  this  thy  counsel?     Dost  thou  bid    me 

yield  ? 
Ch.  Without  delay,  my  lord !     Th'   avenging 

curse 
Of  heaven  is  swift  to  crush  the  disobedient. 

Cr.  0  but  'tis  hard  ; — yet  I  must  fain  submit — 
To  war  with  stern  Necessity  were  madness. 
Ch.  Haste,    then,    perform   thy   purpose,    nor 

intrust 
The  task  to  others. 

Cr.  With  all  speed  I  fly- 

Haste — haste — attendants !  ye  who  here  await, 
And  ye  too  at  a  distance ; — haste  and  bring 
Keen  axes  in  your  hands — fly  to  the  cave — 
[  too,  since  my  first  sentence  is  repealed, 
Who  bound,  will  now  release  her ;  for  I  fear 
That,  while  we   live,    'twill    prove    our   truest 

wisdom 
To  venerate  the  eternal  laws  of  Justice. 


MESSENGER  AND  CHORUS. 

Mess.  Inhabitants  of  Thebes,  where  Cadmus  erst 
And  old  Amphion  reigned,  I  know  not  how, 
Whatever  it  be,  to  censure  or  to  praise 
The  varying  life  of  man; — since  Fortune  still 
Lifts,  at  her  will,  th'  unhappy  from  the  dust, 
Or  dooms  again  the  prosperous  to  despair, 
Nor  can  prophetic  skill  divine  the  fun 
I  deemed  the  royal  Creon  greatly  Mr-- 
Who  from  her  ii>es  the  Tin-ban  state  preserved- 
Assumed  the  sole  dominion  of  her  realms; 
Bore  sway,  and  nourished  in  a  generous  race. 
And  now  all — all  is  lost.     For  when  the  joys, 
The  sweet  delights  of  life  are  reft  for  ever, 
I  scarce  can  say  man  lives; — though    still   he 

breathe, 
The  soul  of  life  is  fled. 

Ch.  Of  what  new  ills 

Com'st  thou  a  herald  to  the  royal  house  ? 

Mess.  They   are    no    more — those    live    who 
caused  their  ruin. 


Ch.  Say,  who  hath  wrought  the  deed,  and  who 

hath  perished  ? 
Mess.  Bathed  in  his  blood,  the  lifeless  Haemon 

lies. 
Ch.  Slain  by  his  own   rash  hand,  or  by  his 

father's  1 

Mess.  Incensed  against  his  father,  for  the  death 
Of  his  loved  bride,  by  his  own  hand  he  fell. 
Ch.  How   true,   O   prophet,    was    thy  fearful 

presage  ! 
Mess.  Since  it  is  thus,  the  rest  demands  our 

thought 

Ch.  But  lo !  I  see  the  king's  unhappy  wife, 
Eurydice,  approach  us. 

Enter  EURYDICE. 

Eur.  Your  conference  we  have  heard,  0  citi- 
zens. 

While  yet  my  hand  was  loosening  the  firm  bars 
Which    close   our    palace-gates,  the    whispered 

voice 

Of  some  domestic  evil  met  mine  ear ; — 
Trembling  I  sunk  amidst  my  maids  supine, 
With  sudden  terror  lifeless.     Yet  again 
I  bid  thee  tell  thy  tale — for  I  shall  hear  it, 
Not  unexperienced  in  severest  woes. 

Mess.  As  present  there,  dear  lady,  all  the  tale 
Will  I  disclose,  nor  aught  of  truth  disguise. 
Why  should  I  soothe  thee  with  evasive  words, 
When  time  must  prove  their  falsehood  and  mine 

own? 

The  truth  is  ever  best.     Thy  royal  lord 
I,  as  the  guide,  attended  to  the  verge 
Of  that  far  plain,  where  torn  by  ravening  dogs 
The  corpse  of  Polynices  lay  defiled. 
Here  first  invoking  Hecate,  and  the  King 
Of  Hades,  that  by  prayers  propitiate  now 
They  would  avert  their  wrath,  in  the  pure  stream 
We  laved  the  relics, — on  a  recent  pyre 
Of  boughs  consumed  them,  and  upreared  a  mound 
'Of  his  loved  natal  earth.     We  next  repaired 
To  the  sepulchral  cave,  the  bridal  couch 
Of  her  espoused  to  Death.     But  of  our  train 
A  murmur  of  deep  wailing  from  afar 
Round  that  unhonoured  tomb  one  haply  heard, 
And  hastening  told  our  monarch.  He  approached, 
And  still  the  muttered  meanings  on  his  ear 
Smote  louder  and  less  doubtful,  till  he  groaned 
In  bitter  agony,  and  thus  sighed  forth  : — 
"Unhappy  me!  And  is  my  presage  true. 
And  do  I  tread  the  most  ill-omened  path 
Of  all  my  pilgrimage  ?  It  is  the  voice 
Of  mine  own  son  that  meets  me!  Haste,  oh  haste, 
Attendants,  to  the  sepulchre,  and  remove 
The  rock's  obstructing  barrier;  look  within  : — 
I  hear  the  voice  of  Hrcmon.'' — We  obeyed 
The  bidding  of  our  half  distracted  lord, 
And  looked.      Soon  in  the  c-avenfs  dim  recess 
We  see  the  virgin — lifeless — hanging  there 
In  noose  enwoven  of  her  linen  robe. 
There  too  lay  Hncmon,  clasping  his  pale  bride, 
Mourning  his  plighted  consort,  to  the  Powers 
Of  Hell  espoused — his  father's  act  severe — 
And  his  most  joyless  nuptials.     When  the  king 
Beheld  him,  deeply  sighing — to  the  tomb 
Entering,  with  loud  lament  he  thus  exclaimed : 


112 


SOPHOCLES. 


"  0  my  unhappy  child,  what  hast  them  done? 
What  fearful  purpose  sways  thee  ?  By  what  woes 
Art  thou  thus  plunged  in  anguish1?  O  my  son 
Come  forth,  a  suppliant  father  here  conjures  thee." 
But  on  his  sire  he  turned  his  glaring  eyes 
With  the  stern  air  of  mingled  hate  and  scorn, 
Nor  answer  deigned,  but  bared  his  two-edged 

brand  ; 

The  king  by  flight  evaded,  and  the  blow 
Fell  impotent.     Then  the  distracted  youth, 
Indignant  with  himself,  stretched  out  the  sword, 
And  sheathed  it  in  his  bosom.     Conscious  still, 
Around  the  lifeless  maid  his  arms  he  threw 
With  fond  embrace,  and  breathing  his  last  sigh, 
Tinged  her  pale  cheek  with  crimson,  for  the 

blood 

Came  gushing  with  the  fluttering  sob  of  death ; 
And  lifeless  now  he  sleeps  beside  the  dead, 
In  Hell's  dark  gloom  his  nuptial  rites  completing. 
A  solemn,  sad  example  to  mankind, 
How  great  an  evil  is  unbridled  rashness. 

[Exit  EURYDICE. 

CHOHUS,  MESSETTG-ER. 

Ch.    What  dost  thou  judge  from   this?     The 

queen  is  gone 
Without  one  word  of  patience,  or  despair. 

Mess.  I  too  am  lost  in  wonder — but  I  still 
Indulge  a  hope ;  that,  learning  thus  the  doom 
Of  her  lost  son,  she  will  not  deign  to  wail 
Throughout  the  city,  but  retired  within, 
Will  vent  her  grief  in  secret  with  her  maidens. 
She  is  more  prudent  than  to  err  in  this. 

Ch.  I  know  not — yet  I  like  not  this  deep  silence, 
It  bodes  some  dark  resolve  —  more  clamorous 

grief 
Vents  all  its  force  in  words. 

Mess.  Soon  shall  we  learn 

If  aught  so  desperate  lurks  within  her  breast, 
By  hastening  to  the  palace ;  well  thou  say'st 
Deep  silence  is  the  herald  of  destruction. 

Ch.  And  lo !  the  king  himself  appears, 
Bearing  the  sad  memorials  of  his  woe 
Within  his  arms ;  if  we  may  justly  speak, 
He  is  the  author  of  his  own  despair ! 

Enter  CREDIT,  bearing  his  Sons  body. 
Strophe  I. 

Cr.  Woe  for  the  errors  of  a  frenzied  mind, 
Ruthless  and  fraught  with  death  ! 
O  mark,  in  kindred  ties  allied, 
The  slayers  and  the  slain ! 
Such  of  my  counsels  is  the  bitter  fruit ! 
Alas !  for  thee,  my  son,  my  son, 
Who,  in  youth's  vernal  prime 
Art  perished,  and  hast  fled, 
Through  mine  insensate  rashness,  not  thine  own. 

Ch.  Alas!  how  late  dost  thou  acknowledge, 

king, 
The  justice  of  the  gods. 

Strophe  II. 

Cr.  Ah  me !  I  learn  it  in  mine  own  despair. 
Then,  then  upon  my  head  the  wrath  divine 
Smote  heaviest — to  perdition  urged  me  on, 
And  trod  my  joys  in  dust.     Alas !  the  toils! 
The  hapless  toils  of  man ! 


Enter  Second  MESSENGER. 
2d  Mess.  Sorrows  are  deepening  round  thee, 

O  my  lord, — 

One  source  of  bitterest  grief  thy  hands  sustain  ; 
One  waits  within  which  thou  must  soon  behold. 
Cr.  What  yet  remains  to  dreg  the  cup  of  sorrow  ? 
2d  Mess.  Thy  queen,  the  mother  of  this  lifeless 

youth, 
Hath  died,  unhappy,  by  a  recent  wound. 

Antistrophe  I. 

Cr.  Oh !  thou  inexpiable  home  of  death, 
Why  dost  thou  crush  me  thus  ? 

0  herald  of  o'erwhelming  woes 
What  horrors  dost  thou  bring  ? — 

Why,  why  press  down  a  wretch  already  lost? 
What  hast  thou  said  ?  What  new  despair, 
Redoubling  woes  on  woes? — 
And  to  a  murdered  son 

Dost  thou  then  add  my  wife's  destruction  too  ? — 
2d  Mess.  Thou  mayst  behold  her,  now  no  more, 
within. 

jlntistrophe  II. 

Cr.  Alas !  I  gaze  upon  a  second  woe. 
What  doom,  ah !  what  awaits  the  victim  still  ? 
In  these  sad  hands  a  lifeless  son  I  bear, 
There  mark  another  recent  corpse — woe !  woe  ! 
Sad  mother !  wretched  son ! 

2d  Mess.  Before  the  hallowed  altars,  in  wild 

wrath 
She  fell — and  closed  her  eyes  in  Death's  dull 

night, 

Deploring  first  indeed  th'  illustrious  bed 
Of  Megareus — long  since  to  death  consigned  ; 
Then  this  her  hapless  son, — last  on  thy  head 
She  imprecated  curses,  and  proclaimed  thee 
The  murderer  of  thy  child ! 

Strophe  III. 
Cr.  Woe  !  woe  is  me ! 

1  quake  with  horror.     Will  no  friendly  hand 

In  mercy  plunge  deep,  deep  the  two-edged  sword? 
I  am  a  very  wretch, 

Condemned  to  struggle  with  o'er-mastering  woes  ! 
2d  Mess.  Ere  yet  she  perished,  with  her  parting 

breath, 

She  charged  on  thee  the  fatal  doom  of  both. 
Cr.  And  by  what  means  did  death  relieve  her 

sorrows  ? 
2d  Mess.  Deep  in  her  side  she  buried  the  keen 

sword, 
Soon  as  her  son's  lamented  doom  she  heard. 

Strophe  IV. 
Cr.  Wretch  that  I  am !  the  guilt  is  all  mine 

own, 

None  shared  the  deadly  deed ! 
I  am  alone  the  blood-stained  homicide ; 
'Tis  all  too  clear — 0 !  lead  me  hence, 
Attendants,  bear  me  hence !  away — away — 
For  I  am  nothing  now ! 

Ch.  Well  dost  thou  judge,  if  in  despair  like 

thine 

Aught  can  be  well,  for  heaviest  evils  press 
With  lighter  burden,  when  from  sight  removed. 


SOPHOCLES. 


113 


Antistrophe  III. 

Cr.  Come,  then,  0  come, 

Shine  forth,  thou  last  and  lightest  of  my  woes, 
Bringing  the  final  and  most  welcome  hour 
Of  suffering !  Come,  O  come, 
That  I  may  view  the  light  of  heaven  no  more. 

Ch.  These  cares  respect  the  future — first  befits 
To  weigh  with  prudent  thought  the  present  crisis. 
Let  those  direct  on  whom  such  charge  devolves. 

Cr.  What  most  my  soul  desires,  I  did  but  make 
My  first  and  warmest  prayer. 

Ch.  Pray  now  for  nothing — 

There  is  no  refuge  for  devoted  man, 
When  fate  consigns  him  to  a  doom  of  woe. 

Antlstrophe  IV. 

Cr.  Lead  hence  this  lifeless   shade,  far,  far 

away. 

Who,  though  unwilling  all, 
Slew  thee,  my  son !  thee  too,  O  wife  beloved ! 
Ah!  wretch!  I  know  not  where  to  look, 
Or  whither  fly.     All  are  against  me  now— 
Fate  is  itself  my  foe. 

Ch.  There  is  no  guide  to  happiness  on  earth, 
Save  wisdom ;  nor  behoves  it  us  to  fail 
In  reverence  to  the  gods !    High-sounding  vaunts 
Inflict  due  vengeance  on  the  haughty  head, 
And  teach  late  wisdom  to  its  dark  old  age. 

FROM  THE  ELECTRA. 

A  CHARIOT  RACE. 

THEY   took   their    stand,  where   the    appointed 

judges 

Had  cast  their  lots  and  ranged  the  rival  cars. — 
Rang  out  the  brazen  trump !  Away  they  bound, 
Cheer  the  hot  steeds  and  shake  the  slackened 

reins ; 

As  with  a  body,  the  large  space  is  filled 
With  the  huge  clangour  of  the  rattling  cars : 
High  whirl  aloft  the  dust-clouds ; — blent  together 
Each  presses  each — and  the  lash  rings — and  loud 
Snort  the  wild  steeds,  and  from  their  fiery  breath, 
Along  their  manes,  and  down  the  circling  wheels, 
Scatter  the  flaking  foam.     Orestes  still, 
Aye,  as  he  swept  around  the  perilous  pillar 
Last  in  the  course,  wheel'd  in  the  rushing  axle ; 
The  left  rein  curbed, — that  on  the  dexter  hand 
Flung  loose. — So  on  erect  the  chariots  rolled! 
Sudden  the  (Enian's  fierce  and  headlong  steeds 
Broke  from  the  bit — and,  as  the  seventh  time  now 
The  course  was  circled,  on  the  Lybian  car 
Dash'd  their  wild  fronts  : — then  order  changed 

to  ruin : 

Car  crashed  on  car — the  wide  Crissnran  plain 
Was,  sea-like,  strewn  with  wrecks;  the  Athenian 

saw, 
Slacken'd  his  speed,  and,  wheeling  round  the 

marge, 

15 


Unscathed  and  skilful,  in  the  midmost  space, 
Left  the  wild  tumult  of  that  tossing  storm. 
Behind,  Orestes,  hitherto  the  last, 
rlad  yet  kept  back  his  coursers  for  the  close ; 
Vow  one  sole  rival  left — on,  on  he  flew, 
And  the  sharp  sound  of  the  impelling  scourge 
Rang  in  the  keen  ears  of  the  flying  steeds. — 
rle  nears — he  reaches — they  are  side  by  side ; 
Vow  one — now  th'  other — by  a  length  Jhe  victor. 
The  courses  all  are  past — the  wheels  erect — 
All  safe — when,  as  the  hurrying  coursers  round 
The  fatal  pillar  dash'd,  the  wretched  boy 
Slackened  the  left  rein : — On  the  column's  edge 
irash'd  the  frail  axle — headlong  from  the  car, 
iaught  and  all  meshed  within  the  reins  he  fell; 
A.nd,  masterless,  the  mad  steeds  raged  along! 
******* 
Loud  from  that  mighty  multitude  arose 
A.  shriek — a  shout !  But  yesterday  such  deeds — 
To-day  such    doom ! — Now  whirled   upon   the 

earth ; 
N"ow  his  limbs  dash'd  aloft,  they  dragged  him— 

those 

Wild  horses — till,  all  gory,  from  the  wheels 
Released, — and  no  man,  not  his  nearest  friends, 
ould  in  that  mangled  corpse  have  traced  Orestes. 


FROM  THE  AJAX. 

AJAX'8    DYING    SPEECH. 

AND  thou  that  makst  high  heaven  thy  chariot 

course, 

O  Sun — when  gazing  on  my  fatherland, 
Draw  back  thy  golden  rein,  and  tell  my  woes 
To  the  old  man,  my  father — and  to  her 
Who  nursed  me  at  her  bosom — my  poor  mother! 
There  will  be  wailing  through  the  echoing  walls 
When — but  away  with  thoughts  like  these ! — the 

hour 
Brings  on  the  ripening  deed. — Death,  Death,  look 

on  me! 

Did  I  say  Death  ? — It  was  a  waste  of  words. 
We  shall  be  friends  hereafter. — Tis  the  Day, 
Present  and  breathing  round  me,  and  the  car 
Of  the  sweet  sun,  that  never  shall  again 
Receive  my  greeting ! — Henceforth  Time  is  sun- 
less, 

And  Day,  a  thing  that  i?  not! — Beautiful  Light, 
My  Salamis — my  country — and  the  floor 
Of  my  dear  household  hearth — and  thou,  bright 

Athens, 

Thou, — for  thy  sons  and  I  were  boys  together— 
Fountains  and  rivers,  and  ye  Trojan  plains, 
I  loved  you  as  my  fosterers,— fare  ye  well ! 
Take  in  these  words,  the  last  Earth  hears  from 

Ajax — 

All  else  unspoken,  in  a  spectre  land, 
I'll  whisper  to  the  dead. 
K3 


CRATES. 


[AboTrt  450  B.  C.] 


Aw  Athenian  actor  and  writer  of  Comedies, 
whereof  the  titles  of  twenty-six  have  come 
down  to  us.  He  was  the  first,  according  to 


OLD  AGE. 

THESE  shrivelled  sinews  and  this  bending  frame 
The  workmanship  of  Time's  strong  hand  pro- 
claim • 

Skill'd  to  reverse  whate'er  the  gods  create, 
And  make   that   crooked,   which   they  fashion 
straight. 


Aristotle,  who  departed  from  the  satirical  form 
of  Comedy,  and  framed  his  plots  from  gen- 
eral stories. 


Hard  choice  for  man,  to  die — or  else  to  be 
That   tottering,  wretched,  wrinkled    thing   you 

see  :— 

Yet  age  we  all  prefer ;  for  age  we  pray, 
And  travel  on  to  life's  last  lingering  day  j 
Then  sinking  slowly  down  from  worse  to  worse, 
Find  heaven's  extorted  boon  our  greatest  curse. 


EURIPIDES. 


[Born  480— Died  406,  B.  C.] 


the  Athenians  who  sought  refuge  in 
Salamis  from  the  invading  army  of  Xerxes,  was 
Clito,  the  wife  of  Mnesarcruis,  and  mother  of 
Euripides;  and  in  that  island,  and  on  the  very 
day  of  the  great  victory  obtained  by  the  Greeks 
over  the  Persians  near  its  shores,  was  the  poet 
born.  His  name,  which  is  formed  like  a  patro- 
nymic, from  "Euripus,"  the  scene  of  the  first 
successful  resistance  to  the  Persian  navy,  shows 
how  alive  were  the  minds  of  his  parents  to  the 
stirring  events  of  that  momentous  crisis.  By  his 
father,  a  man  of  family  and  fortune,  Euripides 
was  supplied  with  all  the  means  of  education. 
He  studied  under  Anaxagoras,  Prodicus,  Prota- 
goras, and  the  best  masters  of  the  age ;  and  was 
so  well  versed  even  in  the  gymnastic  exercises 
of  the  day,  that  he  carried  off  two  prizes  in  the 
Eleusinian  and  Thesean  games,  when  only  seven- 
teen years  old.  To  his  other  accomplishments, 
he  added  a  taste  for  painting,  and  some  of  his 
pictures  were  preserved  for  many  years  at  Me- 
gara.  His  first  tragedy,  the  Peliades,  was  brought 
out  in  455  B.  C.,  and  obtained  for  him  the  third 
prize;  but  on  two  subsequent  occasions  (in  441 
and  428,  B.  C.,)  he  bore  away  the  first  honours. 
His  reputation  had  now  spread  far  and  wide, 
and  we  are  told  by  Plutarch,  that  some  of  the 
Athenians  who  had  survived  the  Syracusan  ex- 
pedition, obtained  their  liberty  or  a  livelihood  by 
114 


reciting  and  teaching  such  passages  of  his  poems 
as  they  chanced  to  remember.* 

Late  in  life  Euripides  took  up  his  abode  at  the 
court  of  King  Archelaus,  in  Macedonia,  where,  in 
the  society  of  Agathon,  the  tragic  poet,  Timo- 
theus,  the  famous  musician,  Zeuxis,  the  cele- 
brated painter,  and  other  eminent  men,  whom 
the  liberality  and  taste  of  the  monarch  had  at- 
tracted to  Pella,  he  closed  his  life  in  the  seventy- 


*  We  also  learn  from  the  same  authority,  that,  in  after 
years,  when  the  Lacedemonian  general,  Lysander,  took 
Athens,  it  was  proposed  in  a  council  of  war  to  raze  the 
city  and  convert  its  site  into  a  desert ;  but  that,  during 
the  debate,  at  the  banquet  of  the  chief  officers,  a  certain 
Phocian  sung  some  fine  anastrophics  from  a  chorus  of  the 
"Electra"  of  Euripides;  which  so  affected  the  hearers 
that  they  declared  it  an  unworthy  act  to  reduce  a  place, 
so  celebrated  for  the  production  of  illustrious  men,  to 
total  ruin  and  desolation.  The  lines  are  at  verse  168. 
Milton  has  celebrated  the  circumstance  in  his  Vlllth. 
Sonnet. 

Lift  not  thy  spear  against  the  Muses'  bower: 
The  great  Emathian  conqueror  bade  spare 
The  house  of  Pindarus,  when  temple  and  tower 

Went  to  the  ground  :  and  the  repeated  air 
Of  sad  Electra' s  poet  had  the  power 

To  save  the  Athenian  walls  from  ruin  lare. 
By  the  epithet  "  sad,"  Milton  denominates  the  pathetic 
character  of  Euripides.— See  T.   Wharton's  notes  on 
Milton. 


EURIPIDES. 


115 


fifth  year  of  his  age  and  the  406th  B.  C.,  the  same 
day  on  which  Dionysius  assumed  the  tyranny  of 
Syracuse.  Euripides  was  entombed  among  the 
kings  of  Macedonia,  at  Pella,  but  the  Athenians, 
though  unable  to  obtain  his  ashes,  erected  a  ceno- 
taph to  his  memory. 

The  cause  of  his  quitting  Athens  is  unknown. 
Possibly  it  might  have  been  the  same  as  had  oc- 
casioned his  misogynism,  namely,  the  infidelity 


FROM  THE  ALCESTIS. 

ADMETUS,  king  of  Pherae,  in  Thessaly,  on  his 
first  accession  to  the  regal  power,  had  kindly  re- 
ceived Apollo,  who  was  banished  from  heaven, 
and  compelled,  for  a  certain  space,  to  serve  a 
mortal.  The  god  was  not  ungrateful,  and  when 
Admetus  lay  ill  of  a  disease,  from  which  there 
was  no  recovery,  prevailed  on  the  Fates  to  spare 
his  life,  on  condition  that  some  near  relation 
would  consent  to  die  for  him ;  but  neither  his 
father  nor  mother,  nor  any  of  his  friends,  were 
willing  to  pay  the  ransom.  His  wife  Alcestis, 
on  hearing  this,  generously  devotes  her  own  life 
to  save  that  of  her  husband  ;  but  while  the  whole 
family  are  plunged  in  grief  for  her  loss,  and  are 
occupied  in  celebrating  her  funeral  obsequies, 
Hercules  arrives  at  Phone,  and  being  hospitably 
entertained  there,  and  informed  of  his  host's  dis- 
tress, goes  in  pursuit  of  Orcus,  who  is  conveying 
his  prey  to  the  infernal  regions,  overtakes  him, 
and  recovers  Alcestis,  whom  he  restores  to  the 
arms  of  her  husband. 

THE  CHORUS   1ST  TWO  DIVISIONS. 

1st  Semich.  Why  this  silence  so  profound, 
In  the  house,  and  all  around7? 

2d  Semich.  Why  is  there  none  to  let  us  know 
If  for  the  dead  our  tears  should  flow  ; 
Or  if  the  queen,  so  dear  to  sight, 
Yet  lives  and  looks  upon  the  light, 
The  wife  that  is,  by  common  fame, 
The  best  that  ever  had  the  name  ? 

1st  Semich.  The  silence,  of  itself  alone, 
Is  token  plain  she  is  not  i_r«ne. 

[A  female  servant  is  seen  coming  from  the  palace. 

Ch.  But  from  the   house   a  weeping  woman 

com 

What  shall  we  hear  ?  when  our  lords  suffer  aught, 
Our  mournful  sympathy  is  jnstiiied  ; 
We  fain  would  learn  if  she  be  dead  or  not 

Serv.  She's  as  it  were  laid  out,  near  her  last 
gasp. 

Ch.  Ah,  wretched  husband,  losing  what  a  wife ! 

Serv.  He  knows  not  yet,  but  soon  will  feel  the 
loss. 

Ch.  Is  there  no  longer  hope  of  saving  her  * 

Serv.   It  is  the  day  appointed  her  to  die. 

Ch.  Are  not  the  lilting  preparations  made? 

Serv.  The  pomp  is  ready  for  her  burial. 

Ch.  Let   her  then   know   she   dies   with    best 

renown, 
As  noblest  wife  of  all  beneath  the  sun. 


of  his  two  wives,  Melito  and  Cherila,  and  a  desire 
of  escaping  from  the  scene  of  such  domestic  dis- 
comfort, especially  as  his  misfortunes  were  con- 
tinually recalled  to  his  remembrance  by  the 
taunts  and  jeers  of  his  merciless  and  unscrupu- 
lous enemy,  Aristophanes. 

Of  his  many  compositions,  sixteen  tragedies,  two 
tragi-comedies,  and  a  satirical  drama,  with  seve- 
ral fragments  of  lost  plays,  have  come  down  to  us. 


Serv.  Who   will   deny   it?     Oh!   what  must 

she  be 

That  can  outparagon  her  excellence  ? 
low  can  a  wife  show  greater  proof  of  love 
Than  giving  her  own  life  to  save  her  lord's  ? 
3ut  this  the  country  round  already  knows ; 
Ye'll  be  astonished  more  at  what  I'll  tell  you. 

When  she  perceived  the  appointed  day  was 

come, 

She  bathed  in  water  from  the  running  stream, 
And  from  the  cedar  chest  took  rich  attire, 
Her  lovely  person  carefully  arraying, 
And,  standing  at  the  sacred  hearth,  exclaimed: — 

Queen  Vesta !  I  am  going  now  below, 
And  kneel  and  pray  to  thee  the  latest  time, 
To  guard  the  children  I  leave  motherless; 
A  loving  consort  for  the  boy  provide, 
And  for  the  girl  a  brave  and  noble  spouse ; 
Nor  let  them  die  untimely  as  I  do, 
But  with  all  blessings  in  their  fatherland 
Bring  to  completion  a  life  full  of  joy." 
And  then  she  wept,  and  every  altar  crowned, 
Stripping  the  foliage  from  the  myrtle  boughs, 
And  prayed  without  a  tear,  without  a  groan ; 
Nor  did  the  coming  woe  change  in  the  least 
Her  bright  complexion.     To  the  bridal  room, 
And  bed,  she  next  advanced,  but  there  she  wept. 
And  said  ;  "  Oh  bed,  where  virgin  to  his  arms 
I  came,  for  whom  I  die  to-day,  farewell ! 
I  hate  thee  not,  though  thou  hast  brought  me 

death ; 

Loth  was  I  to  betray  my  lord  and  thee. 
Thee  will  another  after  me  possess, 
Not  chaster,  but  perchance  more  fortunate." 
Then  on  the  bed  she  flung  herself,  and  kissed  it, 
And  from  her  eyes  let  fall  a  flood  of  tears ; 
At  last  she  rose  and  turned  to  leave  the  room, 
Oft  made  the  attempt,  and  often  she  returned, 
And  cast  herself  again  upon  the  bed. 
Her  children,  clinging  to  her  garments,  wept; 
She  took  them  in  her  arms,  and  kissed  them  both, 
First  one,  then  the  other,  as  about  to  die  : 
The  servants,  pitying  her,  were  all  in  tears ; 
She  gave  her  hand  to  all,  was  spoken  to, 
And  for  the  meanest  had  a  parting  word. 
Such  woe  is  working  in  our  master's  house! 
But  had  he   died,  'twould  have  been  o'er  with 

him  ; 
Escaping  death  he  has  a  lifelong  grief. 

Ch.  Surely  Admetus  groans,  with  grief  opprest, 
If  he  must  lose  so  excellent  a  wife. 

Serv.  He  weeps  indeed,  sustains  her  in  his 
arms, 


116 


EURIPIDES. 


And  prays  her  not  to  leave  him,  asking  for 

What  cannot  be ;  for  she  is  going  fast, 

And  visibly  droops  and  sinks,  passing  away. 

She  hangs  a  languid  burden  on  his  arm  ; 

Yet  still,  though  faintly  gasping  out  her  breath, 

She  would  behold  the  bright  rays  of  the  sun, 

As  what  she  never  more  shall  see  again, 

But  for  the  latest  time  will  look  upon 

Light's  glorious  orb.    I'll  go  and  say  ye  are  here. 

For  not  all  subjects  wish  well  to  their  lords, 

Nor  with  them  grieving  truly  sympathize  ; 

But  to  my  master  ye  are  friends  of  old. 

******* 

ALCESTIS  enters,  supported  by  ADMETUS,  and  ac- 
companied by  their  two  children. 

Me.  Oh  sun !  and  light,  and  clouds  of  heaven, 
In  fleecy  rolls  revolved  and  driven ! 

Mm.  Cheer  up,  unhappy  consort ;  leave  me  not, 
But  pray  the  sovereign  gods  to  pity  us. 

Me.  I  see  the  two-oared  boat!  I  see 
The  ferryman  of  all  the  dead  ! 
With  pole  in  hand,  he  calls  for  me — 
'Tis  Charon  calls,  with  accent  dread, 
And  vehemently  chides  my  stay, — 
"  Come  quickly,  come  !  why  this  delay?" 

Jldm.  Wretch  that  I  am !  oh  crudest  voyage 

to  me! 
My  dearest,  doomed  wife !  what  woe  is  ours ! 

Me.  Some  winged  Hades  pulls  me  now 
Unto  the  dead  !  do  you  not  see  ? 
From  underneath  his  sable  brow 
The  King  of  Terrors  glares  at  me! 
What  wilt  thou  do  ?  unhand  me !  oh ! 
Loose  me !  on  what  a  path  I  go ! 

Jldm.  Path  dismal  to  thy  friends,  and    most 

to  me. 
And  to  these  children,  sharers  of  my  grief. 

Me.  Lay  me  down !  I  cannot  stand  ; 
Hades  now  is  near  at  hand  ; 
O'er  mine  eyes  the  last  of  sleeps, 
The  long  night  of  darkness  creeps. 
Children !  now  my  life  is  o'er, 
And  your  mother  is  no  more  ; 
May  your  lives  with  joy  be  bright, 
May  ye  long  behold  the  light ! 

Jldm.  Ah,  woeful  speech  for  me  to  hear, 
Harder  than  any  death  to  bear ! 
Oh  by  the  gods,  and  by  these  ties, 
Motherless,  when  their  mother  dies, 
Forsake  me  not !  arise,  dear  wife ! 
While  I  have  thee,  I  still  have  life. 

Me.  Admetus,  you  perceive  how  'tis  with  me, 
But  I  would  tell  my  wishes  ere  I  die. 
How  I've  loved,  honoured  thee,  appears  in  this, 
I  die  when  not  to  die  was  in  my  power, 
Giving  my  life  that  thou  may'st  see  the  light. 
Yet  both  thy  parents,  both  near  life's  last  goal, 
Betrayed  thee,  when  they  might  have  nobly  died, 
And  so  have  saved  their  son,  their  only  child, 
With  no  hope  left  of  other  progeny. 
Had  either  of  them  dared  to  die  for  thee, 
We  twain  had  lived,  nor  thou  disconsolate 
Been  left  to  rear  the  children  whom  I  leave — 
Well,  be  it  so  !  then  make  me  a  return — 
Thou  lov'st  these  little  ones  no  less  than  I ; 


At  least  if  right  thy  thoughts  and  feelings  be ; 
Then  bring  them  up  as  princes  in  my  house, 
Nor  introduce  an  envious  stepmother, 
Less  kind  in  her  affections  than  myself, 
To  lord  it  o'er  them  with  a  heavy  hand. 
Remember  my  request :  a  stepdarne  hates 
The  children  of  a  former  marriage  born. 
My  boy  will  in  his  father  find  a  tower, 
But  how,  my  girl,  shalt  thou  fit  training  have? 
How  will  thy  father's  consort  act  to  thee? 
Oh,  may  she  not  by  slanderous  rumour  spoil 
Thy  hope  of  marriage  in  thy  bloom  of  youth  ! 
Thy  mother  ne'er  shall  deck  thee  as  a  bride, 
Nor,  where  a  mother  kinder  is  than  all, 
Amid  thy  groans  of  childbirth  comfort  thee ! 
For  I  must  die. 

Ch.  I'll  answer  that  he  keep 

Thy  last  injunctions,  if  he  keep  his  senses. 

Jldm.  It  shall  be  so,  it  shall  be,  doubt  it  not: — 
Since  I  had  thee  when  living,  still  when  dead 
Shalt  thou  be  my  sole  wife :  none  after  thee 
Shall  call  me  husband. 

Me.  My  children,  ye  have  heard  your  father's 
pledge. 

Jldm.  Again  I  give  it,  and  will  keep  it  too. 

Me.  So  pledged,  receive  these  children  from 
my  hand. 

Jldm.  A  precious  gift  from  dear  hand  I  receive. 

Me.  Be  thou  a  mother  to  them  in  my  stead. 

Jldm.  Ah !  what   shall   I   do,    widowed    and 
forlorn  ? 

Me.  Time  will  console  thee,  for  the  dead  are 
nothing. 

Jldm.  Oh  Fate !  of  what  a  wife  thou  spoilest 
me ! 

Me.  Speak  of  me  as  no  more,  as  nothing  now. 

Jldm.  Lift    up    thy    face,    abandon    not    thy 
children. 

Me.  Not  willingly — my  children,  oh !  farewell! 

Jldm.  Look  on  them,  look  on  me  once  more. 

Ale.  Farewell!     (dies.} 

Ch.  Daughter  of  Pelias!  now  farewell! 
Since  thou  must  for  ever  dwell 
In  the  subterranean  halls, 
Where  the  sun's  light  never  falls. 
Let  the  god,  whose  tresses  flow 
With  a  glooming  blackness,  know, 
And  the  Rower,  old  and  dread, 
Ferryman  of  all  the  dead, 
That  this  woman  is  the  best, 
Of  the  rarest  worth  possest, 
It  was  e'er  his  lot  to  take 
O'er  the  Acherontian  lake. 

Thy  praise  shall  minstrels  often  tell 
On  the  seven-toned  mountain  shell, 
And  in  solemn  hymns  and  sweet 
Oft  without  the  lyre  repeat, 
Both  in  Sparta,  when  they  keep 
The  Carnean  feast,  nor  sleep, 
While  the  vernal  moon  all  night 
Shineth  on  them  glad  and  bright, — 
And  in  Athens,  famed  in  story, 
Rich  in  splendour,  wealth,  and  glory, 
Such  a  theme  thy  death  supplies 
For  the  minstrel's  melodies. 


EURIPIDES. 


117 


Would  that  it  did  on  me  depend 
That  thou  should'st  to  the  light  ascend! 
From  the  realm  of  Dis  supreme, 
Where  Cocytus  rolls  his  stream, 
From  the  land  of  shadows  black 
Would  that  I  could  waft  thee  back, 
Bring  thee  up  to  earth  again 
By  the  river  Subterrane ! 
Thou,  of  women  thou  alone, 
For  thy  husband's  life  thine  own 
Didst  to  Hades  freely  give, 
Dying  that  thy  spouse  might  live. 
Lightly  lie  the  earth  o'er  thee ! 
If  with  other  ever  he 
Link  in  love,  his  children's  hate 
And  our  scorn  upon  him  wait. 

His  mother  was  not  willing  found 
To  hide  her  body  under  ground, 
Was  not  willing,  though  she  bore  him, 
To  the  grave  to  go  before  him  ; 
Nor  did  his  old  father  dare, 
When  they  both  had  hoary  hair, 
Neither  of  them  dared  to  go, 
As  his  substitute,  below. 
But  thou  didst — and  in  the  hour     • 
Of  thy  youth's  fresh-breathing  flower, 
Ere  life's  loveliest  hues  had  fled, 
Dying  in  thy  husband's  stead. 

Enter  HEHCULES. 

Her.  Phereans,  is  Admetus  now  at  home  ? 

Ck.  He  is  within;  but  tell  us,  Hercules, 
What  brings  you  to  this  part  of  Thessaly  ? 

Her.  Eurystheus  has  appointed  me  a  task. 

Ch.  Where    must  you    travel,  and   for   what 
exploit? 

Her.  To  Thrace,  and  for  the  steeds  of  Diomede. 

Ch.  How  can  you  do  this  ?  do  you  know  the 
man? 

Her.  No!  I  was  ne'er  in  the  Bistonian  land. 

Ch.  Those   steeds  cannot  be  won  without  a 
battle. 

Her.  Whom  does  their  trainer  boast  of  as  his 
sire? 

Ch.  The   king  of  Thracian  shields,   enrich'd 

with  gold, 
Calls  Mars  his  sire. 

Her.  Thus  does  fate  deal  with  me, 

Still  tasking  me  with  arduous  enterprise; 
If  I  must  with  the  sons  of  Mars  contend, 
First  with  Lycaon,  and  with  Cycnus  next, 
Now  with  a  third,  this  king  and  his  fierce  steeds. 
But  none  shall  ever  see  Alcmena's  son 
Shrink  from  encounter  with  a  hostile  hand. 

Ch.  And,  lo !  Admetus  from  the  palace  comes. 

Enter  ADMETUS. 

Jldm.  Hail,  son  of  Jove,  prince  of  the  blood 

of  Perseus! 

Her.  Admetus,  prince  of  the  Thessaliane,  hail ! 
Jldm.  Would  that  your  "hail"'  was  suited  to 

my  state, 

For  your  good  will  toward  me  well  I  know. 
Her.  Why  are  your  locks  in  sign  of  mourning 

shorn  ? 


Jldm.  To-day  I  have  to  bury  somebody. 

Her.  'Tis  not  one  of  your  children?     Heaven 
forbid ! 

Mm.  My  children  are  within,  alive  and  well. 

Her.  If  'tis  thy  father,  he  went  full  of  years. 

Jldm.  My  father  and  my  mother  are  alive. 

Her.  It  cannot  be  Alcestis  that  is  dead  ? 

Jldm.  Of  her  I  have  to  speak  a  twofold  tale. 

Her.  Speak  you  of  her  as  living,  or  as  dead  ? 

Jldm.  She  is  and  is  not !  but  she  is  my  grief. 

Her.  I  am  no  wiser,  for  you  speak  in  riddles. 

Jldm.  Do  you  not  know  the  doom  imposed  on 
her? 

Her.  I  know  she  undertook  to  die  for  you. 

Jldm.  How  is  she  living  then,  if  bound  to  this  ? 

Her.  Weep   not   beforehand;   wait   until  the 
event. 

Jldm.  One  just  about  to  die  is  dead  already, 
And  one  that's  dead  no  longer  is  in  being. 

Her.  To  be,  and  not  to  be,  are  different  things. 

Jldm.  You  judge  in  one  way — in  another  I. 

Her.  But  wherefore  are  you  weeping?     Who 
is  dead  ? 

Jldm.  A  woman: — we   were    speaking  of  a 
woman. 

Her.  One  of  thy  blood,  or  of  no  kin  to  thee  ? 

Jldm.  Not  of  my  blood,  but  to  my  house  most 
dear. 

Her.  And  did  she  in  thy  house  depart  this  life? 

Jldm.  Her  father  being  dead,  she  lived  with  us. 

Her.  Oh,  that  you  were  not  mourning! 

Jldm.  With  what  aim 

Do  you  say  this  ? 

Her.  To  seek  another  host. 

Jldm.  That  must  not  be  ;  let  not  such  ill  occur. 

Her.  A  guest  is  grievous  to  a  house  in  grief. 

Jldm.  The  dead  are  dead  :  come,  go  within  at 
once. 

Her.  To  feast  with  mourners  is  a  shameful 
thing. 

Jldm.  The  guest-rooms  are  apart. 

Her.  Nay !  let  me  go, 

I'll  owe  you  thousand  thanks. 

Jldm.  It  must  not  be ; 

Elsewhere  you  must  not  go :  lead  on,  and  throw 

(to  an  attendant) 

The  guest-rooms  open  ;  bid  the  purveyor 
Provide  fit  entertainment  for  my  guest; 
Shut  close  the  doors  of  the  mid-hall,  lest  groans 
(It  were  not  well)  should  reach  the  feaster's  ears, 
And  with  unwelcome  grief  mar  his  content. 

[HERCULES  goes  into  the  palace. 

Ch.  What  means  this?    When  so  great  mis- 
chance has  fallen, 
Is  it  a  season  for  receiving  guests 

Jldm.  Had  I  driven  from  my  house  a  new-come 

guest, 

Would  you  have  praised  me?  No!  I  had  not  lost 
My  grief,  but  rather  hospitality ; 
And  such  impeachment  of  my  house  had  been 
Another  added  to  my  present  ills. 
Besides,  when  I  to  thirsty  Argos  go, 
Then  this  my  truest  is  my  most  worthy  host. 

Ch.  Why  did  you   then  from   such   a  friend 

conceal 
Your  present  trouble  ? 


118 


EURIPIDES. 


JLdm.  Had  he  known  my  grief, 

He  never  would  have  gone  within  my  doors. 
Yet  will  he  think  I  was  not  wise  in  this — 
He'll  not  like  it;  but  my  roof  knows  not  how 
To  turn  away  and  to  dishonour  guests. 

#         *          *          *          *          *          # 
Enter  SERYAJTT. 

Serv.  I've  at  the  hearth  received  many  a  guest, 
From  many  a  land,  for  whom  I've  spread  the 

feast, 

But  never  worse  than  this.     In  the  first  place, 
He  saw  my  lord  in  grief,  yet  entered  in ; 
Next,  for  his  fare,  such  as  it  chanced  to  be, 
Made  no  allowance,  knowing  our  distress, 
But  loudly  roared  for  any  thing  he  lacked  ; 
Then  in  both  hands  he  seized  an  ivy  goblet, 
And  quaffed  the  pure  juice  of  the  purple  mother, 
Until  the  flame  o'  the  wine  enkindled  him ; 
And  then  with  myrtle-wreath  he  crowned  him- 
self, 

And  howled  discordantly  snatches  of  song. 
There  were  two  strains  to  hear ;  for  while  he 

sang, 

Without  a  thought  of  our  domestic  woe, 
We  servants  were  bewailing  our  lost  lady : 
We  did  not  let  him  see  our  eyes  were  wet, 
For  so  Admetus  ordered.     I  meanwhile 
Must  entertain  this  stranger,  vagabond  ! 
But  she  is  gone,  nor  did  I  follow  her, 
Nor  stretch  my  hand,  lamenting  my  lost  mistress, 
Who  was  e'en  as  a  mother  to  us  all ; 
For  from  a  thousand  ills  she  saved  us, 
Appeasing  for  us  oft  her  husband's  ire. 
Is  it  not  justly  then  I  hate  this  stranger, 
Who  has  intruded  on  us  in  our  grief? 

Enter  HERCULES. 
Her.  Hark  you,  why  do  you  look  so  grave  and 

thoughtful  ? 

A  servant  should  receive  a  master's  guests, 
Not  with  a  puckered  brow,  but  cheerfully. 
You  show  to  me,  that  am  your  master's  friend, 
Contracted  brow  and  gloomy  countenance, 
Only  because  of  some  out-door  distress. 
Come,  learn  of  me,  and  be  a  wiser  man. 
Know  you  the  way  of  life  and  its  events  ? 
I  think  not — but,  indeed, how  should  you?  Hark! 
Death  is  a  debt  that  all  mankind  must  pay ; 
None  knows  if  he  shall  be  alive  to-morrow ; 
For  slippery  fortune  is  uncertain  ever, 
Cannot  be  learnt,  nor  be  found  out  by  skill. 
Drink  and  be  merry;  and  consider  life 
To  be  thine  own  only  from  day  to  day — 
The  rest  is  Fortune's.     Honour  Cytherea, 
Sweetest  of  deities  to  mortal  men, 
For  she  to  them  is  goddess  most  benign. 
If  you  suppose  me  right — I  think  I  am, — 
Leave  your  dark  thoughts  and  follow  my  advice. 
Will  you  not  then  quit  your  excessive  grief, 
Go  in,  and  crown  yourself,  and  drink  with  me  ? 
I  know  right  well  the  wine-cup's  generous  gush 
Will  clear  your  brow,  and  cleanse  your  mind  of 

gloom. 

Mortals  should  entertain  such  sentiments 
As  suit  their  mortal  state :  to  them,  methinks, 


That  wear  their  visages  to  sorrow  set, 
Life  is  not  truly  life,  but  wretchedness. 

Serv.  We  know  it ;  but  the  feast,  laughter,  and 

mirth, 
Are  quite  unsuited  to  our  present  state. 

Her.  But  who  is  dead?  one  of  the  children 

gone? 
Or  his  old  father  ? 

Serv.  No !  his  wife  is  dead. 

Her.  What!  his  wife  dead?  and  yet  did  he 
receive  me? 

Serv.  He  scrupled  to  repel  you  from  his  house. 

Her.  Unhappy  man ! — Oh,  what  a  loss  is  thine ! 

Serv.  Not  only  she,  with  her  we  all  are  lost. 

Her.  I  thought  'twas  some  misfortune,  when  I 

saw 

His  woeful  face,  shorn  hair,  and  weeping  eyes ; 
But  saying  'twas  a  stranger's  funeral, 
He  did  deceive  me;  and  against  my  will 
I  went  within  his  doors,  drank,  crowned  myself, 
And  revell'd  while  he  was  in  his  affliction. 
And  yet  you  told  me  not  of  this  distress ! 
Where  does  he  bury  her?  where  can  I  find  him? 

Serv.  On  the  high-road  that  to  Larissa  leads, 
Just  past  the  city  gate,  you  will  observe 
The  tomb  of  marble  shining  to  the  view. 

•   [Exit  SERVANT. 

Her.  The  newly-dead  Alcestis  must  I  rescue ; 
I'll  go,  and  watch  for  Death,  the  black-robed 

king 

Of  the  Departed ;  if,  as  I  expect, 
I  find  him  near  the  tomb,  drinking  the  blood 
Of  victims,  and  I  can  surprise  and  seize  him, 
None  shall  release  my  panting  prisoner 
Till  he  resign  the  woman.     If  I  fail 
To  take  him  captive  so,  and  he  abstains 
From  coming  near  to  taste  the  clotted  gore, 
Then  to  the  sunless  mansions  will  I  go, 
Of  fair  Proserpine  and  her  gloomy  lord, 
And  ask  her  at  their  hands :  I  have  no  doubt 
That  I  shall  bring  Alcestis  up  again, 
And  give  her  back  to  his  embracing  arms, 
W.ho  welcomed  and  received  me  in  his  house, 
Though  smitten  with  a  sore  calamity, 
Which  from  respect  for  me  he  nobly  hid. 
What  man  of  Thessaly  has  towards  guests 
A  larger  spirit  and  heart  more  bountiful  ? 
Or  what  Hellenian?     Never  shall  he  say, 
While  he  was  noble,  I  was  otherwise. 

[Exit  HERCULES. 

ADMETUS  and  tJie  company  of  mourners  return. 

jJdm.  Oh,  sad  aspect,  and  entrance  drear 
Of  my  poor  widowed  house  !     Oh,  where 
Can  I  find  rest?  where  go  ?  what  say  ? 
Or  how  be  silent  ?     Woeful  day ! 
Would  all  were  o'er  with  me  forlorn, 
A  wretch  to  worst  affliction  bom ! 
I  count  the  dead  the  only  blest, 
And  long  to  be  with  them  at  rest. 
To  tread  on  earth  not  gladdens  me, 
Nor  the  sun's  cheerful  beams  to  see : 
One  pledge  of  joy  I  had — Death  stole  her, 
And  Hades  has  my  life's  consoler. 

Ch.  Go  in,  and  solitary  moan  ! 
Thy  loss  is  worthy  many  a  groan. 


EURIPIDES. 


119 


Ay,  groan !  I  know  thy  heavy  lot, 
But  thy  lamenting  helps  her  not. 
Her  sweet  face  ne'er  to  see  again 
Is  grief  indeed — and  grief  in  vain ! 

Mm.  My  house !  how  can  I  dwell  in  thee, 
Since  this  sad  change  has  fall'n  on  me? 
'Twixt  life  before,  and  that  behind, 
Oh,  what  a  difference  I  find ! 
With  light  of  many  a  Pelian  torch 
I  whilom  passed  within  the  porch, 
With  bridal  songs,  and  in  my  hand 
My  wife,  the  lady  of  the  land  ! 
Then  was  there  many  a  cheerful  voice 
To  bid  the  happy  pair  rejoice, 
A  noble  match,  well  come  together, 
Both  nobly  born,  in  life's  spring-weather : — 
But  now  instead  of  nuptial  songs 
The  wailing  voice  its  note  prolongs ; 
And  for  white  shining  robes  to-day 
I'm  marshalled  with  a  black  array, 
To  what  was  once  a  happy  spot 
The  chamber  where — where  she  is  not ! 

Ch.  This  came  on  thee  in  grief  untried, 

And  after  fortune's  happy  tide  ; 

But  thou,  at  least,  hast  saved  thy  life ; 

And  from  her  loved  thy  loving  wife 

Is  gone  indeed  : — is  this  thing  new? 

'Tis  but  what  Death  is  used  to  do. 
Mm.  I  deem  her  fortune  happier  than  mine 

own ; 

It  may  not  seem  so,  but  I  think  it  is ; 
For  her  no  grief  shall  ever  touch  again, 
And  she,  removed  from  care,  with  glory  rests; 
While  I,  that  should  have  died,  escaping  death, 
Must  now  drag  on  a  weary,  woeful  life — 
I  see  it  now.     How  can  I  bear  my  home  ? 
What  pleasure  can  I  look  for  ?  whom  addressing? 
By  whom  addrest?  Oh,  whither  shall  I  turn? 
The  solitude  within  will  drive  me  out, 
When  I  behold  the  place  void  where  she  slept, 
The  seat  whereon  she  sat ;  the  house  neglected ; 
And  when  the  children,  clinging  to  my  knees, 
Weep   for   their   mother ;   and   these  poor  kind 

creatures 

Bewailing  what  a  mistress  they  have  lost ! 
Ch.  Dear  she  was  while  yet  in  life, 

Dear  too,  now,  when  she  is  not; 

For  thine  was  the  noblest  wife 

Ever  fell  to  mortal's  lot. 

Let  the  tomb  that  covers  her 
Be  not  as  a  sepulchre 
O'er  the  dead.     Her  praises  meet 
Shall  the  traveller  repeat, 
As  to  Spirit  of  the  Day, 
Ere  he  passes  on  his  way: — 
"  She  that  once  did  death  endure, 
Of  free  will,  to  save  her  spouse, 
Now,  a  Spirit  blest  and  pure — 
Hail,  sweet  Saint!  and  hear  our  vows!" 

But  lo !  here  comes  Alcmena*s  son  again. 

HERCULES  enters  icilh  a  lady,  whose  face  is  conceal- 
ed under  a  thick  veil. 

Her.  'Tis  risht  with  freedom  to  address  a  friend, 
And  not  to  hide  offence  we  take  at  him. 


I  thought  myself  one  worthy,  as  one  near 

In  friendship,  to  demand  what  was  your  grief: 

You  told  me  not  'twas  your  wife's  funeral, 

But  as  'twere  death  did  not  concern  you  nearly; 

You  entertained  me  as  a  welcome  guest : 

Meanwhile     I   crowned    myself    with    myrtle 

wreath, 

And  freely  poured  libations  to  the  gods, 
E'en  in  the  house  of  mourning :  'twas  not  well — 
I  blame  you  for't,  but  will  not  with  reproaches 
Add  to  your  grief.    Hear  why  I  have  returned : — 
Receive  and  keep  for  me  this  woman  safely, 
Till  with  the  Thracian  mares  I  come  again, 
When  I  have  slain  the  rude  Bistonian  king. 
But  should  I  meet  mischance  (which  Heaven 

forbid !) 

Accept  her  as  a  gift ;  with  toil  I  won  her. 
It  chanced  I  came  upon  a  ring  was  set 
For  public  games,  in  which,  as  worth  my  pains, 
I  took  a  part,  and  she  became  my  prize. 
The  victors  in  the  lighter  games  won  horses ; 
Those  in  the  greater,  herds  of  horned  cattle ; 
This  woman  was  the  last  and  noblest  prize. 
It  had  been  base  not  to  contend  for  this ; 
I  did,  was  victor,  and  commit  her  now 
To  your  protection ;  fairly  did  I  win  her, 
And  not  by  theft ;  you  will  perchance,  hereafter, 
Yourself  commend  me  for  the  pains  I  took. 

Mm.  Neither  from  slight,  nor  thinking  you  no 

friend, 

Did  I  conceal  my  wife's  unhappy  fate ; 
But  to  my  grief  I  had  but  added  grief, 
If  you  had  gone  to  any  other  host : 
To  weep  my  own  misfortune  was  enough. 
But  for  this  woman,  if  it  may  be  so, 
('Mong  the  Phereans  you  have  many  friends,) 
Commit  her  to  the  charge  of  other  man, 
Who  has  not  suffered  in  the  way  that  I  have. 
The  sight  of  her  would  only  feed  my  grief.— 
Take  her  away!  methinks  I  see  my  wife, 
When  I  see  her ;  it  stirs  my  troubled  heart. 

Her.  Grieve  not  too  much ;  endure  the  stroke 
with  patience. 

Mm.  To  preach  is  easier  than  to  practise  it. 

Her.  You  lost  a  glorious  creature. 

Jldm.  And  with  her 

Lost  sense  of  joy,  and  relish  of  my  life. 

Her.  Time  will  compose  the  swelling  grief  yet 
new. 

Mm.  'Twill  do  it,  if  time  be  death. 

Her.  Another  wife 

Will  comfort  you. 

Jldm.        Hush,  hush  !  how  can  you  speak  so? 

Her.  Will  you  then  live  a  lonely  widower? 

Mm.  No  woman  e'er  shall  be  my  bed-fellow! 

Her.  Think  you  this  of  advantage  to  the  dead? 

Mm.  I'm  bound  to  honour  her,  where'er  she  be. 

Her.  Right,  right !  I  say  ;  but  you'll  be  thought 
a  fool. 

Mm.  That  let  them  call  me,  but  a  bridegroom 
never ! 

Her.  I  praise  you  for  your  loyalty  in  love. 

Mm.  If  ever  I  betray  her,  may  I  perish ! 

Her.  Take  now  this  noble  dame  into  the  house. 

Mm.  Pr'ythee,  excuse  me,  by  thy  father  Jove. 

Her.  But  not  to  do  this  is  not  for  thy  good. 


120 


EURIPIDES. 


Jldm.  And  doing  it  will  cut  me  to  the  heart. 
Her.  Do  it ;  you'll  not  repent  it ;  be  persuaded. 
Jldm.  Alas!    would  you  had  never  won  the 

prize ! 

Her.  Yet  in  my  triumph  you  participate. 
Jldm.  Thanks  for  your  nobleness ;  but  let  her  go. 
Her.  Yes !  if  it  must  be  so,  but  look  to  it  first. 
Jldm.  It  must  be  so,  unless  you  would  incense 

me. 

Her.  From  knowing  what  I  do,  I'll  run  the  risk. 
Jldm.  Prevail  then,  but  I   like  not  your  pro- 
ceeding. 
Her.  Some  time  or  other  you  will  praise  me 

for  it. 
Jldm.  Conduct  her  in  then,  if  it  must  be  so. 

[To  his  attendants. 

Her.  I  will  not  give  her  over  to  your  servants. 
Jldm.  Then  lead  her  in  yourself. 
Her.  Into  your  hands, 

And  into  yours  alone,  will  I  commit  her. 

Jldm.  I  will  not  touch  her — but  she  may  go  in. 
Her.  I  trust  in  you,  and  in  your  hands  I  place 

her. 

Jldm.  Against  my  will  you  force  me  to  this  act. 
Her.  Boldly  advance  thy  hand,  and  touch  the 

stranger. 
Jldm.  As  though  it  were  to  touch  the  Gorgon's 

head! 

Her.  Hast  hold  of  her. 
Jldm.  I  have. 

Her.  Then  hold  her  fast  j 

Hereafter  will  you  call  me  generous  guest. 
But  look  on  her — (he  lifts  her  veil] — and  see  if  she 

resembles 
Thy  lost  Alcestis. 

Jldm.  My  wife,  my  own  wife ! 

Or  do  you  mock  me  ? 

Her.  'Tis  your  very  wife. 

Jldm.  My  wife  ?  My  buried  wife  ? 
Her.  Yes !  it  is  she  ; 

I  do  not  wonder  at  your  unbelief. 

Jldm.  Sweet  face  and  person  of  my  dearest 

wife ! 

When  I  did  think  to  see  thee  never  more, 
Beyond  all  hope  do  I  possess  thee  now  ? 

Her.  You  do ;  all  envy  of  the  gods  keep  hence ! 
Jldm.  Blest  be  thou,  noble  son  of  highest  Jove. 
And  may  thy  father  ever  watch  o'er  thee ! 
For  only  thou  hast  raised  me  up  again. 


FROM  THE  MEDEA. 

MEDEA,  the  daughter  of  JEetes,  king  of  Colchis, 
becoming  enamoured  of  Jason,  is  enabled,  by 
her  acquaintance  with  the  art  of  magic,  to  extri- 
cate her  lover  from  all  his  dangers,  and  facilitate 
his  acquisition  of  the  celebrated  golden  fleece. 
After  this  conquest,  Jason  marries  his  preserver, 
with  whom  he  elopes,  and  after  some  time  settles 
at  Corinth.  Here,  unmindful  of  his  obligations, 
he  is  desirous  of  divorcing  his  wife,  and  of  con- 
tracting a  marriage  with  Glauce,  the  daughter 
of  King  Creon,  who,  fearing  the  cruelty  and 
power  of  Medea,  banishes  her  and  her  two  sons 
from  the  country,  in  order  to  secure  his  daughter 
from  her  revenge.  The  unhappy  woman,  driven 


to  despair  by  this  insult,  pretends  to  submit  to 
the  sentence ;  and  having  secured  an  asylum  for 
herself  at  Athens,  sends  her  sons  with  rich  pre- 
sents to  the  bride ;  andr  by  the  interposition  of 
Jason,  succeeds  in  obtaining  her  good  offices  with 
the  king,  to  permit  the  youths  to  remain  at  Corinth, 
under  the  protection  of  their  father.  The  youths 
are  now  sent  back  to  their  mother,  and  Glauce 
hastens  to  array  herself  in  the  splendid  robes 
presented  by  her  rival ;  but  soon  finds  that  the 
enchantress  has  infused  a  deadly  poison,  which 
proves  fatal  both  to  herself  and  her  father.  Jason, 
apprehensive  of  the  fate  which  may  await  his 
sons,  hastens  to  their  rescue ;  but  finds,  on  his 
arrival,  that  Medea  has  already  sacrificed  them 
as  an  expiation  of  the  infidelity  of  her  husband, 
whose  agony  she  derides ;  and,  defying  his  re- 
sentment, Hies  through  the  air  with  her  slaugh- 
tered children,  in  a  chariot  drawn  by  winged 
dragons. 

NURSE  OF  MEDEA. 

O,  THAT  the  gallant  Argo  had  not  wing'd 
Her  course  to  Colchis  through  the  clashing  rocks 
Of  the  black  Euxine ;  that  in  Pelion's  groves 
The  pine  had  ne'er  been  fell'd ;  nor  at  the  oars 
The  heroes'  hands  had  labour'd  when  they  sought 
The  golden  fleece  for  Pelias :  then  my  queen, 
Medea,  had  not  plough'd  the  watery  way 
To  tower'd  lolcos,  maddening  with  the  love 
Of  Jason ;  nor,  the  daughters  won  to  slay 
Their  father  Pelias,  had  she  fixed  her  seat 
At  Corinth,  with  her  husband  and  her  sons ; 
A  pleasing  flight  indeed  to  those,  whose  land 
She  made  her  residence ;  while  every  thought, 
Studious  to  aid  him,  was  on  Jason  fix'd. 
This  is  the  state  of  firmest  happiness, 
When  from  the  husband  no  discordant  will 
The  wife  estranges ;  but  their  dearest  ties 
Of  love  are  loosened  ;  all  is  variance  now 
And  hate:  for  Jason,  to  his  children  false, 
False  to  my  mistress,  for  a  royal  bride 
Hath  left  her  couch,  and  wedded  Creon's  daughter, 
Lord  of  this  land.     Ill  doth  Medea  brook 
This  base  dishonour ;  on  his  oath  she  calls, 
Recalls  their  plighted  hands,  the  firmest  pledge 
Of  mutual  faith,  and  calls  the  gods  to  witness 
What  a  requital  she  from  Jason  finds. 
Of  food  regardless,  and  in  sorrow  sunk 
She  lies,  and  melts  in  tears  each  tedious  hour 
Since  first  she  knew  her  lord  had  injured  her; 
Nor  lifts  her  eye,  nor  lifts  her  face  from  the  earth, 
Deaf  to  her  friends'  entreaties  as  a  rock, 
Or  billow  of  the  sea ;  save  when  she  turns 
Her  snowy  neck,  and  to  herself  bewails 
Her  father,  and  her  country,  and  her  house, 
Which  she  betray'd  to  follow  this  base  man, 
Who  treats  her  now  with  such  indignity. 
Affliction  now  hath  taught  her  what  it  is 
Not  to  forsake  a  parent  and  his  house. 
She  hates  her  children,  nor  with  pleasure  sees 

them. 

I  fear  her,  lest  she  form  some  strange  design ; 
For  violent  her  temper,  and  of  wrongs 
Impatient:  well  I  know  her,  and  I  fear  her, 
Lest,  in  the  dead  of  night,  when  all  are  laid 


EURIPIDES. 


121 


In  deep  repose,  she  steal  into  the  house, 

And  plunge  into  their  breast  the  piercing  sword; 

Or  murder  ev'n  the  monarch  of  the  land, 

Or  the  new-married  Jason,  on  herself 

Drawing  severer  ills :  for  like  a  storm 

Her  passions  swell :  and  he  that  dares  enrage  her 

Will  have  small  cause  to  boast  his  victory. 

But  see,  her  sons  from  the  gymnastic  ring 

Returning,  heedless  of  their  mother's  ills; 

For  youth  holds  no  society  with  grief. 

TUTOR,  with  the  Sons  o?  Medea,  NURSE. 

Tut.  Thou  old  domestic  servant  of  my  mistress, 
Why  dost  thou  take  thy  station  at  the  gates, 
And  ruminate  in  silence  on  thy  griefs'? 
How  hath  Medea  wish'd  to  be  alone  ? 

Nur.  Thou  good  old  man,  attendant  on  the  sons 
Of  Jason,  faithful  servants  with  their  lords 
Suffer  in  their  afflictions,  and  their  hearts 
Are  touch'd  with  social  sorrow;  and  my  griefs 
Swell,  for  Medea's  sufferings,  to  such  height, 
That  strong  desire  impell'd  me  to  come  forth, 
And  tell  them  to  the  earth  and  to  the  skies. 

Tut.  Admits  she  yet  no  respite  to  her  groans  ? 

Nur.  I  wonder  at  thee  :  no,  these  ills  but  now 
Are  rising,  to  their  height  not  yet  advanced. 

Tut.  Unwise,  if  of  our  lords  we  so  may  speak; 
Since  she  knows  nothing  of  more  recent  ills. 

Nur.  What  may  this  be  ?   refuse  not  to  inform 
me. 

Tut.  Nothing;  and  I  repent  of  what  I  said. 

Nur.  Nay,  by  thy  beard,  conceal  it  not  from 

me, 

Thy  fellow-servant :  if  occasion  calls 
For  secrecy,  in  silence  will  I  keep  it. 

Tut.  I  heard  one  say,  not  seeming  to  attend, 
But  passing  on  to  where  they  play  with  dice, 
Among  the  grave  old  men,  who  then  by  chance 
Were  sitting  near  Pirene's  hallow'd  stream, 
That  Creon,  lord  of  this  fair  land,  will  drive 
These  children  and  their  mother  from  the  state 
Of  Corinth  :  whether  this  report  be  true 
I  know  not,  but  I  wish  it  otherwise. 

Nur.  Will   Jason  bear  to  see   his  sons    thus 

wrong'd, 
Though  he  regards  their  mother  now  no  more  ? 

Tut.  To  new  alliances  the  old  gives  place, 
And  to  this  house  he  is  no  more  a  friend. 

Nur.  Ruin  would  follow,  to  the  former  ill 
If  this  were  added  ere  the  first  subsides. 

Tut.  Be  cautious  then  ;  it  were  unseasonable 
Our  queen  knew  this:  in  silence  close  thy  lips. 

Nur.  You  hear,  my  children,  how  your  father's 

mind 

Is  towards  you :  yet  I  wish  not  ruin  on  him ; 
He  is  my  lord,  though  to  his  friends  unkind. 

Tut.  What  mortal    knows   not — thou   mayst 

know  it  hence — 

Each  for  himself  conceives  a  dearer  love 
Than  for  his  neighbour;  some  by  glory,  some 
By  gain  induced:  what  \\omler,  then,  if  these, 
Of  his  new  nuptials  loud,  their  father  love  not? 

Nur.  Go  in,  my  children,  go:  all  will  be  well ; 
And  take  thou  heed,  keep   them  aloof,  nor  let 

them 

Come  near  their  mother  while  her  griefs  are  fresh : 
16 


Cruel  her  eye,  and  wild ;  I  mark'd  it  late, 
Expressive  of  some  dark  design  on  these: 
Nor  will  she  check  her  fury,  well  I  know, 
Till  the  storm  bursts  on  some  one :  may  its  stroke 
Fall  on  some  hostile  head,  not  on  a  friend. 

Med.  Wretch  that  I  am,  what  anguisk  rends 
my  heart !  [within. 

Wretched  Medea,  how  art  thou  undone ! 

Nur.  Ay,  thus  it  is.     Your  mother,  my  dear 

children, 

Swells  with  resentment,  swells  with  rage:  go  in, 
Go  quickly  in ;  but  come  not  in  her  eye, 
Approach  her  not,  but  keep  you  from  the  wild 
And  dreadful  fury  of  her  violent  temper. 
Go  now,  go  quickly  in  ;  this  rising  cloud 
Of  grief  forebodes  a  storm,  which  soon  will  fall 
With  greater  rage:  inflamed  with  injuries, 
What  will  not  her  tempestuous  spirit  dare  ? 

Med.  Ah  me !  ah  me !  what  mighty  wrongs  I 

bear, 

Wrongs  that  demand  my  tears  and  loud  laments ! 
Ye  sons  accursed  of  a  detested  mother, 
Perish,  together  with  your  father  perish, 
And  in  one  general  ruin  sink  your  house ! 

Nur.  Ah  me  unhappy !  in  their  father's  fault 
Why  make  thy  sons  associates  ?    Why  on  them 
Rises  thy  hatred  ?     0,  I  fear,  I  fear, 
My  children,  lest  some  evil  threatens  you. 
Kings  have  a  fiery  quality  of  soul, 
Accustom'd  to  command  ;  if  once  they  feel 
Control,  though  small,  their  anger  blazes  out, 
Not  easily  extinguish'd  ;  hence  I  deem 
An  equal  mediocrity  of  life 
More  to  be  wish'd ;  if  not  in  gorgeous  state, 
Yet  without  danger  glides  it  on  to  age. 
There's  a  protection  in  its  very  name, 
And  happiness  dwells  with  it :  but  the  height 
Of  towering  greatness  long  to  mortal  man 
Remains  not  fix'd;  and,  when  misfortune  comes 
Enraged,  in  deeper  ruin  sinks  the  house. 

NURSE,  CHORUS. 

Ch.  I  heard  the  voice,  I  heard  the  loud  laments 
Of  the  unhappy  Colchian  :  do  her  griefs 
(Say,  reverend  matron,)  find  no  respite  yet? 
From  the  door's  opening  valve  I  heard  her  voice. 
No  pleasure  in  the  sorrows  of  your  house 
I  take ;  for  deeds  are  done  not  grateful  to  me. 

Nur.  This  is  no  more   a  house ;   all  here  is 

vanish'd, 

Nor  leaves  a  trace  behind.    The  monarch's  house 
He  makes  his  own ;  while  my  unhappy  mistress 
In  her  lone  chamber  melts  her  life  away 
In  tears,  unmoved  by  all  the  arguments 
Urged  by  her  friends  to  soothe  her  sorrowing  soul. 

Med.  O  that  the  ethereal  lightning  on  this  head 
Would  fall!    Why  longer  should  I  wish  to  live? 
Unhappy  me !  Death  would  be  welcome  now, 
And  kindly  free  me  from  this  hated  life. 

Ch.  Dost  thou  hear  this,  O  Jove,  O  Earth,  0 

Light, 

The  mournful  voice  of  this  unhappy  dame? 
Why  thus  indulge  this  unabated  force 
Of  nuptial  love,  self-rigorous,  hastening  death? 
Let  it  not  be  thy  wish  :  if  a  new  bed 
Now  charms  thy  husband,  be  not  his  offence 


122 


EURIPIDES. 


Engraved  too  deep :  Jove  will  avenge  thy  wrongs  • 
Let  not  thy  sorrows  prey  upon  thy  heart. 

Med.  O  powerful  Themis,  O  revered  Diana, 
See  what  I  suffer,  though  with  sacred  oaths 
This  vile,  accursed  husband  I  had  bound.! 
O,  might  I  one  day  see  him  and  his  bride 
Rent  piecemeal  in  their  house,  who  unprovoked 
Have  dared  to  wrong  me  thus!  Alas,  my  father ! 
Alas,  my  country !  whom  my  shameful  flight 
Abandon'd,  having  first  my  brother  slain ! 

Nur.  You  hear  her  invocations,  how  she  calls 
On  Themis,  prompt  to  hear  the  suppliant's  vows; 
And  Jove,  the  avenger  of  neglected  oaths 
To  mortal  man :  nor  is  it  possible 
Her  fiery  transports  know  a  moment's  pause. 
Ch.  What  motives  can  be  urged  to  draw  her 

forth  ? 

Could  we  but  see  her,  would  she  hear  our  voice, 
Haply  our  pleaded  reason  might  avail 
To  soothe  her  soul,  and  mitigate  her  rage. 
My  zeal  shall  not  be  wanting  to  my  friends. 
Go  then,  persuade  her  forth ;  with  soft  address 
Allure  her  hither :  haste,  thou  friendly  dame, 
Ere  her  resentment  burst  on  those  within ; 
For  her  full  grief  swells  to  a  dreadful  height. 

Nur.  I  will  attempt  it,  though  I  fear  my  voice 
Will  not  prevail ,  yet  does  your  friendly  zeal 
Claim  from  me  this  return ;  but  to  her  slaves, 
When  they  approach  to  speak  to  her,  she  bears 
The  aspect  of  a  furious  lioness, 
That  watches  o'er  her  young.   If  thou  shouldst 

say 

That  men  of  former  times  were  unadvised, 
Shallow,  and  nothing  wise,  thou  wouldst  not  err; 
For  festivals,  for  banquets,  and  for  suppers, 
They  form'd  the  sprightly  song  that  charm'd  the 

ear, 

Making  life  cheerful ;  but  with  music's  power, 
And  the  sweet  symphony  of  varied  strains, 
They  knew  not  to  assuage  the  piercing  griefs 
That  rack  the  heart,  whence  deaths  and  ruthless 

deeds 

Spread  desolation :  here  to  soothe  the  soul 
With  lenient  songs  were  wisdom.     Where  the 

feast 

Is  spread,  why  raise  the  tuneful  voice  in  vain? 
The  table  richly  piled  hath  in  itself 
A  cheerfulness  that  wakes  the  heart  to  joy.* 


*  The  rites  derived  from  ancient  days 
With  thoughtless  reverence  we  praise, 
The  rites  that  taught  us  to  combine 
The  joys  of  music  and  of  wine ; 
That  bade  the  feast,  the  song,  the  bowl, 
O'erfill  the  saturated  soul, 
But  ne'er  the  lute  nor  lyre  applied 
To  soothe  despair  or  soften  pride, 
Nor  call'd  them  to  the  gloomy  cells, 
Where  Madness  raves,  and  Vengeance  swells, 
Where  Hate  sits  musing  to  betray, 
And  Murder  meditates  his  prey. 
To  dens  of  guilt  and  shades  of  care 
Ye  sons  of  melody  repair, 
Nor  deign  the  festive  hour  to  cloy 
With  superfluity  of  joy! 
Ah,  little  needs  the  minstrel's  power 
To  speed  the  light  convivial  hour; 
The  board  with  varied  plenty  crown'd 
May  spare  the  luxury  of  sound.— Dr.  Johnson. 


Ch.  I   heard   her   lamentations   mixed  with 

groans, 

Which  in  the  anguish  of  her  heart  she  vents ; 
And  on  her  faithless  husband,  who  betray'd 
Her  bed,  she  calls  aloud ;  upon  the  gods, 
Thus  basely  wrong'd,  she  calls,  attesting  Themis, 
Daughter  of  Jove,  the  arbitress  of  oaths, 
Who  led  her  to  the  shores  of  Greece,  across 
The  rolling  ocean,  when  the  shades  of  night 
Darken'd  its  waves,  and  steer'd  her  through  the 

straits. 


FROM  THE  HIPPOLYTUS. 

HIPPOLYTUS,  the  son  of  Theseus,  devoting  him- 
self to  the  service  of  Diana,  and  neglecting  Venus, 
draws  down  upon  himself  the  indignation  of  the 
latter  goddess,  which  cannot  be  appeased  but  by 
his  ruin.  For  this  purpose  she  inspires  Phcedra, 
his  father's  wife,  with  a  guilty  passion  for  her 
step-son,  which  she  in  vain  attempts  to  suppress. 
Her  nurse,  however,  extorts  the  secret  from  her 
mistress,  and,  contrary  to  her  commands,  reveals 
it  to  the  youth,  who  received  the  declaration  with 
the  abhorrence  it  deserved.  The  unhappy  Phae- 
dra, betrayed  and  disgraced,  resolves  on  imme- 
diate death,  and,  instigated  by  revenge,  dies  with 
a  letter  fastened  to  her  hand,  in  which  she  ac- 
cuses Hippolytus  of  having  committed  the  very 
crime  which  his  virtue  had  rejected  with  so  much 
horror.  The  accusation,  however,  is  believed  by 
the  king,  while  the  son,  flying  from  his  ven- 
geance, is  thrown  from  his  chariot,  and  dies,  but 
not  until  his  innocence  had  been  made  clear,  and 
reconciliation  effected  between  him  and  his  re- 
pentant father. 

Schlegel  commends  the  play  as  well  for  the 
sublime  beauty  of  its  hero,  as  for  the  propriety 
and  moral  strictness  observed  throughout,  on  so 
hazardous  a  subject. 

SCENE  AT  TRJEZENE. 
HIPPOLYTUS  and  ATTENDANTS. 

Hippolytus. 
Follow,  follow,  follow  me; 

To  Diana  raise  the  strain: 
Goddess  of  the  chase  is  she, 
And  admits  us  of  her  train. 

Attendants. 

Virgin  goddess  of  the  chase, 
Queen  of  every  noble  grace, 
Holy,  awe-commanding  power, 
Whom  to  Jove  Latona  bore, 
Hail,  Diana  !  and  again 

Hail ;  thou  most  beauteous  of  the  virgin  train, 
That  tread  the  wide-extended  realms  above 
Radiant,  and  grace  the  golden  courts  of  Jove ! 

Hippolytus. 
Hail,  Diana,  virgin  bright, 

Fairest  of  the  forms  divine, 
That  in  heaven's  ethereal  height 

Graced  with  beauty's  radiance  shine! 
Thee,  goddess,  to  adorn,  I  bring  this  crown 
Enwoven  with  the  various  flowers  that  deck 


EURIPIDES. 


123 


The  unshorn  mead,  where  never  shepherd  dared 
To  feed  his  flock,  and  the  scythe  never  came ; 
But  o'er  its  vernal  sweets  unshorn  the  bee 
Ranges  at  will,  and  modest  nature  rolls 
The  irriguous  streamlet ;  garish  art  hath  there 
No  share  :  of  these  the  modest  still  may  cull 
At  pleasure,  interdicted  to  the  impure ; 
But  for  thy  golden  tresses,  honour'd  queen, 
Receive  this  garland  from  my  pious  hands. 
To  me  alone  of  mortals  is  this  grace 
Vouchsafed,  to  share  thy  company,  to  hold 
Free  converse  with  thee,  and  to  hear  thy  voice, 
Though  not  permitted  to  behold  thy  face. 

Alt.  Say,  royal  youth  (for  we  should  call  the 

gods 

Alone  our  lords,)  wilt  thou  hear  counsel  from  me? 
Hip.  Most  willingly ;  I  else  should  seem  unwise. 
Att.  Know'st  thou  the  common  law  to  man 

prescribed  ? 
Hip.  I  know  not;  nor  thy  question,  what  it 

means. 
Att.  To  hate  whate'er  of  haughty  scorns  to 

please. 

Hip.  And  justly,  for  the  haughty  all  must  hate. 
Alt.  And  is  there  in  the  affable  a  grace? 
Hip.  Much,  and  with  little  labour  to  be  won. 
Att.  And  thinkest  thou  this    reaches    to   the 

gods? 
Hip.  It  must,  since  from  the  gods  we  have  our 

laws. 

*  Jilt.  Why  then  this  haughty  goddess  not  ad- 
dress ? 

Hip.  What  goddess?    But  be  cautious  of  offence. 
Att.  Venus,  that  hath  her  station  at  thy  gates. 
Hip.  Her  at  a  distance  I,  as  chaste,  salute. 
Alt.  Yet  is  she  haughty,  and  'mong  men  re- 
no  wn'd. 
Hip.  Each  different  gods  reveres,  and  different 

men. 
Alt.  Were  thy  thoughts  what  they  ought,  thou 

wouldst  be  bless'd. 

Hip.  A  god  revered  by  night  delights  not  me. 
Att.  Sacred  should  be  the  honour  of  the  gods. 
Hip.  Go,  my  companions,  pass  this  dome, 

prepare 

Provisions;  for  the  table  richly  spread 
After  the  chase  is  grateful.     I  must  see 
My  coursers  dress'd,  that  after  my  repast 
I  well  may  breathe  them  harness'd  to  the  car : 
But  to  thy  Venus  here  I  bid  farewell. 

Alt.  But  we,  with   better   thought,   (for  from 

young  men 

We  must  not  take  example,)  as  becomes 
Our  humble  station,  to  thy  image  pay 
Our  vows,  imperial  Venus:  be  it  thine 
To  pardon  him,  if  driven  by  headlong  youth 
He  speaks  imprudently :  do  thou  appear 
As  if  thou  heard'st  him  not;  it  well  becomes 
The  gods  to  be  more  wise  than  mortal  men. 

CHORUS. 

Strophe. 
There  is  a  rock  from  whose  deep  base 

The  bubbling  fountains  flow  ; 
And  from  the  top  we  sink  the  vase 

To  reach  the  stream  below. 


I  have  a  friend, 'who  thither  brought 
Her  vests,  with  radiant  purple  wrought, 

To  bathe  them  in  the  crystal  dews ; 
Then  on  the  rock's  steep  ridge  display 
To  the  warm  sun's  ethereal  ray 

Their  richly-tinctured  hues. 

Antistrophe. 
There  first  from  her  the  tidings  came 

That,  languishing  away, 
On  her  sick  couch,  the  royal  dame 

In  her  apartments  lay ; 
And,  every  eye  avoiding,  spread 
The  light  veil  o'er  her  golden  head. 

Three  days  from  food,  through  pining  grief 
Have  her  ambrosial  lips  refrain'd ; 
And,  with  some  secret  anguish  pain'd, 

From  death  she  hopes  relief. 

But  see,  the  aged  nurse  before  the  doors 
Supports  her  from  the  house :  a  gloomy  cloud 
Hangs  thickening  on  her  brow  :  what  this  may  be 
I  wish  to  know ;  and  why,  unhappy  queen, 
The  transient  bloom  is  faded  from  her  cheek. 

PH.EDRA,  NURSE,  CHORUS. 

Nur.  Unhappy  state  of  mortals,  thus  to  waste 
With   irksome    sickness!      What,   to   give   thee 

ease, 

Shall  I  attempt?     What  shall  I  not  attempt? 
Here  may'st  thou  view  the  light  of  heaven,  here 

breathe 

The  ethereal  air;  here  press  thy -sickly  couch 
Before  the  house ;  for  often  didst  thou  ask 
To  be  led  hither :  to  thy  chamber  soon 
Wilt  thou  return  ;  for  changeful  is  thy  mind, 
And  nothing  pleases ;  what  is  present  to  thee 
Delights  thee  not,  expecting"  more  of  good 
In  what  is  absent.     Sickness  hath  in  this 
Advantage  o'er  the  arts  that  work  its  cure : 
That  is  a  simple  ill ;  but  these  require 
Attentive  thought,  and  labour  of  the  hands. 
But  all  the  life  of  man  is  full  of  pain. 

PA.  Yet  bear  me  up  my  friends,  support  my 

head; 

I  have  no  strength :  you,  that  attend  me,  hold 
My  feeble  hands.     How  cumbrous  is  this  dress ! 
Ill  can  my  head  support  it ;  take  it  off, 
And  let  tliese  crisped  tresses  flow.     Ah  me ! 
Nur.  Be  cheer'd,  my  child,  nor  with  this  rest- 
less motion 

Weary  thy  weak  limbs :  easier  wilt  thou  bear 
Thy  sickness  resting  calmly,  and  thy  mind 
Arming  with  patience :  in  this  mortal  state 
None  are  exempt  from  struggling  with  their  ills. 
Ph.  O,  from  the  limpid  fountain  might  I  draw 
The  cooling  stream,  and,  on  the  grassy  bank 
Reclined,  beneath  the  poplars  rest  my  head  ! 
Nur.  What  means  that  wish?     Ah,  speak  not 

words  like  these 
To  many;  there  is  something  wild  in  them. 

Ph.  O,  bear  me  to  the  mountain ;  to  the  pines, 
The  forest  would  I  go,  where  the  fleet  hounds 
Pursue  the  dappled  hinds!     O,  by  the  gods 
I  long  to  cheer  the  dogs  of  chase,  to  wave 
O'er  my  bright  tresses  the  Thessalian  dart, 
And  grasp  the  pointed  javelin  in  my  hands ! 


124 


EURIPIDES. 


'Nur.  Whence  this  desire,  this  fondness  for  the 

chase  ? 

Why  from  the  limpid  fountain  wouldst  thou  take 
The  cooling  draught?     Beside  the  citadel 
Headlong  the  gushing  waters  roll  along 
The  living  stream :  thence  mayst  thou  slake  thy 

thirst. 

Ph.  Diana,  goddess  of  the  sacred  lake, 
And  of  the  equestrian  coursers,  in  thy  field 

0  how  I  long  to  tame  the  Henetian  steeds! 
Nur.  Why  are  thy  words  again   thus  wild? 

Ev'n  now 

The  mountain  and  the  chase  was  all  thy  wish  5 
Now  in  the  thirsty  sands  to  tame  the  steed. 
Ph.  What  have  I  done,  unhappy  as  I  am, 
And  whither  wandered  from  my  sober  sense? 

1  raved:  some  angry  god  hath  wrought  this  ill. 
Ah  me,  unhappy!     Let  thy  friendly  hand 
Cover  my  head  again:  I  am  ashamed 

Of  what  I  said  :  0  cover  me  :  the  tear 

Drops  from  mine  eye,  and  on  my  cheek  I  feel 

The  warm  blush  rise.     How  painful  when  the 

sense 

Resumes  its  former  functions !     To  be  mad 
Is  dreadful;  yet  in  this  a  softer  ill, 
We  have  no  sense  of  the  calamity. 

Nur.  Thy  head  again  I  cover ;  when  will  death 
Cover  my  body  ?     From  this  length  of  life 
Much  have  I  learn'd :  best  suited  to  the  state 
Of  mortal  life  are  mutual  friendships  form'd 
With  moderation,  such  as  take  not  root 
Deep  in  the  soul;  affections  that  with  ease 
May  be  relax'd,  or  closer  bound  at  will. 

Ch.  Thou  aged  matron,  faithful  from  her  youth 
To  the  imperial  Phaedra,  we  behold 
Her  cruel  sufferings ;  but  no  symptoms  mark 
What  her  disease  may  be,  of  this  we  wish 
To  make  inquiry,  and  to  learn  from  thee. 

Nur.  I  am  not  well    assured,  nor    will    she 

speak  it. 
Ch.  But  of  her  sufferings  what  may  be  the 

cause  ? 

Nur.  Nor  know  I  this,  for  she  conceals  it  all. 
Ch.  Beneath  her  malady  she  wastes  away. 
Nur.  No  food  for  three  long  days  hath  passed 

her  lips. 
Ch.  Through  sickness  this,  or  is  she  bent  on 

death  ? 
Nur.  From  food  abstaining  soon  her  life  must 

end. 

Ch.  This  sure  must  be  displeasing  to  her  lord. 
Nur.  She  hides  it  all,  and  speaks  not  of  her 

illness. 
CA.  But  he  must  mark  it  when  he  views  her 

face. 

Nur.  It  chances  he  is  absent  from  this  land. 
Ch.  Hast  thou  been  earnest  in  the  attempt  to 

learn 
What  her   disease,  and   what    thus    racks    her 

mind  ? 

Nur.  I  have  tried  all,  but  vain  are  my  attempts ; 
Yet  shall  I  not  e'en  now  abate  my  zeal. 
O  my  loved  child,  let  us  forget  the  words, 
We  each  have  spoke ;  do  thou  recall  thy  sweet 
And  gentle  nature;  clear  that  clouded  brow; 
Thou  shouldst  not  be  thus  silent.     Have  I  spoke 


Amiss?  reprove  me;  if  my  words  are  right, 
Assent  to  them.     What  is  it?  Speak. — By  dying 
Thy  sons  thou  wilt  betray,  nor  will  they  share 
The  rich  inheritance  of  their  father's  house. 
This  by  the  warlike  Amazonian  queen 
I  swear;  for  she  hath  left  a  son  to  lord  it 
Over  thy  sons,  of  spurious  birth  indeed, 
But  now  legitimate  thought,  thou   know'st  him 

well, 
Hippolytus — 

Ph.  Ah  me ! 

Nur.  Doth  it  then  touch  thee? 

Ph.  Thou  hast  undone  me ;  by  the  gods  I  beg 

thee, 
0  never  let  me  hear  that  name  again ! 

Nur.  Dost  thou  see  this?  thou  judgest  right; 

why  then 
Not  benefit  thy  sons,  and  save  thy  life? 

Ph.  I  love  my  sons !  another  storm  bursts  o'er 

me. 
Nur.  Thy  hands,  my  child,  are   innocent   of 

blood  ? 
Ph.  My    hands  are  guiltless,  but  my  heart's 

defiled. 
Nur.  Some  foreign  ill,  brought  on  thee  by  thy 

foes? 

PA.  I  by  a  friend,  unwilling  both,  am  ruin'd. 
Nur.  By  some  misdeed  hath  Theseus  injured 

thee? 
PA.  Would  I  were  found  not  to  have  injured 

him? 
Nur.  What  dreadful  thing    makes   thee  thus 

wish  to  die? 

PA.  Ill  would  beRill  thee,  should  I  tell  thee  all. 
Nur.  Can  worse  befall  me  than  the  loss  of 

thee  ? 
PA.  Go;   by  the  gods,  forbear,  and  quit  my 

hand. 

Nur.  Never,  till  thou  indulge  me  this  request. 
PA.  That  suppliant  hand  revering,  I  will  tell 

thee. 

Nur.  'Tis  mine  in  silence  to  attend  thy  words. 
PA.  Ah,  wouldst  thou  tell  me  what  is  mine  to 

speak  ? 

Nur.  I  am  no  prophetess  in  things  obscure. 
PA.  Ah,  tell  me  what  is  this  which  men  call 

love. 

Nur.  The  sweetest  pleasure  and  severest  pain. 
PA.  Taught  by  experience,  one  of  them  I  feel. 
Nur.  What  says  my  child?  Dost  thou  then  love 

some  man  ? 

PA.  Who  is  this  son  of  the  Amazonian  queen? 
Nur.  Hippolytus. 

PA.  By  thee  he's  named,  not  me. 

Nur.  Ah  me!  What  wouldst  thou  say?  O  thou 

hast  made  me 

Most  wretched.     No,  this  is  not  to  be  borne ; 
For  now  the  wise,  the  modest,  are  in  love 
(Not  willingly  indeed)  with  ill.     No  god 
Is  Venus  then  ?   Nay,  if  there  be  aught  else 
More  potent  than  a  god,  she  hath  undone 
My  royal  mistress,  me,  and  all  the  house. 

PA.  Trcezenian  dames,  who  this  remotest  verge 
Of  Pelops'  realms  inhabit,  through  the  long 
And  silent  night  oft  have  my  thoughts  revolved 
The  sad  depravity  of  human  life ; 


EURIPIDES. 


125 


How  prone  to  ill,  through  no  defect,  I  think, 
Of  nature ;  she  to  many  gives  the  sense 
Of  what  is  righ't ;  but  my  reflections  lead  me 
To  this  conclusion ;  what  is  good  we  know 
And  feel,  but  do  it  not ;  through  listlessness 
Some  want  the  spirit  to  act;  and  some  prefer 
Their  favourite  pleasure  to  the  work  of  virtue  ; 
For  life  hath  various  pleasures  ;  ill-spent  hours 
Of  frivolous  conversation,  indolence, 
A  pleasing  ill  and  shame ; — but  I  unfold 
The  workings  of  my  mind.     Soon  as  I  felt 
The  wound  of  love,  my  thoughts  were  turn'd 

how  best 

To  bear  it ;  hence  in  silence  I  conceal'd 
My  pains ;  my  next  resolve  was  to  o'ercome  it 
With  chaste  austerity.     When  these  avail'd  not 
To  vanquish  love,  I  deem'd  it  noblest  for  me 
To  die ;  these  resolutions  none  will  blame. 
I  knew  how  foul  this  fond  desire,  I  knew 
How  infamous,  and,  as  a  woman,  well 
I  knew  in  what  abhorrence  it  is  held. 
O,  that  she  perish'd,  suffering  every  ill, 
Who  with  adulterate  love  the  nuptial  bed 
First  shamed!     The  houses  of  the  great  gave 

birth 

To  this  disease ;  and  thence  the  infection  spread. 
For  when  base  deeds  from  those  of  highest  rank 
Receive  a  sanction,  all  below  esteem  them 
As  objects  of  their  honest  imitation. 
But  her  I  hate,  whose  tongue  to  modest  praise 
Is  filed,  while  thoughts  of  lewdness  in  her  heart 
She  dares  to  harbour.    Sovereign,  sea-born  Venus, 
How  can  such  look  their  husband  in  the  face, 
Nor  tremble  at  the  darkness  that  assists  them ; 
And  fear  the  roof,  the  walls  should  find  a  tongue 
To  publish  their  misdeeds  ?  I  will  not  live 
Dear  friends,  to    shame  my  husband  and  my 

children. 

Ch.  How  lovely  in  each  state  is  chastity, 
Which  brings  to  mortals,  the  sublimest  fame ! 

Nur.  A  sudden  terror,  lady,  seized  my  heart 
When  first  I  heard  thy  griefs ;  I  now  perceive 
My  weakness ;  it  is  ever  thus ;  the  thoughts 
Draw  wisdom  from  reflection.     Nothing  strange 
Affects  thee,  nothing  singular ;  severe 
The  anger  of  the  goddess  rushes  on  thee. 
Lov'st  thou?  What  wonder?  Many  feel  the  force 
Of  love;  wilt  thou  for  this  refuse  to  live? 
Ill  would  it  fare  with  those  that  love,  and  those 
That  shall  hereafter  love,  if  they  must  die; 
For  Venus  is  resistless,  when  she  comes 
In  all  her  force ;  but  gentle  to  the  heart 
That  to  her  influence  yields;  the  proud,  that  bids 
Scornful  defiance  to  her  power,  she  leizes, 
And,  as  too  well  thou  know'st,  chastises  him. 
She  ranges  through  the  sky,  and  in  the  sea 
Commands  the  waves;  and  all  things  owe  their 

birth 

To  her ;  she  sows,  she  gives  the  seeds  of  Love ; 
And  all  that  live  on  earth,  from  him  arise — 
Those  who  revolve  the  annals  of  old  times, 
And  those  who  tread  the  Muses1  hallow'd  haunts, 
Know  how  the  breast  of  Jove,  with  Semele 
Was  once  enamour'd  ;  to  the  heavenly  seats, 
How  beauteous,  bright  Aurora,  touch'd  with  love, 
Bore  Cephalus ;  yet  in  the  skies  they  hold 


Their  seats,  nor  fly  the  assemblies  of  the  gods, 
Who  hold  them  dear,  by  the  same  power,  I  ween, 
Themselves  subdued:  and  wilt  thou  not  sustain  it? 
It  were  too  nice  through  all  the  parts  of  life 
To  labour  at  exactness. — But  no  more 
Of  these  weak  thoughts,  of  these   thy  vain  en- 
deavours. 

To  be  more  perfect  than  the  gods.     Be  firm, 
If  love  hath  seized  thy  heart ;  it  is  the  work 
Of  love's  all-powerful  goddess ;  if  it  pains  thee, 
Try  to  relieve  thy  pain;  know,  there  are  charms, 
And  spells  of  wondrous  potency  to  heal 
The  sickness  of  the  soul ;  their  influence 
Shall  give  thee  ease.     In  their  inventions  slow 
Were  men,  but  readier  far  is  woman's  skill. 

Ph.  This  is  what  ruins  many  a  noble  house, 
And  many  a  peopled  town,  this  glorying  speech. 
Behoves  us  now  no  blandishment  that  charms 
The  ear,  but  what  excites  to  virtuous  deeds. 

Nur.  Wherefore  this  lofty  strain?  Thou  hast 

not  need 

Of  fine-formed  words,  but  of  a  man,  and  soon 
May  they  be  known  who  most  discreetly  speak 
What  so  concerns  thee.     If  this  malady 
Touch'd  not  thy  life,  and  modesty  prevail'd, 
I  would  not  for  thy  pleasure  and  thy  love 
To  this  have  led  thee ;  but  to  save  thy  life 
Is  the  great  business ;  let  not  that  find  blame. 

Ph.  Fye  on  thy  tongue !  Wilt  thou  not  close 

thy  lips  ? 
Wilt  thou  not  cease  to  urge  thy  shameful  plea? 

Nur.  It  may  be  shameful,  but  consults  for  thee 
Better  than  honour ;  it  would  save  thy  life, 
In  which  more  merit  lies  than  in  a  name, 
Glorying  in  which,  it  is  thy  wish  to  die. 

Ph.  Now,  by  the  gods  (for  shameful  are  thy 

words 

Though  well  design'd)  no  farther  urge  thy  plea, 
That,  if  I  give  my  yielding  soul  to  love, 
I  should  do  well ;  for  though  with  specious  phrase 
Thou  varnish  o'er  the  baseness,  I  should  fall 
On  that  disgrace  and  ruin  which  I  fly. 

Nur.  If  such  thy  resolution,  it  behoved  thee 
Not  from  the  right  to  deviate ;  but  ev'n  thus 
Be  ruled  by  me ;  do  me  this  grace  at  least : 
I  in  the  house  have  medicines,  of  power 
To  charm  the  rage  of  love  ;  these  to  my  thought 
Lately  occurr'd ;  let  not  thy  fears  prevail: 
They,  without  shame,  or  injury  to  sense, 
Will  ease  thee  of  this  sickness  of  the  mind. 
But  thou  must  have  some  token  from  the  youth 
Beloved,  some  word,  some  relic  of  his  vest, 
Of  two  in  union  close  to  knit  one  love. 

Ph.  An  unguent  or  a  potion  is  the  charm? 

Nur.  Wish  not  to  be  informed,  my  child,  but 
eased. 

Ph.  Too   much,   I  fear,   thou   trustest  to  thy 
wisdom. 

Nur.  Fear  every  thing,  be  sure :  what  dost  thou 
fear? 

PA.  Lest  to  the  son  of  Theseus  thou  disclose  it. 

Nur.  Confide  in  me:  my  care  shall  order  this 
Right  well :  do  thou,  O  sovereign,  sea-born  Venus, 
Do  thou  but  aid  me !  To  my  friends  within 
To  impart  the  rest  is  all  that's  needful  now. 

[Exit  NURSE. 

L2 


126 


EURIPIDES. 


,  CHORUS. 
Strophe  I. 
0  Love,  O  Love,  that  through  the  eyes 

Instillest  softly  warm  desire, 
Pleased  in  the  soul,  with  sweet  surprise, 

Entrancing  rapture  to  inspire  ; 
Never  with  wild,  ungovern'd  sway 
Rush  on  my  heart,  and  force  it  to  obey: 

For  not  the  lightning's  fire, 
Nor  stars  swift  darting  through  the  sky, 
Equal  the  shafts  sent  by  this  son  of  Jove, 
When  his  hand  gives  them  force  to  fly, 
Kindling  the  flames  of  love. 

dntistrophe  I. 
In  vain  at  Alpheus'  stream,  in  vain 

At  bright  Apollo's  Pythian  shrine, 
Doth  Greece,  the  votive  victim  slain, 
With  reverence  offer  rites  divine: 
To  him  who  holds  the  high  employ 
To  unlock  the  golden  gates  of  love  and  joy, 

No  honours  we  assign ; 

The  tyrant  of  the  human  breast, 

That  ravages  where'er  he  takes  his  way, 

And  sinks  mankind  with  woes  oppress'd 
Beneath  his  ruthless  sway. 

Strophe  II. 

Thee,  (Echalia's  blooming  pride, 
Virgin  yet  in  love  untried, 
Ne'er  before  by  Hymen  led, 
Stranger  to  the  nuptial  bed, 
Unexperienced,  hapless  fair, 
From  thy  house  with  wild  affright 
Hastening,  like  the  frantic  dame, 
That  to  the  Bacchic  orgies  speeds  her  flight, 
With  blood,  with  smoke,  with  flame, 
And  all  the  terrors  wild  of  war, 
To  nuptials  stain'd  with  gore  did  Venus  give, 
And  bade  Alcmena's  son  the  beauteous  prize 
receive. 

Jlntistrophe  II. 

Say,  ye  sacred  towers  that  stand 
Bulwarks  of  the  Theban  land ; 
And  ye  streams,  that  welling  play 
From  the  fount  of  Dirce,  say, 
How  to  you  came  the  Queen  of  Love: 
'Mid  the  lightning's  rapid  fire, 
While  around  her  thunders  roar, 
She  caused  the  blasted  Semele  to  expire, 
The  hapless  nymph  that  bore 
Bacchus  from  the  embrace  of  Jove. 
Thus  over  all  she  spreads  her  tyrant  power, 
As  restless  as  the  bee  that  roves  from  flower  to 
flower. 

Ph.  Be  silent,  0  my  friends,  I  am  undone. 
Ch.  What  is  there  dreadful,  Phaedra,  in  thy 

house  ? 

Ph.  Forbear,  that  I  may  hear  their  words  within. 
Ch.  Thy  words  forebode  some  ill :  but  I  am 

dumb. 

Ph.  Ah  me,  unhappy  me,  how  great  my  woes ! 
Ch.  What  mean  these  lamentations'?  Why  this 


Of  sorrow  ?  Tell  us,  lady,  what  thou  nearest, 
That  with  this  sudden  terror  strikes  thy  heart. 

Ph.  O  ruin,  min !  Stand  you  at  the  door 
And  hear  what  tumult  in  the  house  is  raised. 

Ch.  Thou  standest  nigh  the  door ;  and  from 

the  house 

Issuing,  the  voice  comes  to  thy  ear ;  but  tell  me, 
Tell  me,  what  dreadful  ill  hath  happen'd  thee1? 

Ph.  The  son  of  that  fierce  Amazon  is  loud ; 
And,  high  in  anger,  'gainst  my  servant  raves. 

Ch.  I  hear  his  voice,  but  to  my  ear  his  words 
Come  not  distinct;  to  thine  they  come,  to  thine 
The  doors  transmit  what  in  the  house  he  speaks. 

Ph.  He  calls  her  vile  procuress,  her  lord's  bed 
Falsely  betraying ;  that  I  hear  distinct. 

Ch.  Alas  for  thy  unhappy  fate  !    Loved  queen 
Thou  art  betray'd.  What  counsel  shall  I  give  thee  1 
The  secrets  of  thy  soul  are  all  disclosed, 
And  thou  art  ruin'd,  by  thy  friends  betray'd. 

Ph.  Yes,  she  hath  told  my  griefs,  and  so  un- 
done me. 

To  ease,  to  heal  the  sickness  of  my  soul, 
Friendly  her  purpose,  but  dishonourable. 

Ch.  What  then,  unhappy  sufferer,  wilt  thou  do  ? 

Ph.  I  know  not,  save  one  thing;  forthwith  to 

die. 
Death  is  the  only  cure  of  all  my  ills. 

PHJEDRA,  HIPPOLYTUS,  NURSE,  CHORUS. 
Hip.  O  parent  Earth,  and  thou,  all-seeing  Sun, 
What  words  of  horrid  import  have  I  heard ! 
Nur.  Ah,  speak  no  more,  lest  some  one  mark 

thy  words. 
Hip.  Not  speak !  mine  ears  thus  wounded  with 

thy  baseness  ? 
Nur.  Nay,  I  conjure  thee,   by  this  beauteous 

hand. 
Hip.  Away,  keep  off  thy  hands,  touch  not  my 

robes. 

Nur.  Thus  at  thy  knees  I  beg,  undo  me  not. 
Hip.  Why,  since  thou  say'st  thou  hast  spoke 

nothing  ill  ? 

Nur.  Affairs  like  this  may  not  be  told  to  all. 
Hip.  Things  honest  may  with  honour  be  made 

known. 

Nur.  Ah,  do  not  rashly  violate  thine  oath. 
Hip.  My  tongue  indeed  hath  sworn,  but  not 

my  mind. 
Nur.  What  wilt  thou  do?  in  ruin  sink   thy 

•friends'? 
Hip.  I  scorn  you,  nor  hold  friendship  with  the 

base. 
Nur.  Forgive  me:  human  weakness  oft  must 

err. 
Hip.  Wherefore,  0  Jove,  beneath  the  sun's  fair 

light, 

That  specious  mischief,  woman,  didst  thou  place  ? 
For  with  the  human  race  if  thou  wouldst  fill 
The  peopled  earth,  no  need  they  should  be  raised 
From  woman;  at  thy  shrines  might  men  present 
Iron,  or  brass,  or  heaps  of  massy  gold, 
To  purchase  children,  in  proportion  given 
For  the  rich  offering;  man  might  then  have  lived 
Free  and  uncumber'd  with  this  female  burden : 
But  now,  to  lead  this  mischief  to  our  house, 
Our  wealth,  must  be  expended.     Hence  appears 


EURIPIDES. 


127 


How  great  a  mischief  woman  is  to  man — 
The  father  who  begot  her,  bred  her  up, 
Gives  her  a  dowry,  to  another  house 
Consigning  her,  to  rid  him  of  the  ill ; 
He  who  receives  the  baleful  ill  rejoices ; 
Adding  each  splendid  ornament,  bright  gems 
And  robes,  and  all  the  riches  of  his  house 
On  her  exhausting.     Is  the  alliance  fornrd 
With  those  of  noble  rank  ?     He  must  perforce 
Keep  with  apparent  joy  the  uneasy  bed. 
Or  finds  he  in  his  choice  domestic  sweets, 
But  to  the  ignoble  and  the  base  allied  ? 
That  evil  he  suppresses  with  the  good. 
Happier  who    'scapes   both   these,  and   to   his 

house 

Leads  a  plain,  gentle-manner'd,  simple  wife. 
I  hate  the  knowing  dame,  nor  in  my  house 
Be  one  more  wise  than  woman  ought  to  be; 
For  Venus  in  these  knowing  dames  with  ease 
Engenders  wiles;  from  all  which  folly  far 
Simplicity  removes  the  unplotting  wit. 
But  female  servant  never  on  the  wife 
Should  be  attendant;  let  them  rather  dwell 
With  animals  that  want  the  power  of  speech, 
That   they   may   neither   have  with  whom   to 

talk, 

Nor  hear  their  conversation  in  return  ; 
But  now  the  wicked  mistress  in  the  house 
Contrives  her  wicked  purpose,  and  abroad 
The  base  attendant  bears  her  lewd  design. — 
So  thou,  vile  wretch,  art  come  to  me,  to  form 
Detested  commerce  with  my  father's  bed, 
Too  holy  to  be  touch'd ;  thy  impure  words 
Pollute  mine  ears ; — how  then  should  I  commit 
A  villany,  when  but  to  hear  it  named 
Defiles  me  ?     But  know  this,  my  piety 
Protects  thee,  woman ;  had  I  not  been  caught 
At  unawares,  bound  by  a  sacred  oath, 
I  never  could  have  held  me  from  disclosing 
This  to  my  father.    But  the  house,  while  Theseus 
Is  absent  from  his  country,  I  will  leave : 
Yet  shall  my  lips  be  closed :  when  he  returns, 
I  with  him  will  return;  then  shall  I  see 
How  you  will  look  my  father  in  the  face, 
Thou  and  thy  mistress :  I  shall  know  you  both, 
Conscious    of  your   attempts.      Perdition    seize 

you! 

My  soul  can  never  have  its  fill  of  hate 
Towards  women,  though  I  always  speak  my 

hate, 

For  they  are  always  wicked.     Either  see 
That  some  one  forms  your  sex  to  modesty, 
Or  let  me  always  taunt  you  with  reproach. 

[Exit  HIPPOLTTUS. 

Pna?DRA,  NURSE,  CHORUS. 

Ch.  How  wretched,  how  unfortunate  the  state 
Of  women  !     Disappointed  of  our  hopes, 
What  skill,  what  prudence  can  instruct  us  now 
To  free  thee  from  the  inextricable  toils  ? 

Ph.  This  punishment   is  just.     O  Earth!    0 

Light! 

How  shall  I  shun  my  fate,  or  how,  my  friends, 
Conceal  this  ill  ?     What  god  will  deign  to  aid, 
What  mortal  would  appear  confederate, 
Or  favouring  deeds  of  baseness  ?     From  this  ill 


Life  hath  no  refuge :  and  you  see  me  here, 
The  most  distress:d,  most  wretched  of  her  sex. 
Ch.  Ruin    indeed   hangs    o'er    thee ;    naught 

avail'd 

Thy  servant's  artful  trains ;  but  all  falls  ill. 
PA.  Vile  wretch,  thou  base  corrupter  of  thy 

friends, 
What  mischief  hast  thou  wrought  me  ?  May  great 

Jove, 

The  author  of  my  race,  with  lightning  blast  thee, 
And  sweep   thee  from  the   earth!     Did  I  not 

charge  thee 
(For  I  perceived  thy  purpose)  to  be  silent 
Of  what  afflicts  me  now  ?     But  thou  thy  tongue 
Could st  not  restrain;  I  therefore  shall  not  die 
With  glory:  new  resolves  must  now  be  form'd; 
For  he,  inflamed  with  rage,  will  to  his  father 
Disclose  my  fault,  to  aged  Pittheus  tell 
My  miseries,  and  all  the  country  round 
Spread  the  reproachful  story.     Perish  thou, 
And  all  like  thee,  that  by  inglorious  means 
Are  prompt   to  aid  their  friends  against  their 

will! 

Nur.  Thou,  lady,  I  confess,  hast  cause  to  blame 
What  I  have  done  amiss ;  for  what  afflicts  thee 
O'erpowers  cool  discretion.     Yet  this  plea, 
Wouldst  thou  admit  it,  I  might  urge ;  thy  years 
Of  infancy  I  nurtur'd,  and  my  heart 
Glows   with    affection   towards   thee :    for  thy 

pains 

I  sought  medicinal  relief,  but  found 
What  least  I  wish'd :  had  I  succeeded  well, 
I  had  been  reckon'd  'mong  the  wise :  our  minds 
Are  so  disposed,  to  judge  from  the  event. 

Ph.  I'll  hear  no  more;    thou   couldst  before 

advise 

What  honour  sickens  at,  and  thy  attempts 
Were  base ;  begone,  and  of  thyself  take  care. 
For  me,  as  honour  dictates  I  shall  act. 
Ye  generous  daughters  of  Troezene,  now 
Grant  me  one  poor  request ;  give  me  your  faith, 
In  silence  to  conceal  what  you  have  heard. 

Ch.  Daughter  of  Jove,  revered  Diana,  hear 
My  oath,  I  never  will  disclose  thine  ills. 

Ph.  'Tis  nobly  said.     Yet  one  thing  have  I 

found 

Revolving  deep,  to  alleviate  these  ills, 
That  to  my  children  I  may  add  a  life 
Of  glory,  and  in  this  affliction  give 
Myself  relief;  for  never  will  I  shame 
My  Cretan  lineage ;  never  will  I  come 
Into  the  presence  of  the  royal  Theseus 
Stain'd  with  this  baseness,  for  a  single  life. 
Ch.  What   desperate  deed  dost   thou    intend 

to  do? 

Ph.  To  die ;  but  how?  this  will  I  ponder  well. 
Ch.  Talk  not  thus  wildly. 
Ph.  And  be  thy  advice 

Less  wild.     Since  Venus  has  decreed  my  fall, 
This  day  by  quitting  life,  I  will  delight  her, 
And  yield  to  cruel  love  the  victory. 
Yet  to  another  shall  my  death  be  cause 
Of  ill ;  that  he  may  learn  not  to  be  proud 
At  my  afflictions,  but  by  sharing  them 
Be  taught  a  lesson  of  humanity. 


128 


EURIPIDES. 


FROM  THE  IPHIGENEIA  IN  AULIS. 
THE  combined  fleet  of  Greece  being  detained 
at  Aulis  by  contrary  winds,  the  Oracle  declared 
that  they  would  not  be  permitted  to  sail,  unless 
Iphigeneia  were  sacrificed  to  Diana ;  but  that  if 
the  goddess  were  thus  propitiated,  they  should 
reach  the  Phrygian  shore,  and  lay  the  towers  of 
Troy  level  with  the  ground.  Upon  this  Aga- 
memnon had  been  prevailed  on  to  send  for  his 
daughter,  under  pretence  of  giving  her  in  mar- 
riage to  Achilles.  Iphigeneia  arrives,  attended 
by  her  mother:  but,  instead  of  her  nuptials  with 
the  most  accomplished  of  all  the  Grecian  princes, 
finds  that  she  is  destined  to  bleed  as  a  victim  on 
the  altar  of  Diana. — The  character  of  Iphigeneia, 
though  drawn  with  feeling  and  tenderness,  and 
such  as  to  awake  our  softest  emotions,  is  not — 
as  Aristotle  has  remarked — quite  consistent  or 
well  sustained.  "Iphigeneia  imploring,  (says 
he,)  is  altogether  unlike  Iphigeneia  offering  up 
herself  a  willing  sacrifice." 

AGAMEMXOU,  CLYTEMJTESTHA,  IPHIGEITEIA,  AND 
CHOHUS. 

*  *  *  *         *  *  * 

Iph.  Had  I,  my  father,  the  persuasive  voice 
Of  Orpheus,  and  his  skill  to  charm  the  rocks 
To  follow  me,  and  soothe  whome'er  I  please 
With  winning  words,  I  would  make  trial  of  it : 
But  I  have  nothing  to  present  thee  now 
Save  tears,  my  only  eloquence ;  and  those 
I  can  present  thee.     On  thy  knees  I  hang 
A  suppliant.     Ah !  kill  me  not  in  youth's  fresh 

prime. 

Sweet  is  the  light  of  heaven :  compel  me  not 
What  is  beneath  to  view.     I  was  the  first 
To  call  thee  father,  me  thou  first  didst  call 
Thy  child.     I  was  the  first  that  on  thy  knees 
Fondly  caress'd  thee,  and  from  thee  received 
The  fond  caress :     This  was  thy  speech  to  me : 
Shall  I,  my  child,  e'er  see  thee  in  some  house 
Of  splendour,  happy  in  thy  husband,  live 
And  flourish,  as  becomes  my  dignity? 
My   speech   to   thee    was,   leaning    'gainst   thy 

cheek, 

Which  with  my  hand  I  now  caress,  and  what 
Shall  I  then  do  for  thee  ?     Shall  I  receive 
My  father  when  grown  old,  and  in  my  house 
Cheer  him  with  each  fond  office ;  to  repay 
The  careful  nurture  which  he  gave  my  youth  ? 
These  words  are  on  my  memory  deep  impress'd  : 
Thou  hast  forgot  them,  and  wilt  kill  thy  child. 
By  Pelops  I  entreat  thee,  by  thy  sire 
Atreus,  by  this  mother,  who  before 
Suffer'd  for  me  the  pangs  of  childbirth,  now 
These  pangs  again  to  suffer,  do  not  kill  me. 
If  Paris  be  enamour'd  of  his  bride, 
His  Helen,  what  concerns  it  me  ?  and  how 
Conies  he  to  my  destructio'n  ?     Look  upon  me. 
Give  me  a  smile,  give  me  a  kiss,  my  father, 
That,  if  my  words  persuade  thee  not,  in  death 
I  may  have  this  memorial  of  thy  love. 
My  brother,  small  assistance  canst  thou  give 
Thy  friends,  yet  for  thy  sister,  oh !  with  tears 
Implore  thy  father,  that  she  may  not  die : 
E'en  infants  have  a  sense  of  ills :  and  see, 


My  father,  silent  though  he  be,  he  sues 

To  thee :  be  gentle  to  me,  on  my  life 

Have  pity :  thy  two  children  by  this  beard 

Entreat  thee,  thy  dear  children ;  one  is  yet 

An  infant,  one  to  riper  years  arriv'd. 

I  will  sum  all  in  this,  which  shall  contain 

More  than  long  speech  ;  to  view  the  light  of  life 

To  mortals  is  most  sweet,  but  all  beneath 

Is  nothing :  of  his  senses  is  he  reft, 

Who  hath  a  wish  to  die ;  for  life,  though  ill 

Excels  whate'er  there  is  of  good  in  death. 

Ch.  For  thee  unhappy  Helen,  and  thy  love 
A  contest  dreadful,  and  surcharg'd  with  woes, 
For  the  Atridse  and  their  children  comes. 

Jlga.  What  calls   for  pity,  and  what   not,  I 

know : 

I  love  my  children,  else  I  should  be  void 
Of  reason :  to  dare  this  is  dreadful  to  me, 
And  not  to  dare  is  dreadful.     I  perforce 
Must  do  it.     What  a  naval  camp  is  here 
You  see,  how  many  kings  of  Greece  array'd 
In  glitt'ring  arms :  to  Ilium's  towers  are  these 
Denied  t'  advance,  unless  I  offer  thee 
A  victim,  thus  the  prophet  Calchas  speaks, 
Denied  from  her  foundations  to  o'erturn 
Illustrious  Troy ;  and  through  the  Grecian  host 
Maddens  the  fierce  desire  to  sail  with  speed 
'Gainst   the  barbarians'  land,  and  check   their 

rage 
For  Grecian  dames:  my  daughters  these   will 

slay 

At  Argos ;  you  too  will  they  slay,  and  me, 
Should  I,  the  goddess  not  revering,  make 
Of  none  effect  her  oracle. 

[Exit  AGAMEMWOIT. 
******* 

Iph.  To  suff 'rings  born,  the  human  race 
In  suff 'rings  pass  life's  little  space : 
Why,  since  misfortunes  'round  them  wait, 
Should  men  invite  their  cruel  fate  ? 

Ch.  Alas,  what  woes,  what  miseries,  hast  thou 

brought, 

Daughter  of  Tyndarus,  on  Greece !  but  thee, 
Unhappy  virgin,  by  this  flood  of  ills 
O'erwhelm'd  I  wail :  ah,  were  this  fate  not  thine! 

Iph.  My  mother,  what  a  crowd  of  men  I  see 
Advance ! 

Cly.  The  son  of  Thetis  with  them  comes, 

For  whom,  my  child,  I  led  thee  to  this  strand. 

Iph.  Open  the  doors  to  me,  ye  female  train, 
That  I  may  hide  myself. 

Cly.  Whom  dost  thou  fly  ? 

Iph.  Achilles,  whom  I  blush  to  see. 

Cly.  And  why? 

Iph.  These  ill-starr'd  nuptials  cover  me  with 
shame. 

Cly.  Nothing  of  pleasure  doth  thy  state  pre- 
sent. 
Yet  stay :  this  is  no  time  for  grave  reserve. 

Enter  ACHILLES. 

Ach.  Daughter  of  Leda,  O  unhappy  queen  ! 
Cly.  Thy  voice  speaks  nothing  false. 
JLch.  Among  the  Greeks 

Dreadful  the  clamour. 

Cly.  What  the  clamour  ?  suy. 


EURIPIDES. 


129 


Ach.  Touching  thy  daughter. 

Cly.  Thou  hast  said  what  bears 

No  happy  omen. 

Jich.  That  she  must  be  slain 

A  victim. 

Cly.          And  doth  none  against  this  speak? 

Ach.  I  was  with  outrage  threaten'd. 

Cly.  Stranger,  how  ? 

Ach.  To  be  o'erwhelm'd  with  stones. 

Cly.  Whilst  thou  wouldst  save 

My  child  ? 

Ach.  E'en  so. 

Cly.  Who  dar'd  to  touch  thee  ? 

Ach.  All 

The  Grecians. 

Cly.  Were  thy  troops  of  Myrmidons 

Not  present  to  thee  ? 

Ach.  They  were  first  in  rage. 

Cly.  Then  are  we  lost,  my  child. 

Ach.  They  cried  aloud 

That  I  was  vanquish 'd  by  a  woman. 

Cly.  Aught 

DMst  thou  reply? 

Ach.  That  her  who  was  to  be 

My  bride,  they  should  not  slay. 

Cly.  With  justice  urged. 

Ach.  Named  by  her  father  mine. 

Cly.  From  Argos  brought 

By  his  command. 

Ach.  In  vain  :  I  was  o'erpower'd 

By  their  rude  cries. 

Cly.  The  many  are  indeed 

A  dreadful  ill. 

Ach.  Yet  I  will  give  thee  aid. 

Cly.  May  thy  designs  succeed  ! 

Ach.  They  shall  succeed. 

Iph.  My  mother,  hear  ye  now  my  words :  for 

thee 

Offended  with  thy  husband  I  behold: 
Vain  anger!  for  where  force  will  take  its  way, 
To  struggle  is  not  easy.     Our  warm  thanks 
Are  to  this  stranger  for  his  prompt  good  will 
Most  justly  due:  yet,  it  behoves  ihee.  see 
Thou  art  not  by  the  army  charg'd  with  blame. 
Nothing  the  more  should  we  avail;  on  him 
Mischief  would   fall.     Hear   then   what   to  my 

mind 

Deliberate  thought  presents  :  it  is  decreed 
For  me  to  die:  this  then  1  wish,  to  die 
With  glory,  all  reluctance  bunish'd  far. 
My  mother,  weigh  this  well,  that  what  I  speak 
Is  honour's  dictate:  all  the  powers  of  Greece 
Have  now  their  eyes  on  me;   on  me  depends 
The  sailing  of  the  licet,  the  fall  of  Troy. 
By  dying,  all  these  things  shall  I  achieve. 
And  hle^t.  for  that  I  have  deliver'd  Greece. 
Shall  be  my  fame.     To  be  too  fond  of  life 
Becomes  not  me:  nor  for  thyself  alone, 
But  to  all  Greece,  a  blessing  didst  thou  bear  mo. 
Shall  thousands,  when  their  country's  injur'd,  lift 
Their  shields  ;  shall  thousands  grasp  the  oar,  and 

dare 

Advancing  bravely  'gainst  the  foes,  to  die 
For  Greece?  and  shall  my  life,  my  single  life 
Obstruct  all  this?  Would  this  be  just?  What  word 
Can  we  reply  ?     Nay,  more  ;  it  is  not  right 
17 


That  he  with  all  the  Grecians  should  contend 
In  fight,  should  die,  and  for  a  woman :  no ; 
More  than  a  thousand  women  is  one  man 
Worthy  to  see  the  light  of  life.     If  me 
The  chaste  Diana  wills  't  accept,  shall  I, 
A  mortal,  dare  oppose  her  heavenly  will? 
Vain  the  attempt :  for  Greece  I  give  my  life. 
Slay  me,  demolish  Troy :  for  these  shall  be 
Long  time  my  monuments,  my  children  these, 
My  nuptials,  and  my  glory.     It  is  meet 
That   Greece  should  o'er    Barbarians  bear    the 

sway, 

Not  that  Barbarians  lord  it  over  Greece : 
Nature  hath  form'd   them  slaves,  the  Grecians 
free. 

Ch.  Thine,  royal  virgin,  is  a  generous  part : 
But  harsh  what  Fortune  and  the  Goddess  wills. 

Ach.  Daughter  of  Agamemnon,  highly  blest 
Some  god  would  make  me,  if  I  might  attain 
Thy  nuptials.     Greece  in  thee  I  happy  deem, 
And  thee  in  Greece.    This  hast  thou  nobly  spoken, 
And  worthy  of  thy  country  :  to  contend 
Against  a  goddess  of  superior  power 
Desisting,  thou  hast  judg'd  the  public  good 
A  better,  nay  a  necessary  part. 
For  this  more  ardent  my  desire  to  gain  thee 
My  bride,  this  disposition  when  I  see, 
For  it  is  generous.     But  consider  well: 
To  do  thee  good,  to  lead  thee  to  my  house, 
Is  my  warm  wish ;  and  much  I  should  be  griev'd, 
Be  witness  Thetis,  if  I  save  thee  not 
In  arms  against  the  Grecians :  in  thy  thought 
Revolve  this  well :  death  is  a  dreadful  thing. 

Iph.  Reflecting  not  on  any,  this  I  speak : 
Enough  of  wars  and  slaughters  from  the  charms 
Of  Helen  rise :  but  die  not  thou  for  me, 

0  stranger,  nor  distain  thy  sword  with  blood; 
But  let  me  save  my  country  if  I  may. 

Ach.  O  glorious  spirit!  nought  have  I 'gainst this 
To  urge,  since  such  thy  will ;  for  what  thou  say'st 
Is  generous:  why  should  not  the  truth  be  spoken? 
But  of  thy  purpose  thou  may'st  yet  repent. 
Know  then  my  resolution:  I  will  go, 
And  nigh  the  altar  place  these  arms,  thy  death 
Preventing,  not  permitting;  thou  perchance 
.May'st  soon  approve  my  purpose,  nigh  thy  throat 
When  thou  shall  see  the  sword:  and  for  that 
cause 

1  will  not,  lor  a  rash  unweigh'd  resolve, 
Abandon  thee  to  die ;  but  with  these  arms 
Wait  near  Diana's  temple  till  thou  come. 

[Exit  ACHILLES. 
Iph.  Why,  mother,  dost  thou  shed  these  silent 

tears  ( 

Cly.  I  have  a  cruel  cause,  that  rends  my  heart. 
Iph.  Forbear,  nor  sink   my  spirit.     Grant  me 

this. 
Cly.  Say  what :  by  me  my  child  shall  ne'er  be 

wrong'd. 
Iph.  Clip  not  those  crisped  tresses  from  thy 

head, 
Nor  robe  thee  in  the  sable  garb  of  woe. 

Cly.  What  hast  thou  said,  my  child?   when 

thou  art  lost 

Iph.  Not  lost,  but  sav'd  :  through  me  thou  shalt 

be  fam'd. 


130 


EURIPIDES. 


Cly.  What,  for  thy  death  shall  I  not  mourn, 

my  child  ? 

Iph.  No,  since  for  me  a  tomb  shall  not  be  raised. 
Cly.  To  die  then,  is  not  that  to  be  entomb'd  ? 
Jph.  The  altar  of  the  goddess  is  my  tomb. 
Cly.  Well  dost  thou  speak,  my  child :  I  will 

comply. 
Iph.  And  deem  me  blest,  as  working  good  to 

Greece. 

Cly.  What  message  to  thy  sisters  shall  I  bear? 
Iph.  Them  too  array  not  in  the  garb  of  woe. 
Cly.  What  greetings  to  the  virgins  dost  thou 

send? 
Iph.  My    last   farewell.     To   manhood   train 

Orestes. 
Cly.  Embrace  him,  for  thou  ne'er   shalt  see 

him  more. 

Iph.  Far  as  thou  could'st,  thou  didst  assist  thy 
friends.  [To  ORESTES. 

Cly.  At  Argos  can  I  do  aught  pleasing  to  thee  ? 
Iph.  My  father,  and  thy  husband,  do  not  hate. 
Cly.  For  thy  dear  sake  fierce  contests  must  he 

bear. 
Iph.  For  Greece,   reluctant,  me  to  death  he 

yields. 

Cly.  Basely,  with  guile,  unworthy  Atreus'  son. 
Iph.  Who  goes  with  me,  and  leads  me,  by  the 

hair 
E'er  I  am  dragg'd  ? 

Cly.  I  will  go  with  thee. 

Iph.  No : 

That  were  unseemly. 

Cly.  Hanging  on  thy  robes. 

Iph.  Let  me  prevail,  my  mother ;  stay,  to  me 
As  more  becoming  this,  and  more  to  thee : 
Let  one  of  these,  th'  attendants  of  my  father, 
Conduct  me  to  Diana's  hallow'd  mead, 
Where  I  shall  fall  a  victim. 

Cly.  0  my  child, 

Dost  thou  then  go  ? 

Iph.  And  never  to  return. 

Cly.  And  wilt  thou  leave  thy  mother  ? 
Iph.  As  thou  seest, 

Not  as  I  merit. 

Cly.  Stay,  forsake  me  rot. 

Iph.  I  suffer  not  a  tear  to  fall.     But  you, 
Ye  virgins,  to  my  fate  attune  the  hymn, 
"Diana,  daughter  of  almighty  Jove." 
With  fav'ring  omens  sing  "  Success  to  Greece." 
Come,  with  the  basket  one  begin  the  rites, 
One  with  the  purifying  cakes  the  flames 
Enkindle ;  let  my  father  his  right  hand 
Place  on  the  altar ;  for  I  come  to  give 
Safety  to  Greece,  and  conquest  to  her  arms. 

Iph.  Lead  me :  mine  the  glorious  fate 
To  o'erturn  the  Phrygian  state ! 
Ilium's  towers  their  head  shall  bow, 
With  the  garlands  bind  my  brow, 
Bring  them,  be  these  tresses  crown'd. 
Round  the  shrine,  the  altar  round 
Bear  the  lavers,  which  you  fill 
From  the  pure  translucent  rill. 
High  your  choral  voices  raise, 
Tun'd"  to  hymn  Diana's  praise, 
Blest  Diana,  royal  maid. 
Since  the  fates  demand  my  aid, 


I  fulfil  their  awful  power 
By  my  slaughter,  by  my  gore. 

Ch.  Reverenc'd,  reverenc'd  mother,  now 
Thus  for  thee  our  tears  shall  flow : 
For  unhallow'd  would  a  tear 
Midst  the  solemn  rites  appear. 

Iph.  Swell  the  notes,  ye  virgin  train, 
To  Diana  swell  the  strain, 
Queen  of  Chalcis,  adverse  land, 
Queen  of  Aulis,  on  whose  strand, 
Winding  to  a  narrow  bay, 
Fierce  to  take  its  angry  way 
Waits  the  war,  and  calls  on  me 
Its  retarded  force  to  free. 
O  my  country,  where  these  eyes 
Open'd  on  Pelasgic  skies ! 
O  ye  virgins,  once  my  pride, 
In  Mycenae  who  reside ! 

Ch.  Why  of  Perseus  name  the  town 
Which  Cyclopean  rampires  crown1? 

Iph.  Me  you  rear'd  a  beam  of  light : 
Freely  now  I  sink  in  night. 

Ch.  And  for  this,  immortal  fame, 
Virgin,  shall  attend  thy  name. 

Iph.  Ah.  thou  beaming  lamp  of  day, 
Jove-born,  bright,  oetherial  ray, 
Other  regions  we  await, 
Other  life,  and  other  fate ! 
Farewell,  beauteous  lamp  of  day, 
Farewell,  bright  astherial  ray! 

[Exit  IPHIGEXEIA. 

Ch.  See,  she  goes  :  her  glorious  fate 
To  o'erturn  the  Phrygian  state  : 
Soon  the  wreaths  shall  bind  her  brow  ; 
Soon  the  lustral  waters  flow  ; 
Soon  that  beauteous  neck  shall  feel 
Piercing  deep  the  fatal  steel, 
And  the  ruthless  altar  o'er 
Sprinkle  drops  of  gushing  gore. 
By  thy  father's  dread  command 
There  the  cleansing  lavers  stand ; 
There  in  arms  the  Grecian  powers 
Burn  to  march  'gainst  Ilium's  towers. 
But  our  voices  let  us  raise, 
Tun'd  to  hymn  Diana's  praise, 
Virgin  d  aughter  she  of  Jove, 
Queen  among  the  gods  above, 
That  with  conquest  and  renown 
She  the  arms  of  Greece  may  crown. 
To  thee,  dread  power,  we  make  our  vows, 
Pleas'd  when  the  blood  of  human  victims  flows. 

To  Phrygia's  hostile  strand, 
Where  rise  perfidious  Ilium's  hated  towers, 
Waft,  O  waft  the  Grecian  powers, 

And  aid  this  martial  band  ! 
On  Agamemnon's  honour'd  head, 
Whilst  wide  the  spears  of  Greece  their  terrors 

spread, 
Th'  immortal  crown  let  conquest  place, 

With  glory's  brightest  grace. 

Enter  MESSENGER. 

Mess.  0  royal  Clytemnestra,  from  the  house 
Hither    advance,    that    thou    may'st   hear    my 
words. 


EURIPIDES. 


131 


Cly.  Hearing  thy  voice  I  come,  but  with  affright 
And  terror  trembling,  lest  thy  coining  bring 
Tidings  of  other  woes,  beyond  what  now 
AHlict  me. 

Mess.         Of  thy  daughter  have  I  things 
Astonishing  and  awful  to  relate. 

Cly.  Delay  not  then,  but,  speak  them  instantly. 

Mess.  Yes,  honour'd  lady,  thou  shall  hear  them 

all 

Distinct  from  first  to  last,  if  that  my  sense 
Disorder 'tl  be  not  faithless  to  my  tongue. 
When  to  Diana's  grove  and  flow'ry  meads 
We  came,  where   stood  th'  assembled  host  of 

Greece, 

Leading  thy  daughter,  straight  in  close  array 
Was  form'd  the  band  of  Argives :  but  the  chief, 
Imperial  Agamemnon,  when  he  saw 
His  daughter  as  a  victim  to  the  grove 
Advancing,  groan'd,  and  bursting  into  tears 
Tnrn'd  from  the  biyht  his  head,  before  his  eyes 
Holding  his  robe.     The  virgin  near  him  stood, 
And  thus  address'd  him:  "Father,  I  to  thee 
Am  present:  ibr  my  country,  and  for  all 
The  land  of  Greece  I  freely  give  myself 
A  victim  :  to  the  altar  let  them  lead  me, 
Since  such  the  oracle.     If  aught  on  me 
Depends,  be  happy,  and  attain  the  prize 
Of  glorious  conquest,  and  revisit  safe 
Your  country:  of  the  Grecians  for  this  cause 
Let  no  one  touch  me ;   with  intrepid  spirit 
Silent  will  I  present  my  neck."     She  spoke, 
And  all,  that  heard,  admir'd  the  noble  soul 
And  virtue  of  the  virgin.     In  the  midst 
Talthybius  standing,  such  his  charge,  proclaim'd 
Silence  to  all  the  host:  and  Calchas  now, 
The  prophet,  in  the  golden  basket  plac'd 
Drawn  from  its   sheath  the  sharp-edged  sword, 

and  bound 

The  sacred  garlands  round  the  virgin's  head. 
The  son  of  Peleus,  holding  in  his  hands 
The  basket  and  the  laver,  circled  round 
The  altar  of  the  goddess,  and  thus  spoke: 
"Daughter  of  Jove,  Diana,  in  the  chase 
Of  savage  beasts  delighting,  through  the  night 
Who  rollest  thy  resplendent  orb,  accept 
This  victim,  which  th'  associate  troops  of  Greece, 
And  Agamemnon,  our  imperial  chief, 
Present  to  thee,  the  unpolluted  blood 
Now  fiom  this  beauteous  virgin's  neck  to  flow. 
Grant  that  secure  onr  llr-i-  may  plough  the  main, 
And  that  our  arms  may  lay  the  rampir'd  walls 
Of  Troy  in  dust."     The  son  of  Atreus  stood, 
And  all  the  host  fix'd  on  the  ground  their  eyes. 
The  priest  then    took  the    sword,   preferr'd   his 

pray'r, 

And  with  his  eye  mark'd  where  to  give  the  blow. 
My  heart  with  grief  sunk  in  me.  on  the  earth 
.Mine  eyes  were  east;   when  sudde;)  to  the  view 
A  wonder;   for  the  stroke  each  clearly  heard, 
But  where  the  virgin  was  none  knew  :  aloud 
The  priest  exclaims,  and  all  the  host  with  shouts 
Rifted  the  air,  beholding  from  some  god 
A  prodigy,  which  struck  their  wond'ring  eyes, 
Surpassing  faith  when  seen  :  for  on  the  ground 
Panting  was  laid  a  hind  of  largest  bulk, 
In  form  excelling;  with  its  spouting  blood 


Much  was  the  altar  of  the  goddess  dew'd. 
Calchas  at  this,  think  with  what  joy,  exclaim'd  ; 
"  Ye  leaders  of  th'  united  host  of  Greece, 
See  you  this  victim,  by  the  goddess  brought, 
And  at  her  altar  laid,  a  mountain  hind? 
This,  rather  than  the  virgin,  she  accepts, 
Not  with  the  rich  stream  of  her  noble  blood 
To  stain  the  altar ;   this  she  hath  received 
Of  her  free  grace,  and  gives  a  fav'ring  gale 
To  swell  our  sails,  and  bear  th'  invading  war 
To  Ilium  :  therefore  rouse,  ye  naval  train, 
Your  courage ;  to  your  ships  ;  for  we  this  day, 
Leaving  the  deep  recesses  of  this  shore, 
Must  pass  th'  JEgean.  sea."     Soon  as  the  flames 
The  victim  had  consum'd,  he  pour'd  a  prayer 
That  o'er  the  waves  the  host  might  plow  their 

way. 

Me  Agamemnon  sends,  that  I  should  bear 
To  thee  these  tidings,  and  declare  what  fate 
The  gods  assign  him,  and  through  Greece  't  ob- 
tain 

Immortal  glory.     What  I  now  relate 
I  saw,  for  I  was  present :  to  the  gods 
Thy  daughter,  be  thou  well  assur'd,  is  fled, 
Therefore  lament  no  more,  no  more  retain 
Thy  anger  'gainst  thy  lord:  to  mortal  men 
Things  unexpected  oft  the  gods  dispense, 
And,  whom  they  love,  they  save :  this  day  hath 

seen 
Thy  daughter  dead,  seen  her  alive  again. 

Ch,  His  tidings  with  what  transport  do  I  hear! 
Thy  daughter  lives,  and  lives  among  the  gods. 
Cly.  And  have  the  gods,  my  daughter,  borne 

thee  hence  ? 

How  then  shall  I  address  thee?  or  of  this 
How  deem  ?  vain  words,  perchance,  to  comfort 

me? 

And  soothe  to  peace  the  anguish  of  my  soul. 
Mess.  But  Agamemnon  comes,  and  will  con- 
firm 

Each  circumstance  which  thou  hast  heard  from 
me. 

Enter  AGAMEMJTOX. 

Jlga.  Lady,  we  have  much  cause  to  think  our- 
selves, 
Touching  our   daughter,  blest:  for  'mongst  the 

gods 

Commercing  she  in  truth  resides.     But  thee 
Behoves  it  with  thine  infant  son  return 
To  Argos,  for  the  troops  with  ardour  haste 
To  sail.    And  now  farewell :  my  greetings  to  thee 
From  Troy  will  be  unfrequent,  and  at  times 
Of  distant  interval :  may'st  thou  be  blest! 

Ch.  With  joy,  Atrides,  reach  the  Phrygian  shore; 
With  joy  return  to  Greece,  and  bring  with  thee 
Bright  conquest,  and  the  glorious  spoils  of  Troy. 


FROM  THE  HECUBA. 

WHILE  the  Grecian  licet  N  detained  on  the 
coast  of  Thrace,  the  ghost  of  Achilles  appears  at 
night  and  demands  the  sacrifice  of  Polyxena,  the 
daughter  of  Priam,  who  is,  accordingly,  torn  from 
the  embraces  of  her  mother,  and  put  to  death. 
Shortly  after,  a  dead  body  is  cast  on  shore,  which 


132 


EURIPIDES. 


Hecuba  recognises  to  be  that  of  her  son  Polydorus, 
whom  Polymnestor,his  guardian,  had  barbarously 
murdered,  in  order  to  secure  the  treasures  with 
which  the  young  man  had  been  supplied  by  his 
indulgent  father.  Bent  on  revenge,  Hecuba  sends 
for  the  perfidious  monarch  and  his  two  sons, 
under  pretence  of  discovering  to  them  further 
treasures, — then  seizing  a  favourable  opportunity, 
has  the  two  princes  put  to  death,  and  Polym- 
nestor  deprived  of  his  eyes.  This  outrage  is 
made  the  subject  of  formal  complaint  to  Aga- 
memnon, who  justifies  and  sustains  Hecuba. 

HECUBA,  CHORUS. 

Chorus. 

Tell  me,  ye  gales,  ye  rising  gales, 
That  lightly  sweep  along  the  azure  plain, 

Whose  soft  breath  fills  the  swelling  sails, 
And  wafts  the  vessel  dancing  o'er  the  main, 

Whither,  ah !  whither  will  ye  bear 

This  sick'ning  daughter  of  despair  ? 
What  proud  lord's  rigour  shall  the  slave  deplore 
On  Doric  or  on  Pythian  shore  ? 

Where  the  rich  father  of  translucent  floods, 
Apidanus,  pours  his  headlong  waves, 

Through    sunny    plains,    through    darksome 

woods, 

And  wkh  his  copious  stream  the  fertile  valley 
laves  ? 

Or  shall  the  wave-impelling  oar 
Bear  to  the  hallow'd  isle  my  frantic  woes, 

Beneath  whose  base  the  billows  roar, 
And  my  hard  house  of  bondage  round  enclose  ? 

Where  the  new  palm,  the  laurel  where 

Shoot  their  first  branches  to  the  air, 
Spread  their  green  honours  o  er  Latona's  head, 

And  interweave  their  sacred  shade. 
There,  'midst  the  Deliaii  nymphs  awake  the  lyre, 

To  the  Dian  sound  the  solemn  strain, 
Her  tresses  bound  in  golden  wire, 

Queen  of  the  silver  bow,  and  goddess  of  the 
plain. 

Or  where  th'  Athenian  tow'rs  arise, 
Shall  these  hands  weave  the  woof,  whose  radiant 
glow 

Rivals  the  flow'r — impurpled  dies 
That  in  the  bosom  of  the  young  spring  blow: 

Alas,  .my  children  !  battle-slain  ! 
Alas,  my  parents !  Let  me  drop  the  tear, 

And  raise  the  mournful,  plaintive  strain, 
Your  loss  lamenting  and  misfortune  drear. 

Thee,  chief,  imperial  Troy,  thy  state 

I  mourn  deserted,  desolate; 

Thy  walls,  thy  bulwarks  smoking  on  the  ground, 
The  sword  of  Greece  triumphant  round, 

I,  far  from  Asia,  on  the  wide  sea  borne, 
In  some  strange  land  am  called  a  slave. 

Outcast  to  insolence  and  scorn, 
And  for  my  nuptial  bed  find  a  detested  grave. 

TALTHYBIUS,  HECUBA,  CHORUS. 

Tal.  Tell  me,  ye  Trojan  dames,  where  shall  I 

find 
Th'  afflicted  matron,  late  the  queen  of  Troy  ? 

Ch.  Near  thee,  Talthybius,  on  the  ground  she  lies, 
In  her  robes  muffled. 


Tal.  O  supreme  of  heav'n, 

What  shall  we  say?  That  thy  firm  providence 
Regards  mankind?  or  vain  the  thoughts,  which 

deem 

That  the  just  gods  are  rulers  in  the  sky, 
Since  tyrant  Fortune  lords  it  o'er  the  world ! 
Was  not  she  queen  of  Phrygia,  rich  in  gold  ? 
Was  not  she  wife  of  Priam,  blest  with  pow'r  ? 
But  now  her  vanquished  empire  is  no  more ; 
Herself  a  slave,  old,  childless,  on  the  ground 
She  lies,  and  soils  her  hoar  head  in  the  dust. 
Alas  the  change !  I  too  am  old  ;  be  death 
My  portion,  e'er  I  sink  to  that  low  fortune. — 
Rise,  thou  afflicted,  stand  on  thy  feet,  hold  up 
Thy  reverend  head. 

Hcc.  Disturb  me  not :  who  art  thou, 

That  wilt  not  let  iny  sorrows  lie  on  the  earth? 
Why  dost  thou  raise  me,  whosoe'er  thou  art? 

Tal.  I  am  Talthybius,  herald  of  the  Greeks, 
By  Agamemnon,  lady,  sent  for  thee. 

Hec.  O  welcome,  welcome :  have  the  Greeks 

decreed 

To  slay  me  also  at  the  tomb?  These  tidings 
Are  full  of  joy:  haste,  quick  lead  me,  old  man. 

Tal.  That  thy  dead  daughter,  lady,  in  the  earth 
Thou  may'st  entomb,  attending  thee  I  come, 
Sent  by  the  sons  of  Atreus,  and  the  host. 

Hec.  Alas,  what  wilt  thou  say?    Com'st  thou 

not.  then 
Charg'd   with    my  death,   but  with    this    bitter 

message? 

Torn  from  thy  mother,  art  thou  dead,  my  child? 
Am  I  bereaved  of  thee  ?     Ah  wretched  me  ! 
But  were  ye  gentle  in  your  butchery? 
Or  did  stern  rigour  steel  your  hostile  hearts? 
Tell  me,  old  man,  no  pleasing  tale  at  best. 

Tal.  Twice,  lady,  shall  I  wipe  the  tearful  eye, 
In  pity  of  thy  daughter;  when  she  died, 
The  warm  drop  fell;  now  shall  it  fall  again, 
As  I  relate  each  mournful  circumstance. 
Th'  assembled  host  of  Greece  before  the  tomb 
Stood  in  full  ranks  at  this  sad  sacrifice; 
Achilles'  son,  holding  the  virgin's  hand, 
On  the  mound's  extreme  summit;  near  him  I; 
An  honourable  train  of  chosen  youths, 
In  readiness  her  struggles  to  restrain, 
Followed;  the  golden  goblet  crown'd  with  wine, 
The  hero's  son  then  took,  and  with  his  hand 
Pour'd  the  libation  to  his  father's  shade 
At  his  high  bidding  I  aloud,  proclaim'*! 
Silence  through  all  the  host;  and  all  were  silent. 
Then  he:  "0  son  of  Peleu.s,  0  my  father, 
Accept  my  offerings,  which  evoke,  which  soothe 
The  dead  :  O  come,  drink  the  pure  purple  stream 
Which  from  this  virgin  we  present  to  thee. 
Loose  all  our  cables,  wing  our  flying  sails, 
Propitious  give  us  to  return  from  Troy, 
And  safe  revisit  our  paternal  Greece." 
He  spoke,  and  with  him  all  the  people  pray'd. 
Then  taking  by  the  hilt  his  golden  sword, 
He  drew  it  from  the  scabbard :  at  his  nod 
The  noble  youths  advanc'd  to  hold  the  virgin  ; 
Which  she  perceiving,  with  these  words  address'd 

them  : 

"  Ye  Greeks,  beneath  whose  arms  my  country  fe  11, 
Willing  I  die  j  let  no  hand  touch  me ;  boldly 


EURIPIDES. 


133 


To  the  uplifted  sword  I  hold  my  neck: 

You  give  me  to  the  gods ;  then  give  me  free ; 

Free  let  me  die ;  nor  let  a  royal  maid 

Blush  'mongst  the  dead  to  hear  the  name  of  slave." 

Loud  was  th'  applause  :  the  royal  Agamemnon 

Commands  that  none  should  touch  her ;  at  the 

voice 

Of  their  great  chief  th'  obedient  youths  retire. 
Soon  as  she  heard  th'  imperial  word,  she  took 
Her  robe,  and  from  her  shoulder  rent  it  down, 
And  bared  her  bosom,  bare d  her  polish'd  breast, 
Beauteous  beyond  the  sculptor's  nicest  art. 
Then  bending  to  the  earth  her  knee  she  spoke, 
Words  the  most  mournful  sure  that  ear  e'er  heard. 
If  'tis  thy  will,  young  man,  to  strike  this  bosom, 
Strike:  or  my  throat  dost  thou  require?  behold 
Stretch'd  to  thy  sword  my  throat.''     Awhile  he 

paus'd 

In  pity  of  the  virgin ;  then  reluctant 
Deep  in  her  bosom  plung'd  the  fatal  steel  5 
Her  life  blood  gush'd  in  streams:  yet  e'en  in  death 
Studious  of  modesty:  compos'd  she  fell, 
And  cover'd  with  her  robe's  her  decent  limbs. 
Hec.  O  my  poor  child!    Which  first  shall   I 

bewail 

'Midst  this  immensity  of  ills?  If  one 
Engage  my  thoughts,  another  rushes  on, 
Bringing  distraction ;  sorrow  throngs  on  sorrow, 
And  misery  to  misery  succeeds. 
But  now  the  mem'ry  of  thy  cruel  fate 
From  my  sad  heart  shall  never  be  eras'd. 
Yet  this  alleviates.     Nobly  didst  thou  die. 
If  favour'd  by  the  heav'ns  th'  unfertile  soil 
T'-'-nis  with  tin;  golden  grain;  and  if  the  fertile, 
Robb'd  of  due  culture,  brings  forth  nought  but 

weeds, 

We  wonder  not;  with  man  it  is  not  so; 
The  bad  can  never  be  but  bad,  the  good 
But  good;  uninjur'd  by  calamity, 
His  nature  braves  the  storm,  and  is  good  always. 
But  whence  this  difference?  from  the  parents  is  it, 
Or  from  instruction?   In  the  school  of  honour 
Is  virtue  learnt:  and  he,  that's  nurtured  there, 
Knows  by  the  law  of  honour  what  is  base. 
But  all  in  vain  I  bolt  my  sentences, 
(io  thou,  require  the  (Grecians  not  to  touch 
Mv  daughter:  no;  but  keep  the  rabble  from  her: 
In  a  larL'e  army  r-onie  are  riotous; 
Like  wildfire  runs  the  sailor's  insolence, 
And  not  to  be  flagitious  is  a  crime. 
And  thou,  my  old  attendant,  take  thy  urn, 
Dip  in  the  sea.  and  bring  the  briny  wave. 
That  with  the  last  ablutions  I  may  bathe  her, 
Not  for  the  bridal  bed.  but  for  the  tomb. 
But  I  will  grace  her  obsequies  with  a  1 
The  honours  she  deserves:  ah,  whence?  I  have 

not 

Wherewith  to  grace  them;  as  I  may:  then  what 
What  shall  I  do?   From  the  poor  captive  dames 
That  sit  around  me  in  your  lordly  tents, 
I  will  collect  what  little  ornaments 

i    from   her   former   house   hath  snatch'd  by 

tith, 

And  kept  by  these  new  masters  unobserv'd. 
led  splendours  of  my  house  :  O  house 
Once  fortunate !  0  Priam,  on  whose  state 


Magnific  wealth  attended,  in  thy  children 
Supremely  blest,  I  too  was  blest  in  them : 
-low  are  we  fall'n,  from  all  our  greatness  fall'n. 

Chorus. 

Stro.  Dreadful  Discord  first  arose, 
Leading  dangers,  leading  woes, 
Destruction  joiri'd  the  train, 
When  in  Ida's  forests  hoar 
Paris  hew'd  the  vent'rous  oar, 

And  dash'd  it  in  the  main : 
In  gallant  trim  the  vessel  cuts  its  way, 

And  wafts  the  wanton  boy  to  Helen's  arms ; 
In  his  wide  course  yon  radiant  orb  of  day 
Ne'er  with  his  golden  beams  illumin'd  brighter 

charms. 

Antis.  Toil  on  toil,  a  hideous  band 
Ruthless  Ruin's  iron  hand, 

Vindictive  close  us  round. 
Simois,  o'er  thy  verdant  meads 
Desolation  frowning  treads, 

And  blasts  the  goodly  ground ; 
E'er  since  the  Phrygian  shepherd,  blind  to  fate, 

'Midst  the  contending  beauties  of  the  skies 
Adjudg'd  the  palm,  inexorable  hate, 

And  war,  and  death,  and  havoc  round  us  rise. 
Epod.  Nor  on  Simois'  banks  alone, 
Sighs  the  sad  and  plaintive  moan, 

Or  Ilion's  wasted  plain ; 
Nigh  Eurota's  silver  tide, 
Many  a  tear  the  Spartan  bride 
Pours  for  her  lover  slain ; 
There  for  her  children  lost  in  wild  despair, 

The  frantic  mother  bids  her  sorrows  flow ; 
Rends  from  her  rev'rend  head  her  hoary  hair, 
And  tears  her  bleed  ing  cheeks  in  agonies  of  woe. 

Female  ATTKXDAXT,  CHORUS,  HECUBA. 

Att.  Daughters  of  Troy,  say  where  is  Hecuba  ! 
Who  in  the  dreadful  combat  of  affliction, 
Unmatch'd  surpasses  all  of  human  race  ; 
That  crown  nor  man  nor  woman  bears  from  her. 

Ch.  What  new  misfortune  jars  upon  thy  tongue, 
That  thy  discordant  clamours  never  sleep? 

Att.  To  Hecuba  I  bring  this  grief;  in  ills 
The  voice  of  woe  is  harsh,  untunable. 

Ch.  See,  opportunely  from  yon  tents  she  comes. 

Alt.  O  my  unhappy  mistress,  more  unhappy 
Than  words  can  utter;  ruin  comes  on  thee 
Quenching  the  light  of  life;  a  queen  no  more, 
A  wife  no  more,  a  mother  now  no  more! 

Hec.  There  needs  not  thy  rude  voice  to  tell  us 

this— 

But  what?  Bringest  thou  here  the  lifeless  corse 
Of  my  Poly.\"na  { 

Att.  Ah,  she  knows  nothing;  but  lamenting  still 
Polyxena,  suspects  not  this  new  loss. 

Hec.  O  my  unhappy  faf !  Dost  thou  there  bring 
The  heav'n  inspir'd  Cassandra's  sacred  head? 

An.  Thou  speakest  of  the  living;  bat  the  dead 
Demands  the  sigh  :  behold  the  corse  uncovered, 
A  siirht  to  raise  astonishment  and  horror. 

Hec.  Ah  me !  it  is  my  son,  my  Polydore, 
And  dead,  whom  safe  beneath  the  Thracian's 

roof 

I  fondly  deem'd  :  now  I  am  lost  indeed, 
M 


134 


EURIPIDES. 


In  total  ruin  sunk.     My  son!    My  son  ! 
X)  woe,  woe,  woe!    Affliction's  cruel  pow'r 
Teaches  my  voice  the  frantic  notes  of  madness. 
Att.  Knowest  thou  aught  then  touching  thy 

son's  death? 

Hec.  Strange,  inconceivable  to  thought,  I  see 
Horrors  on  horrors,  woes  on  woes  arise. 
Never  henceforth,  ah,  never  shall  I  know 
A  day  without  a  tear,  without  a  groan. 

Ch.  Dreadful,  oh    dreadful    are    the    ills   we 

suffer. 

Hec.  Alas  my  son,  son  of  a  wretched  mother, 
What  hard  mishap  hath  robb'd  thee  of  thy  life  ? 
What  fate,  what  hand  accurs'd  hath  wrought  thy 

death? 
Att.  I  know  not;  on  the  wave-washed  strand 

I  found  him. 

Hec.  Cast  up,  or  fall'n  beneath  the  bloody  spear? 
Att.  Cast  on  the  smooth  sand  by  the  surging 

wave. 
Hec.  Ah  me  !  now  know  I  what  my  dream  for- 

bodes : 
The  black-wing'd  phantom  pass'd  me  not;  the 

vision 

Showxl  to  my  sleeping  fancy's  frighted  eye 
My  son  no  longer  in  the  light  of  life. 

Ch.  These  visions,  teach  they  who  hath  slain 

thy  son  ? 
Hec.  He,  our  false  friend,  who  spurs  the  Thra- 

cian  steed, 

To  whom  his  father  for  protection  sent  him. 
Ch.  Ah  me !  what,  slew  him  to  possess  his 

gold  ? 

Hec.  Unutterable  deeds,  abominable, 
Astonishing,  unholy,  horrible ! 
Where  are  the  laws  of  hospitality  ? 
Tyrant  accurs'd,  how  hast  thou  gored  his  body, 
Gash'd  with  the  cruel  sword  his  youthful  limbs, 
And  steel'd  thy  heart  against  the  sense  of  pity? 
Ch.  Never  on  mortal  head  did  angry  heav'n 
Pour  such  a  storm  of  miseries  as  on  thine. 
But  Agamemnon  I  behold,  our  lord, 
Advance  this  way :  let  us  be  silent,  friends. 

AGAMEMNON,  HECUBA,  CHORUS. 

Aga.  Why,  Hecuba,  dost  thou  delay  to  come, 
And  place  thy  daughter  in  the  tomb  ?    For  since 
Talthybius  told  us  not  to  touch  the  virgin, 
The  sons  of  Greece  forbear,  and  touch  her  not. 
I  marvel  at  thy  stay,  and  come  to  seek  thee. 
Well  is  each  mournful  honour  there  prepar'd, 
If  in  such  mournful  honours  aught  be  well. — 
But,  ha!  what  lifeless  corse  before  the  tents 
Behold  I  here  ?     Some  Trojan  :  for  the  robes 
That  clothe  the  limbs,  inform  me  'tis  no  Grecian. 

Hec.  Unhappy  son!     But  naming  the  unhappy, 

[apart. 

I  name  myself.     Alas,  what  shall  I  do  ? 
Shall  I  fall  down  at  Agamemnon's  knees, 
Or  bear  in  silence  my  calamities  ? 

Aga.  Why  thus  lamenting  dost  thou  turn  from 

me? 

What   hath    been  done  ?    tell    me :    what  body 
this? 

Hec.  O  royal  Agamemnon,  at  thy  knees 
Suppliant  I  fall,  and  grasp  thy  conqu'ring  hand. 


Aga.  Why  thy  request?     If  freedom  to  thine 

age, 

That  grace  without  reluctance  may  be  granted. 
Hec.  Not  freedom,  but   revenge:   revenge  on 

baseness : 
Grant  me  revenge,  and  let  me  die  a  slave. 

Aga.  In  what  high  charge  wouldst  thou  en- 
gage my  aid. 
Hec.  In  nothing  that  thy  thought  suggests,  0 

king. 

Seest  thou  this  corse,  o'er  which  I  drop  a  tear  ? 
Aga.  I   see   it;  nor  from  thence  thy  purport 

learn. 

Hec.  He  was  my  son. 

Aga.  Thy  son,  unhappy  lady! 

Hec.  But  not  of  those  who  died  when  Ilium 

fell. 

Aga.  Hadst  thou  another,  lady,  those  beside? 
Hec.  I  had,  but  whatavail'd  it?  him  thou  seest. 
Aga.  Where,  when  the  city  fell,  chanc'd  he 

to  be? 
Hec.  His  father's  tender  fears  sent  him  from 

Troy. 

Aga.  Whither,  he  only  of  thy  sons  remov'd  ? 
Hec.  To  this  land,  where  his  breathless  corse 

was  found. 

Aga.  Sent  to  the  king,  to  Polymnestor  sent1 
Hec.  And  sent  with  treasures  of  destructive 

gold. 
Aga.  By  whom  then  dead,  or  by  what  cruel 

fate? 

Hec.  By  whom  but  this  inhospitable  Thracian? 
Aga.  Inhuman,  all  on  fire  to  seize  the  gold  ! 
Hec.  E'en  so,  soon  as  he  knew  our  ruin'd  state. 
Aga.  Where  didst  thou  find  the  body,  or  who 

brought  it? 

Hec.  She  found  it  lying  on  the  sea-beat  shore 
Aga.  By  search  discover'd,  or  by  accident? 
Hec.  Charg'd  with  the  laver  for  Polyxena. 
Aga.  By  his  protector  murder'd  and  cast  out? 
Hec.  Thus  gash'd,  and  thrown   to  float  upon 

the  wave. 

Aga.  Unhappy  thou,  unbounded  are  thy  woes! 
Hec.  All  woes  are  mine.     Affliction  hath  no 

more. 

Aga.  Alas,  was  ever  woman  born  so  wretched  ! 
Hec.  Never  indeed,  not  Misery  herself. 
But  for  what  cause  thus  at  thy  knees  I  fall, 
Now  hear;  if  justly  I  endure  these  ills, 
And   such   thy  thought,   patient  I    will    endure 

them  ; 

If  not,  avenge  me  of  this  impious  man, 
Who,  of  the  gods  above  or  gods  beneath 
Reckless,  hath  done  a  most  unholy  deed, 
Oft  at  my  hospitable  board  receiv'd, 
And    number 'd    'mongst   the    foremost    of    my 

friends : 

Thus  grac'd,  with  fell  intent  he  slew  my  son; 
Nor,  when  the  deed  was  done,  deign'd  to  en- 

tomb 

The  dead,  but  flung  him  welt'ring  on  the  wave. 
But  we  are  slaves,  but  we  perchance  are  weakj 
Yet  the  blest  gods  are  strong,  the  law  is  strong 
Which  rules  e'en  them ;  for  by  the  law  we  judge 
That  there  are  gods,  and  form  our  lives,  the 
bounds 


EURIPIDES. 


135 


Of  justice  and  injustice  mark'd  distinct: 

This  law  looks  up  to  thee  :  if  disregarded, 

If  he  escapes  its  vengeance,  whose  bold  hand 

Inhospitably  stabs  his  guest,  or  dares 

Pollute  the  sacred  ordinance  of  heav'n, 

There  is  no  justice  in  th'  affairs  of  men. 

Deem  these  deeds  base  then,  reverence  my  woes, 

Have  pity  on  me.  as  a  picture  view 

The  living  portrait  of  my  miseries. 

Erewhile  I  was  a  queen,  but  now  thy  slave; 

Erewhile  blest  in  my  children,  childless  now 

In  my  old  age,  abandon 'd,  outcast,  wretched. 

Ah,  whither  dost  thou  turn  the  backward  step? 

Suing  shall  I  reap  nothing  but  repulse? 

Why  should  poor  mortals  with  incessant  care 

Each  unavailing  science  strive  t'  attain, 

And  slight,  as  nothing  worth,  divine  Persuasion, 

Whose  pow'rful  charms  command  the  hearts  of 

men, 

And  bend  them  unreluctant  to  her  will  ? 
Who  then  may,  henceforth,  hope  his  state  may 

flourish  ? 

Of  all  my  sons  (and  I  could  boast  such  sons!) 
Not  one  is  left;  myself  in  bonds,  and  led 
To  base  and  ignominious  servitude, 
The  smoke  of  Troy  yet  mounting  to  the  skies. 
Oh  that  by  some  nice  art,  or  by  some  god, 
My  arms,  my  hands,  my  hair,  my  feet  had  voice, 
That  each  part  vocal  with  united  pray'rs 
Might  supplicate,  implore,  importune  thee! 
Imperial  lord,  illustrious  light  of  Greece, 
Let  me  prevail :  give  me  thine  hand,  avenge  me, 
A  wretch  indeed,  an  outcast ;  yet  avenge  me ! 
The  cause  of  justice  is  the  good  man's  care, 
And  always  to  requite  the  villain's  deeds. 

Ch.  how  wonderful  th'  events  of  human  life, 
Its  laws  determin'd  by  necessity, 
Changing  the  sternest  foe  to  a  kind  friend, 
And  the  kind  friend  to  a  malignant  foe! 

Jlga.  Thee  Hecuba,  thy  son,  and  thy  misfor- 
tunes 

I  pity,  nor  reject  thy  suppliant  hand  ; 
And  in  the  cause  of  justice  and  the  gol< 
Without  .surmise  that  for  Cassandra's  sake 
I  let  my  vengeance  loose,  and  crush  the  tyrant. 
Hence  anxious  fears  rush  thronging  on  my  mind  : 
This  man  the  army  deems  a  friend,  the  dead 
A  foe:  though  dear  to  thee,  yet  this  fond  love 
Is  private,  to  the  troops  no  common  care. 
Consider  then;  thou  hast  my  will,  my  wish 
To  favour  thee,  to  yield  the-  ready  aid  ; 
But  slow,  should  Greece  with  taunting  voice  re- 
vile me. 

Her.  Vain  is  the  boast  of  liberty  in  man: 
A  slave  to  fortune,  or  a  slave  to  wealth, 
Or  by  the  people,  or  the  laws  rrstr.iin'd, 
He  dares  not  act  the  dictates  of  his  will. 
But  since  too  much  thy  fears  incline  to  heed 
The  multitude,  I  free  thee  from  that  fear. 
With  vengeance,  should   the  Greeks  tumultuous 

In  aid,  restrain  them,  nor  appear  to  act 

As  fav'ring  me  :  what  else  th'  affair  requires, 

Be  confident,  I  well  shall  execute. 

Jlga.  But   how  *    what   wilt  thou  do?  infirm 
with  age 


Grasp    in    thy  hand  the   sword,  and  stab    the 

tyrant  ? 

Or  work  thy  will  with  poisons  ?  with  what  aid, 
What  hand  ?    Or  whence  wilt  thou  procure  thee 
friends  ? 

Hec.  Within   these    tents    are    many   Trojan 
dames. 

Jlga.  The  captives,  say'st  thou,  prizes  of  the 
Greeks  ? 

Hec.  With  these  will   I  revenge  this  bloody 
deed. 

Jlga.  How  shall  weak  women  over  men  pre- 
vail ? 

Hec.  Numbers  are  strong;  add  stratagem,  re- 
sistless. 
Jlga.  Yet  like  I  not  this  female  fellowship. 

Hec.  Were  not  ./Egyptus'  sons  by  women  slain, 
The  men  of  Lemnos  all  extirpated? 
But  leave  me  to  conduct  this  enterprise : 
Only  permit  this  female  slave  to  pass 
Safe  through  the  army. — Go  thou  to  the  Thracian, 
Tell  him  that  Hecuba,  once  queen  of  Troy, 
On  matters  that  no  less  of  good  to  him 
Import  than  me,  would  see  him  and  his  sons ; 
It  is  of  moment  they  should  hear  my  words. — 
Awhile,  0  king,  the  mournful  rites  forbear 
For  my  Polyxena,  my  late  slain  daughter ; 
That  on  one  pile  the  brother  and  the  sister, 
To  me  a  double  grief,  may  blaze  together, 
And  mix  their  ashes  in  one  common  grave. 

Jlga.  Then  be  it  so :  for  should  the  army  sail, 
My  power  could  not  indulge  thy  fond  request : 
But  since  the  god  breathes  not  the  fav'ring  gales 
We  must  perforce  await  a  prosp'rous  voyage. 
Success  attend  thee :  for  the  general  good 
Of  individuals  and  of  states  requires 
That  vengeance  overtake  th'  unrighteous  deed, 
And  virtue  triumph  in  her  just  reward. 

HECUBA,  CHORUS. 

Chorus. 

Thou,  then,  oh  natal  Troy!  no  more 
The  city  of  the  unsaek'd  shalt  be, 
So  thick  from  dark  Achaia's  shore 
The  cloud  of  war  hath  covered  thee. 
Ah !  not  again 
I  tread  thy  plain — 

The  spear — the  spear  hath  rent  thy  pride ; 
The  flame  hath  scarr'd  thee  deep  and  wide ; 
Thy  coronal  of  towers  is  shorn, 
And   thou   most    piteous    art — most  naked   and 
forlorn ! 

I  perish'd  at  the  noon  of  night! 
When  sleep  had  sealed  each  weary  eye ; 
When  the  dance  was  o'er, 
And  harps  no  more 
Rang  out  in  choral  minstrelsy. 
In  the  dear  bower  of  delight 
My  husband  slept  in  joy, 
His  shield  and  spear 
Suspended  near, 

Secure  we  slept :  that  sailor  band 
Full  soon  we  deem'd  no  more  should  stand 

Beneath  the  walls  of  Troy. 
And  I,  too,  by  the  taper's  light, 


136 


EURIPIDES. 


Which  in  the  golden  mirror's  haze 
Flash'd  its  interminable  rays, 
Bound  up  the  tresses  of  my  hair 
That  I  love's  peaceful  sleep  might  share. 

"I  slept ;  but,  hark !  that  war  shout  dread, 
Which  rolling  through  the  city  spread ; 
And  this  the  cry, — "  When,  sons  of  Greece, 
When  shall  the  lingering  leaguer  cease ; 
When  \vill  ye  spoil  Troy's  watch-tower  high, 
And  home  return?" — I  heard  the  cry, 
And,  starting  from  the  genial  bed, 
Wild,  as  a  Doric  maid,  I  fled, 
And  knelt,  Diana,  at  thy  holy  fane, 
A  trembling  suppliant — all  in  vain. 
They  led  me  to  the  sounding  shore — 
Heavens !  as  I  passed  the  crowded  way 
My  bleeding  lord  before  me  lay — 
I  saw — I  saw — and  wept  no  more, 
Till,  as  the  homeward  breezes  bore 
The  bark  returning  o'er  the  sea, 
My  gaze,  oh  Ilion,  turned  on  thee ! 
Then,  frantic,  to  the  midnight  air, 
I  curs'd  aloud  the  adulterous  pair : — 
"  They  plunge  me  deep  in  exile's  woe, 
They  lay  my  country  low  : 

Their  love — no  love !  but  some  dark  spell, 
In  vengeance,  breath'd  by  spirit  fell. 
Rise,  hoary  sea,  in  awful  tide, 
And  whelm  that  vessel's  guilty  pride  ; 
Nor  e'er,  in  high  Mycene's  hall, 
Let  Helen  boast  in  peace  of  mighty  Ilion's  fall." 


FROM  THE  ORESTES. 

Ijf  this  play  Orestes  is  represented  as  pursued 
by  the  Furies,  in  punishment  for  the  murder  of 
his  mother  Clytemnestra. 

[ELECTRA  watching  over  her  sleeping  brother  / 
CHORUS  approaching  his  couch. 

Elect.  Softly !  softly !  fall  the  sound 
Of  thy  footstep  on  the  ground  ! 
Gently !  gently !  like  the  breath 
Of  a  lute-song  in  its  death ; 
Like  the  sighing  of  a  reed, 
Faintly  murmuring  to  be  freed, 
So  softly  let  thy  whispers  flow. 
Ch.  Like  a  reed,  as  soft  and  low ! 
Elect.  Ay,  low,  low !  but  tell  me  why 
Damsels,  ye  are  lingering  by? 
Long  hath  sorrow  torn  his  breast ; 
Now  his  weary  eyes  have  rest. 

Ch.  How  fares  it  with  him  ?  Dearest,  say. 
Elect.  Sad  and  tearful  is  my  lay. 
Breathing  on  his  couch  he  lieth, 
Still  he  suffereth,  still  he  sigheth. 
Ch.  What  say'st  thou,  mourner  ? 
Elect.  Woe  to  thee, 

If  the  dewy  slumber  flee. 
Ch.  Yet  wail  I  his  unhappy  state ; 
Abhorred  deeds  of  deadly  hate, 
Rage  of  vindictive,  torturing  woes, 
Which  the  relentless  powers  of  heaven  impose. 

Elect.  Unjust,  unjust  the  stern  command, 
The  stern  command  Apollo  gave 


From  Themis'  seat,  his  ruthless  hand 
In  blood,  in  mother's  blood,  to  lave. 

Ch.  He  stirs,  he  moves  his  covering  vest. 
Elect.  Wretch,  thy  voice  has  broke  his  rest. 
Ch.  And  yet.  I  think,  sleep  locks  his  eye. 
Elect.  Wilt  thou  begone  ?  Hence  wilt  thou  fly, 
That  quiet  here  again  may  dwell? 

Ch.  Hush,  hush !  he  sleeps  again 

Elect.  >Tis  well. 

Ch.  Awful  queen,  whose  gentle  power 
Brings  sweet  oblivion  of  our  woes, 
And  in  the  calm  and  silent  hour, 
Distils  the  blessings  of  repose, — 

Come,  awful  Night! 
Elect.  Softly  let  your  warbhngs  flow ; 
Farther,  a  farther  distance  keep  : 

The  far-off  cadence,  sweet  and  low 
Charms  his  repose  and  aids  his  sleep. 
Ch.  Tell  us  what  end 

Awaits  his  miseries  ? 

Elect.  Death !  that  end  I  fear. 

He  tastes  no  food. 

Ch.  Death  then  indeed  is  near. 

Elect.  When  Phoebus  gave  the  dire  command 
To  bathe  in  mother's  blood  his  hand, 
By  whom  the  father  sunk  in  dust, 
He  doom'd  us  victims. 

Ch.  Dire  these  deeds,  but  just. 

Orest.  [waking.]  O  gentle  Sleep,  whose  lenient 

power  thus  soothes 

Disease  and  pain,  how  sweet  thy  visit  to  me, 
Who  wanted  thy  soft  aid  !    Blessing  divine, 
That  to  the  wretched  givest  wish'd  repose, 
Steeping  their  senses  in  forgetfulness  ! 
Where  have  I  been  ?  Where  am  I  ?  How  brought 

hither  ? 

My  late  distraction  blots  remembrance  out. 
Elect.  What  heartfelt  joy  to  see  thee  thus  com- 
posed ! 

Wilt  thou  I  touch  thee  ?    Shall  I  raise  thee  up  ? 
Orest.  Assist  me   then,   assist  me ;    from   my 

mouth 
Wipe  off  the  clotted  foam  ;  wipe  my  moist  eyes. 

Elect.  Delightful  office,  for  a  sister's  hand 
To  minister  relief  to  a  sick  brother ! 

Orest.  Lie  by  my  side,  and  from  my  face  re- 
move 
These  squalid  locks;  they  blind  my  darkened 

eyes. 

Elect.  How  tangled  are  the  ringlets  of  thy  hair. 
Orest.  Pray,  lay  me  down  again  ;  when  this 

ill  phrenzy 
Leaves  me,  I  am  very  feeble,  very  faint. 

Elect.  There,  there ;  the  bed  is  grateful  to  the 

sick. 
Orest.  Raise  me  again, more  upright;  bend  me 

forward. 

Ch.  The  sick  are  wayward  through  their  rest- 
lessness. 
Elect.  Or  wilt  thou  try  with  slow  steps  on  the 

ground 
To  fix  thy  feet?     Variety  is  sweet. 

Orest.  Most  willingly;    it  hath   the   show  of 

health: 

The  seeming  hath  some  good,  though  void  of 
truth. 


EURIPIDES. 


137 


Elect.  Now,  my  loved  brother,  hear  me 

the  Furies 

Permit  thy  sense  thus  clear  and  undisturbed. 
Orest.  Hast  thou  aught  new"?    If  good,  I  thank 

thee  for  it ; 
If  ill,  I  have  enough  of  ill  already. 

Elect.  Thy  father's  brother,  Menelaus,  arrives; 
His  fleet  lies  anchor'd  in  the  Naupliian  bay. 
Orcst.  Comes  he  then1?  Light  on  our  afflictions 

dawns; 

Much  to  my  father's  kindness  doth  he  owe. 
Elect.  He  comes ;  and,  to  confirm  what  now  I 

say, 
Brings  Helena  from  Ilium's  ruin'd  walls. 

Orest.  More  to  be  envied,  were  he  saved  alone; 
Bringing  his  wife,  he  brings  a  mighty  ill. 

Elect.  The  female  race  of  Tyndarus  was  born 

To  deep  disgrace,  and  infamous  through  Greece. 

Orest.  Be  thou  unlike  them  then ;  'tis  in  thy 

power ; 
And  further  than  in  words  thy  virtue  prove. 

Elect.  Alas,  my  brother,  wildly  rolls  thine  eye: 
So  quickly  changed  !   The  frantic  fit  returns. 
Orest.  Ah,  mother !     Do  not  set  thy  Furies  on 

me. 

See  how  their  fiery  eyeballs  glare  in  blood, 
And  wreathing  snakes  hiss  in  their  horrid  hair! 
There,  there  they  stand,  ready  to  leap  upon  me! 
Elect.  Rest  thee,  poor  brother,  rest  upon  thy 

bed: 

Thou  seest  them  not ;   'tis  fancy's  coinage  all. 
Orest.  0  Phcebus,  they  will  kill  me !  these  dire 

forms, 
These  Gorgon-visaged  ministers  of  hell. 

Elect.  Thus  will  I  hold  thee,  round  thee  throw 

mine  arms, 

And  check  the  unhappy  force  of  thy  wild  starts. 
Orest.  Off!  Let  me  go !  I  know  thee,  who  thou 

art — 

One  of  the  Furies — and  thou  grapplest  with  me, 
To  whirl  me  into  Tartarus.     A  vaunt! 

Elect.  What  shall  I  do?  Ah  me!  Where  shall 

I  seek 
Assistance,  since  the  once  friendly  god  frowns 

on  us? 
Orest.  Bring  me  the  bow  of  horn  which  Phoebus 

gave  me, 

And  with  it  bade  me  drive  these  fiends  away, 
Should  they  affright  me  with  their  maddening 

terrors. 

Elect.  Can  any  god  by  mortal  hands  be  wound- 
ed ? 
Orest.  Should  she  not  instant  vanish  from  my 

sight- 
Heard  you  the  clang;  saw  you  the  winged  shaft 
Bound  from  the  distant- wounding  bow  1  Ha,  ha! 
Here  yet!    On  swift  wings  mount  the  a-thereal 

air, 

And  there  impeach  the  oracle  of  Phoebus — 
Whence    this    disquiet?     Why    thus    pants   my 

breath? — 
Ah,  whither  have  I  wandered  from  my  bed? 

18 


while  Why  dost  thou  weep,  my  sister?    Why  decline 
Thy  drooping  head  and  hide  it  in  thy  vest? 
I  blush  to  give  thee  part  in  my  disease, 
And  wound  with  grief  thy  virgin  tenderness. 
Let  not  my  ills  be  thus  infectious  to  thee ; 
Thou  barely  didst  assent;   I  did  the  deed; 
I  shed  her  blood.     But  Phcebus  I  must  name 
Who  urged  me  to  this  most  unholy  act ; 
Then,  save  with  soothing  words,  assist  me  not. 
Had  these  eyes  seen  my  father,  had  I  asked  him 
In  duty  if  I  ought  to  slay  to  my  mother? 
I  think  he  would  have  prayed  me  not  to  plunge 
My  murdering  sword  in  her  who  gave  me  birth, 
Since  he  could  not  revisit  heaven's  sweet  light 
And  I  must  suffer  all  these  miseries. 
But  now  unveil  thy  face  and  dry  thy  tears, 
My  sister,  though  afflictions  press  us  sore; 
And  when  thou  seest  me  in  these  fitful  moods, 
Soothe  my  disordered  sense,  and  let  thy  voice 
Speak  peace  to  my  distraction :  when  the  sigh 
Swells  in  thy  bosom,  'tis  a  brother's  part 
With  tender  sympathies  to  calm  thy  griefs ; 
These  are  the  blessed  offices  of  friends. — 
But  to  thy  chamber  go,  afflicted  maid, 
There  seek  repose,  close  thy  long-sleepless  eyes, 
With  food  refresh  thee  and  the  enlivening  bath. 
Shouldst   thou    forsake    me,  or  with   too   close 

tendance 

Impair  thy  delicate  and  tender  health, 
Then  were  I  lost  indeed  ;  for  thou  alone, 
Abandoned  as  I  am,  art  all  my  comfort. 

Elect.  Should  I  forsake  thee !    No ;  my  choice 

is  fix'd ; 
And  I  will  die  with  thee,  or  with  thee  live. 


FRAGMENTS. 

i. 

THERE  is  a  streamlet  issuing  from  a  rock. 
The  village-girls,  singing  wild  madrigals, 
Dip  their  white  vestments  in  its  waters  clear, 
And  hang  them  to  the  sun.  There  first  I  saw  her. 
Her  dark  and  eloquent  eyes,  mild,  full  of  fire, 
'Twas  heaven  to  look  upon  ;  and  her  sweet  voice, 
As  tuneable  as  harp  of  many  strings, 
At  once  spoke  joy  and  sadness  to  my  soul ! 

u. 

DEAR  is  that  valley  to  the  murmuring  bees; 
And  all,  who  know  it,  come  and  come  again. 
The  small  birds  build   there ;  and,  at  summer- 
noon, 

Oft  have  I  heard  a  child,  gay  among  flowers, 
As  in  the  shining  grass  she  sate  concealed, 
Sing  to  herself 

in. 

THIS  is  true  liberty,  when  freeborn  men, 
Having  to  advise  the  public,  may  speak  free; 
Which    he   who   can    and   will,  deserves   high 

praise : 

Who  neither  can,  nor  will,  may  hold  his  peace : 
What  can  be  juster  in  a  state  than  this  ? 

MS 


EMPEDOCLES. 


[About  455  B.  C.] 


THIS  celebrated  philosopher  and  naturalist 
was  a  native  of  Agrigentum.  According  to  Plu- 
tarch, he  maintained  that  all  things  were  pro- 
duced from  the  principles  of  fire,  air,  water,  and 
earth,  into  which  they  are  again  resolved.  To 
these  he  added  two  other  powers,  Love  and  Dis- 
cord ;  the  former  harmonizing  and  uniting,  the 
latter  disjoining  and  repelling.  Empedocles  also 
believed  in  a  state  of  pre-existence  or  metemp- 
sychosis, declaring  that  he  himself  had  pre-exist- 
ed in  both  sexes  of  the  human  race,  as  well  as 
in  the  bodies  of  birds  and  fishes.  He  is  reported 


to  have  perished  by  a  fall  down  the  opening  of 
Mount  YEtna. 

Of  his  poetical  works,  two  epigrams  are  re- 
maining, both  distinguished  by  the  use  of  the 
figure  of  Paronomasia  or  Pun.  One  of  these  has 
been  translated  by  Mr.  Merivale,  and  given  in  his 
Anthology,  "not  more  (he  says)  on  account  of  the 
celebrity  of  its  author,  than  as  an  ancient  specimen 
of  this  sort  of  writing.'5  The  pun  consists  in  the 
derivation  of  the  name  "Pausanias"  drto  tov  rtavstv 
rajavt'as, — only  a  portion  of  which  double  meaning, 
however,  has  been  preserved  in  the  translation. 


EPITAPH  ON  A  PHYSICIAN. 


so  named  without  a  cause, 
As  one  who  oft  has  given  to  pain  a  pause,  — 


Blest  son  of  ^Esculapius,  good  and  wise, 
Here,  in  his  native  Gela,  buried  lies; 
Who  many  a  wretch  once  rescued  by  his  charms 
From  dark  Persephone's  constraining  arms. 


BACCHYLIDES. 


[About  450  B.  C.] 


BACCHYLIDES  was  the  nephew  of  Simonides, 
and  a  native  of  the  island  of  Cos.  He  composed 
hymns  and  odes,  and  was  generally  charac- 
terized for  the  uniform  delicacy  and  correctness 
of  his  productions.  He  stood  high  in  favour  with 
Hiero,  king  of  Syracuse,  who  is  even  said  to  have 


esteemed  his  Pythian  Odes  above  those  of  Pindar ; 
a  judgment,  which  is  justly  glanced  at  and  ex- 
posed by  Longinus.  One  of  his  admirers,  in  a 
later  age,  was  the  Emperor  Julian,  who  is  stated 
by  Ammianus  Marcellinus  to  have  drawn  from 
him  many  rules  for  the  conduct  of  his  own  life. 


DRINKING. 

THIRSTY  comrade !  wouklst  thou  know 
All  the  raptures  that  do  flow, 
From  those  sweet  compulsive  rules 
Of  our  ancient  drinking  schools? — 
First,  the  precious  draught  shall  raise 
Amorous  thoughts  in  giddy  maze, 
Mingling  Bacchus'  present  treasure 
With  the  hopes  of  higher  pleasure. 
Next,  'twill  chase  through  empty  air 
All  th'  intolerant  host  of  Care  ; 
Give  thee  conquest,  riches,  power  5 
138 


Bid  thee  reign  o'er  land  and  sea 
With  unquestioned  sovereignty. 
Thou  thy  palace  shalt  behold 
Bright  with  ivory  and  gold ; 
While  each  ship  that  ploughs  the  main, 
Filled  with  Egypt's  choicest  grain, 
Shall  unload  her  ponderous  store, 
Thirsty  comrade,  at  thy  door. 

PEACE. 

FOB,  thee,  sweet  Peace,  Abundance  leads  along 
Her  jovial  train,  and  bards  awake  the  song. 


EUENUS. 


139 


On  many  an  altar,  at  thy  glad  return, 
Pure  victims  bleed  and  holy  odours  burn ; 
And  frolic  youth  their  happy  age  apply 
To  graceful  movements,  sports,  and  minstrelsy. 
Dark  spiders  weave  their  webs  within  the  shield; 
Rust  eats  the  spear,  the  terror  of  the  field, 
And  brazen  trumpets  now  no  more  affright 
The  silent  slumbers  and  repose  of  night. 
Banquet,  and  song,  and  revel,  fill  the  ways, 
And  youths  and  maidens  sing  their  roundelays. 

Another  translation  of  the  Same. 

INNUMEHOUS  are  the  l.oons  bestowed 

on  man  by  gracious  Peace  ! 
The  flowers  of  poets  honey-tongued, 

and  wealth's  immense  increase. 
Then  from  the  joyous  altars 

unto  the  gods  arise 
The  fumes  of  sheep's  and  oxen's  flesh 

in  ruddy  sacrifice ; 
In  crowds  to  the  gymnasium 

the  strenuous  youth  resort, 
Or  to  the  pipe  blithe  revellers 

pursue  their  maddening  sport; 
The  spider  black  doth  weave  his  web 

in  the  iron-handled  shield, 
*  And  sharp-set  spear  and  two-edged  sword 

.to  mouldy  canker  yield  ; 
No  longer  any  where  is  heard 

the  trumpet's  brazen  blare, 
From  men's  eyes  soul-delighting  sleep 

at  midnight  sent  to  scare  ; 
Banquets,  heap'd  high  with  food  and  wine, 

are  spread  in  every  street, 
And  songs  from  youthful  companies 

are  sounding  strong  and  sweet. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  CHILD. 

ALAS,  poor  Child!  for  thee  our  bosoms  swell 
With  grief,  tears  cannot  cure,  words  may  not  tell, 


THE  HUSBANDMAN'S  OFFERING. 

To  Zephyr,  kindest  wind  that  swells  the  grain, 
Eudemus  consecrates  this  humble  fane ; 


For  that  he  listen'd  to  his  vow  and  bore 
On  his  soft  wings  the  rich  autumnal  store. 


FRAGMENTS. 

i. 

PEACEFUL  wealth,  or  painful  toil, 
Chance  of  war,  or  civil  broil, 
'Tis  not  for  Man's  feeble  race 
These  to  shun  or  those  embrace. 
But  that  all-disposing  Fate, 
Which  presides  o'er  mortal  state, 
Where  it  listeth,  casts  a  shroud 
Of  impenetrable  cloud. 


As  gold-ore  by  the  Lydian  stone, 
So  by  strong  Truth  and  Truth  alone, 
Man's  worth  and  wit  are  tried  and  known. 


HAPPY  he,  who  has  his  share 
Of  earthly  good  and  earthly  fair; 
But  a  life  from  sorrow  free, 
Dread  mischance  and  poverty, 
Man !  was  never  meant  for  thee. 


VIRTUE,  placed  on  high,  doth  shine 
With  a  glory  all-divine; 
Riches  oft  alike  are  shower'd 
On  the  hero  and  the  coward. 


WISE-MEIT  now,  like  those  of  old, 
Can  but  tell  what  others  told. 
Full  hard  it  is  the  hidden  door 
Of  words  unspoken  to  explore. 


HEKE  let  no  fatted  oxen  be, 
Gold  nor  purple  tapestry : 
But  a  well-disposed  mind  ; 
But  a  gentle  muse  and  kind  ; 
But  glad  wine,  to  glad  our  souls, 
Mantling  in  Boeotian  bowls. 


EUENUS. 


[About  450  B.  C.] 


THE  poet,  to  whom  the  following  epigrams 
havi-  been  attributed,  was  a  native  of  Paros,  and 

urislu'd  in  the  Ixxxii  Olympiad,  or  about 
450  B.  C.  There  were  other  and  subsequent 


writers,  however,  of  the  same  name,  (one  of 
them  living  in  the  cxxxviii  Olympiad,  or  228 
B.  C.,)  to  whom  some  of  them  may  possibly 
belong. 


140 


ARIPHRON. 


THE  SWALLOW  AND  THE  GRASSHOPPER. 

ATTIC  Maiden,  breathing  still 
Of  the  fragrant  flowers  that  blow 

On  Hymettus'  purpled  hill, 

Whence  the  streams  of  honey  flow, 

Wherefore  thus  a  captive  bear 

To  your  nest  a  grasshopper  ? 

Noisy  prattler,  cease  to  do 

To  your  fellow-prattler  wrong ; 

Kind  should  not  its  kind  pursue, — 
Least  of  all  the  heirs  of  song. 

Prattler,  seek  some  other  food 

For  your  noisy,  prattling  brood. 

Both  are  ever  on  the  wing, 

Wanderers  both  in  foreign  bowers, 

Both  succeed  the  parting  spring, 
Both  depart  with  summer  hours, 

— Those  who  love  the  minstrel  lay, 

Should  not  on  each  other  prey. 

Another  translation  of  the  Same. 
ATTIC  Maiden,  honey-fed, 

Chirping  warbler,  bear'st  away, 
Thou  the  chirping  grasshopper 

To  thy  callow  young  a  prey  ? 
Warbling  thou — a  warbler  seize 

Winged — one  with  lovely  wings ! 


Guest  thyself,  by  summer  brought, — 
Fellow  guest  whom  summer  brings ! 

Wilt  not  quickly  let  it  drop1? 

'Tis  not  fair, — indeed  'tis  wrong. 

That  the  ceaseless  songster  should 
Die  by  mouth  of  ceaseless  song"? 


THE  VINE  AND  THE  GOAT. 
THOUGH  thou  shouldst  gnaw  me  to  the  root, 
Destructive  goat !     Enough  of  fruit 
I  bear,  betwixt  thy  horns  to  shed, 
When  to  the  altar  thou  art  led. 


CONTRADICTION. 

IK  contradiction,  wrong  or  right, 

Do  many  place  their  sole  delight. 

If  right,  'tis  well — if  wrong,  why  so? — 

But  contradict  whate'er  you  do. 

Such  reasoners  deserve,  I  hold, 

No  argument  save  that  of  old — 

"  You  say,  'tis  black — I  say,  'tis  white — 

And  so,  good  sir,  you're  answered  quite." 

Far  different  is  the  aspect  seen 

Of  modest  Wisdom's  quiet  mien — 

Patient  and  soon  to  be  persuaded, 

When  argument  by  truth  is  aided. 


ARIPHRON  OF  SICYON. 

OF  this  author  the  name  and  country  are  alone  preserved  to  us.     He  may,  however,  be  referred  to 

an  early  date. 


TO  HEALTH.* 

HEALTH,  brightest  of  the  blest,  do  thou 

To  my  poor  hearth  descend  ! 
For  what  of  life  kind  heaven  allow, 

Be  thou  my  guest  and  friend ! 
For  every  joy  that  fortune  brings, 
All  that  from  wealth  or  children  springs, 

*  "  There  is,"  says  Dr.  Johnson,  "  among  the  fragments 
of  the  Greek  poets,  a  short  hymn  to  Health,  in  which  her 
power  of  exalting  the  happiness  of  life,  of  heightening 
the  gifts  of  fortune,  and  adding  enjoyment  to  possession, 
is  inculcated  with  so  much  truth  and  beauty,  that  no  one 
who  has  ever  languished  under  the  discomforts  and  in- 
firmities of  a  lingering  disease,  can  read  it  without  feel- 


From  courtly  show  or  sovereign  sway, 
Lifting  to  gods  us  things  of  clay, 
From  love,  or  love's  enchanting  wiles, 
From  labour's  pause,  or  pleasure's  smiles, — 
With  thee  they  blossom,  Health  divine; 
Their  spring,  their  beauty,  all  is  thine  ; 
And  none — save  thou  thy  smile  bestow — 
May  taste  of  happiness  below. 


ing  the  images  dance  in  his  heart,  and  adding  from  his 
own  experience,  new  vigour  to  the  wish  and  new  colours 
to  the  picture.  The  particular  occasion  of  this  little  com- 
position is  not  known,  but  it  is  probable  that  the  author 
had  been  sick,  and,  in  the  first  raptures  of  returning 
vigour,  thus  addressed  the  goddess." 


EUPOLIS. 


[About  446  B.  C.] 


Bony  at  Athens,  in  \vliich  city,  according  to 
Suidas,  he  exhibited  his  first  comedy  at  the  early 
age  of  seventeen.  The  titles  of  twenty-four  of 
his  plays  have  been  preserved.  They  are  said 
to  have  been  very  personal  and  scurrilous,  and, 
for  the  most  part,  written  in  caricature  or  abuse 
of  some  obnoxious  individuals.  Amongst  many 
others  was  Cimon,  whom  he  assails  both  in  his 
public  and  his  private  character,  being  animated 


thereto  chiefly  by  the  supposed  partiality  of  that 
statesman  for  Sparta,  and  his  efforts  to  counteract 
the  democratical  principles  at  work  in  the  Athe- 
nian constitution.  Eupolis,  however,  was  a  warm 
admirer  of  Pericles,  to  whose  patronage  and 
favour  he  i*  said  to  have  been  indebted  for  the 
impunity  with  which  he  shot  forth  his  gall-steeped 
arrows.  The  accounts  of  his  time  and  mode  of 
i  death  are  contradictory  and  uncertain. 


THE  PARASITE. 

MARK  now.  and  learn  of  me  the  thriving  arts, 
By  which  we  parasites  contrive  to  live. 
First  I  provide  myself  a  nimble  thing 
To  be  my  page,  a  varlet  of  all  crafts ; 
Next  two  new  suits  for  feasts  and  gala  days, 
Which  I  promote  by  turns,  when  I  walk  forth 
To  sun  myself  upon  the  public  square: 
There,  if  perchance  I  spy  some  rich  dull  knave, 
Straight  I  accost  him.  do  him  reverence, 
And,  sauntering  up  and  down,  with  idle  chat 
Hold  him  awhile  in  play;  at  every  word, 
Which  his  wise  worship  utters,  I  stop  short 
And  bless  myself  for  wonder;  if  he  venture 
On  some  vile  joke,  I  blow  it  to  the  skies, 
And  hold  my  sides  for  laughter 


ALTERED  CONDITION  OF  ATHENS. 

IT  grieves  me  to  behold  the  commonwealth. — 
Things  were  not  thus  administered  of  old; 
Then   men  of  sense  and  virtue, — mfen,  whose 

merits 

Gave  them  consideration  in  the  state, — 
Held  the  first  offices :  to  such  we  bowed 
As  to  the  gods — and  gods  indeed  they  were — 
For  under  their  wise  counsels  we  enjoyed 
Security  and  peace. — But  now,  alas ! 
We  have  no  other  guide  in  our  elections 
Save    chance,  blind    chance,  and  on  whatever 

head 

It  falls,  though  worst  and  meanest  of  mankind 
Up  starts  he  a  great  man,  and  is  at  once 
Installed  prime  Rogue  and  Minister  of  State. 


SIMM1AS  OF  THEBES. 

[About  440  B.  C.] 
A  disciple  of  Socrates,  and  the  author  of  several  philosophical  works,  now  lost. 


ON  SOPHOCLES. 

Wixn,  gentle  evergreen,  to  form  a  shade 
Around  the  tomb  where  Sophocles  is  hiid. 
Sw-.'rt  ivy.  liMid  thine  aid,  and  intertwine 
With  blushing  roses  and  the  clustering  vine: 
Thus  shall  your  lifting  leaves  with  beauties  hung, 
Prove  grateful  emblems  of  the  lays  he  sung. 


141 


PHERECRATES. 


[About  430  B.  C.] 


PHERECRATES  was  a  comic  poet  of  Athens, 
and  the  inventor  of  a  species  of  verse,  called 
from  him  the  Pherecratic  Metre.  He  is  said  to 


OLD  AGE. 

AGE  is  the  heaviest  burden  man  can  bear, 
Compound  of  Disappointment,  Pain,  and  Care  ; 
For  when  the  mind's  experience  comes  at  length, 
It  comes  to  mourn  the  body's  loss  of  strength. 
Resign'd  to  ignorance  all  our  better  days, 
Knowledge  just  ripens  when  the  man  decays ; 
One  ray  of  light  the  closing  eye  receives, 
And  Wisdom  only  takes  what  Folly  leaves. 


FROM  ONE  OF  HIS  COMEDIES,  ENTITLED 
"THE    MINERS." 

Ji.  THE  days  of  Plutus  were  the  days  of  gold ; 
The  season  of  high  feeding  and  good  cheer : 
Rivers  of  goodly  beef  and  brewis  ran 
Boiling  and  bubbling  through  the  steaming  streets, 
With  islands  of  fat  dumplings,  cut  in  sops 
And  slippery  gobbets,  moulded  into  mouthfuls, 
That  dead  men  might  have  swallowed ;  floating 

tripes, 

And  fleets  of  sausages  in  luscious  morsels, 
Stuck  to  the  banks  like  oysters :  Here  and  there, 
For  relishers,  a  salt-fish  seasoned  high, 
Swam  down  the  savoury  tide :  When  soon  behold ! 
The  portly  gammon  sailing  in  full  state 
Upon  his  smoking  platter  heaves  in  sight, 
Encompass'd  with  his  bandoliers,  like  guards, 
And  convoyed  by  huge  bowls  of  frumenty, 
That,  with  their  generous  odours,  scent  the  air. 


have  been  the  author  of  seventeen  comedies,  all 
of  which,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  fragments, 
are  lost. 


B.  You  stagger  me  to  tell  of  these  good  days, 
And  yet  to  live  with  us  on  our  hard  fare, 
When  death's  a  deed  as  easy  as  to  drink. 

A.  If  your  mouth  waters  now,  what  had  it  done, 
Could  you  have  seen  our  delicate  fine  thrushes 
Hot  from  the  spit,  with  myrtle-berries  crammed, 
And  larded  well  with  celandine  and  parsley, 
Bob  at  your  hungry  lips,  crying — "  Come,  eat  me!" 
Nor  was  this  all ;  for,  pendant  over-head, 
The  fairest,  choicest  fruits  in  clusters  shone ; 
Girls  too,  young  girls,  just  budding  into  bloom, 
Clad  in  transparent  vests,  stood  near  at  hand 
To  serve  us  with  fresh  roses,  and  full  cups 
Of  rich  and  fragrant  wine,  of  which  one  glass 
No  sooner  was  despatch'd,  than  straight  behold! 
Two  goblets  fresh  and  sparkling  as  the  first, 
Provoked  us  to  repeat  th'  increasing  draught. 
Away  then  with  your  ploughs,  we  need  them  not; 
Your    scythes,  your  sickles,  and   your  pruning- 

hooks ! 

Away  with  all  your  trumpery  at  once ! 
Seed-time,  and  harvest-home,  and  vintage  wakes : 
Your  holidays  are  nothing-worth  to  us. 
Our  rivers  roll  with  luxury,  our  vats 
Overflow  with  nectar,  which  providing  Jove 
Showers  down  by  cataracts ;  the  very  gutters 
From  our  house-tops  spout  wine;   vast  forests 

wave, 

Whose  very  leaves  drop  fatness;  smoking  viands 
Like  mountains  rise — all  Nature's  one  great  feast. 


PHILONIDES. 


[About  420  B.  C.] 
One  of  the  last  of  the  old  poets  of  comedy.    Little,  however,  is  known  either  of  him  or  of  his  works. 

A, FRAGMENT. 

THE  TRULY   BRAVE. 

BECAUSE  I  hold  the  laws  in  due  respect, 
And  fear  to  be  unjust,  am  I  a  coward  1 
Meek  let  me  be  to  all  the  friends  of  Truth, 
And  only  terrible  amongst  its  foes. 
142 


MOSCHION. 


An  early  comic  poet,  but  of  uncertain  date. — A  few  fragments  only  of  his  works  remain. 


THE  DEAD. 

LET  the  earth  cover  and  protect  its  dead ! 
And  let  man's  breath  thither  return  in  peace 
From  whence  it  came ;  his  spirit  to  the  skies, 
His  body  to  the  clay  of  whic'a  'twas  formed, 
Imparted  to  him  as  a  loan  for  life, 
Which  he  and  all  must  render  back  again 
To  earth,  the  common  mother  of  mankind. 

****** 
Wound  not  the  soul  of  a  departed  man ! 
'Tis  impious  cruelty;  let  justice  strike 
The  living,  but  in  mercy  spare  the  dead. 
And  why  pursue  the  shadow  that  is  past? 
Why  slander  the  deaf  earth  that  cannot  hear, 
The  dumb  that  cannot  utter  ?  When  the  soul 
No  longer  takes  account  of  human  wrongs, 
Nor  joys   nor    sorrows    touch    the    mouldering 

heart, 

As  well  may  you  give  feelings  to  the  tomb, 
As  what  it  covers — both  alike  defy  you. 


THE  EXILE. 

THE  proudest  once  in  glory,  mind,  and  race, 
The  first  of  monarchs,  of  mankind  the  grace, 
Now  wandering,  outcast,  desolate  and  poor, 
A  wretched  exile  on  a  foreign  shore, 
With  miserable  aspect  bending  low, 
Holds  in  his  trembling  hand  the  suppliant  bough  : 
Unhappy  proof,  how  false  the  flattering  light, 
Which  Fortune's  blazing  torch  holds  forth  to  sight ! 
Now,  not  the  meanest  stranger  passing  by 
But  greets  the  fallen  hero  with  a  sigh  ; 
Perhaps  with  gentle  accents  soothes  his  woe, 
And  lets  the  kindly  tear  of  pity  flow  ; 
For  where's  the  heart  so  hardened  and  so  rude, 
As  not  to  melt  at  life's  vicissitude  ?* 


*  One  of  Moschion's  plays  was  "Themistocles,"  and 
probably  this  fragment,  preserved  by  Stobaeus,  may  refer 
to  the  exile  of  that  great  man,  when  a  suppliant  at  the 
court  of  Admetus. 


PLATO,    THE    PHILOSOPHER. 

[Bora  429— Died  347,  B.  C.] 

BT  long  descent  an  Athenian,  but  born  in  he  abandoned,  on  becoming  acquainted  with 
the  island  of  JEgina,  where  his  father  had  Socrates,  for  the  severer  studies  of  philoso- 
taken  up  his  residence  after  its  subjection  phy,  and  not  only  abandoned  for  himself,  but 
to  Athens.  The  favourite  employment  of  his  afterwards  proscribed  to  others  in  his  ideal 
earlier  years  was  poetry,  which,  however,  .  republic. 


A  LOVER'S  WISH. 

WIIT  dost  thou  gaze  upon  the  sky? 

Oh,  that  I  were  yon  spangled  sphere! 
And  every  star  should  be  an  eye 

To  wander  o'er  thy  beauties  here. 


THE  KISS. 

OH  !  on  that  kiss  my  soul 

As  if  in  doubt  to  stay, 
Lingered  awhile  on  fluttering  wing  prepar'd 

To  soar  away. 


THE  ANSWER  OF  THE  MUSES  TO  VENUS. 
WHEX  Venus  bade  the  Aonian  Maids  obey, 
Or  Cupid  else  should  vindicate  her  sway, 
The  virgins   answered:   "Threat  your   subjects 

thus ! 
That  puny  warrior  has  no  arms  for  us.'5 

The  Same,  paraphrased  and  enlarged. 
THUS  to  the  Muses  spoke  the  Cyprian  dame: 
"  Adore  my  altars  and  revere  my  name  ; 
My  son  shall  else  assume  his  potent  darts : 
Twang  goes  the  bow;   my  girls,  have  at  your 
hearts !" 

143 


144 


PLATO,  THE  PHILOSOPHER. 


The  Muses  answered  : — "  Venus,  we  deride 
The  infant's  malice,  and  his  mother's  pride : 
Send  him  to  Nymphs  who  sleep  in  Ida's  shade, 
To  the  loose  dance  and  wanton  masquerade ; 
Our  thoughts  are  settled,  and  intent  our  look 
On  the  instructive  verse  and  moral  book. 
On  female  idleness  his  power  relies, 
But,  when  he  finds  us  studying  hard,  he  flies." 


ON  A  SLEEPING  CUPID. 

I  PIERCED  the  grove,  and,  in  its  deepest  gloom, 
Beheld  sweet  Love,  of  heavenly  form  and  bloom  ; 
Nor  bow  nor  quiver  at  his  back  were  hung, 
But  harmless  on  the  neighbouring  branches  hung. 
On  rosebuds  pillowed  lay  the  little  child, 
In    glowing    slumbers    pleased,    and     sleeping 

smil'd, 

While  all  around  the  bees  delighted  sip 
The  breathing  fragrance  of  his  balmy  lip. 


ON  TWO  NEIGHBOURING  TOMBS. 

THIS  is  a  Sailor's — that  a  Ploughman's  tomb ; — 
Thus  sea  and  land  abide  one  common  doom. 


ON  THE  IMAGE  OF  A  SATYR, 

AND   A   CUPID   SLEEPING   BT  A  FOUNTAIN  SIDE. 

FROM  mortal  hands  my  being  I  derive; 
Mute  marble  once,  from  man  I  learn'd  to  live. 
A  Satyr  now,  with  Nymphs  I  hold  resort, 
And  guard  the  watery  grottos  where  they  sport. 
In  purple  wine  refused  to  revel  more, 
Sweet  draughts  of  water  from  my  urn  I  pour  ; 
But,  Stranger,  softly  tread,  lest  any  sound 
Awake  yon  boy,  in  rosy  slumbers  bound. 


ON  A  RURAL  IMAGE  OF  PAN. 

SLEEP,  ye  rude  winds !     Be  every  murmur  dead 
On  yonder  oak-crowned  promontory's  head ! 
Be  still,  ye  bleating  flocks, — your  shepherd  calls. 
Hang  silent  on  your  rocks,  ye  waterfalls ! 
Pan  on  his  oaten  pipe  awakes  the  strain, 
And  fills  with  dulcet  sounds  the  pastoral  plain. 
Lured  by  his   notes,  the  Nymphs  their  bowers 

forsake, 

From  every  fountain,  running  stream,  and  lake, 
From  every  hill  and  ancient  grove  around, 
And  to  symphonioas  measures  strike  the  ground. 


ON  HIS  BELOVED. 

IN  life  thou  wert  my  morning  star, 

But  now  that  Death  has  stol'n  thy  light, 

Alas,  thou  shinest  dim  and  far, 

Like  the  pale  beam  that  weeps  at  night. 


ON  DION  OF  SYRACUSE. 

FOR  Priam's  queen  and  daughters,  at  their  birth, 

The  Fates  weaved  tears  into  their  web  of  life  : 
But  for  thee,  Dion,  in  thy  hour  of  mirth, 

When  triumph  crowned  thine  honourable  strife 
Thy  gathering  hopes  were  poured  upon  the  sand. 

Thee  still  thy  countrymen  revere  and  lay 
In  the  broad  precincts  of  thy  native  land. 

But  who  the  passion  of  my  grief  shall  stay  ? 


ON  ARISTOPHANES. 

THE  Muses,  seeking  for  a  shrine 
Whose  glories  ne'er  should  cease, 

Found,  as  they  strayed,  the  soul  divine 
Of  Aristophanes. 


LAIS'  OFFERING  TO  VENUS. 

VENUS,  take  my  votive  glass, 
Since  I  am  not  what  I  was. 
What  from  this  day  I  shall  be, 
Venus !  let  me  never  see. 


ON  THE  BRONZE  IMAGE  OF  A  FROG. 

"  A  traveller  who,  when  nearly  exhausted  by  thirst, 
was  guided  by  the  croaking  of  a  frog  to  a  spring  of 
water,  dedicates  to  the  Nymphs  a  bronze  image  of  his 
preserver." 

THE  servant  of  the  Nymphs,  the  singer  dank, 
Pleased  with  clear  fountains, — the  shower-loving 

frog, 

Imaged  in  brass, — hath  a  way-faring  man 
Placed  here,  a  votive  gift, — because  it  served 
To  quench  the  fever  of  the  traveller's  thirst, 
For  the  amphibious  creature's  well-timed  song, 
Croaked    from    its    dewy  grot,    the    wandering 

steps 

Of  him,  who  searched  for  water,  hither  drew. 
Not  heedless  of  the  guiding  voice,  he  found 
The  longed-for  draught  from  the  sweet  cooling 

spring. 


PLATO,  THE  COMIC  POET. 


[About  428  B.  C.] 


HONOURABLE  mention  has  been  made  of  Plato  I  numerous  comedies  and  other  works,  only  a  few 
by  Athenueus,  Suidas,  and  other  writers,  but  of  his  |  fragments  and  two  epigrams  are  now  remaining. 


FRAGMENT 

OF  A  DIALOGUE   BETWEEN  A   FATHER  A?*D  A  SOPH- 
IST U^DER  WHOSE  TUITION   HE   HAD  PLACED 
HIS   SOX. 

Fath.  Thou  hast  destroyed  the  morals  of  my 

son, 

Unholy  pedagogue !  and  turned  to  vice 
His  mind  not  so  disposed.  With  morning  drams 
A  filthy  practice,  which  he  caught  from  thee, 
And  all-unlike  his  former  life,  he  saps 
His  youthful  vigour.     Is  it  thus  you  school  him  1 

Soph.  And   if  I  did,   what  harm?   and   why 

complain  ? 

He  does  but  follow  what  the  wise  prescribe, 
The  great  voluptuous  law  of  Epicurus, 
Pleasure,  the  best  of  all  good  things  on  earth; 
And  how  but  thus  can  pleasure  be  obtained  ? 

Fath.  Virtue  will  give  it  him. 

Soph.  And  what  but  virtue 

Is  our  philosophy?     When  have  you  met 
One  of  our  sect  flushed  and  disguised  with  wine? 
Or  one,  but  one,  of  those  you  tax  so  roundly, 
On  whom  to  fix  a  fault? 

Fath.  Not  one,  but  all, 

All,  who  march  forth  with  supercilious  brow, 
High-arched  with  pride,  beating  the  city-rounds, 


Like  constables  in  quest  of  rogues  and  outlaws, 
To  find  that  prodigy  in  human  nature, 
A  wise  and  perfect  man  !     What  is  your  science 
But  kitchen-science  ?     Wisely  to  descant 
Upon  the  choice  bits  of  a  savoury  carp, 
And  prove  by  logic  that  his  summum  bomim 
Lies  in  his  head ;  there  you  can  lecture  well, 
And,  whilst  your  grey  beards  wag,  the  gaping 

guest 
Sits  wondering  with  a  foolish  face  of  praise. 


ON  A  STATUE  OF  MERCURY. 
"  Ho  A  there !  Who  art  thou  ? — Answer  me — art 

dumb  ?" — 

"  Warm  from  the  hand  of  Diedalus  I  come  ; 
My  name.  Mercurius,  and,  as  you  may  prove, 
A  statue ;  but  his  statues  speak  and  move. 

ON  THE  TOMB  OF  THEMISTOCLES. 
BY  the  sea's  margin,  on  the  watery  strand, 
Thy  monument,  Themistocles,  shall  stand : 
By  this  directed,  to  thy  native  shore 
The  merchant  shall  convey  his  freighted  store ; 
And  when  our  fleets  are  summoned  to  the  fight, 
Athens  shall  conquer  with  thy  tomb  in  sight. 


CALLISTRATUS. 


[About  420  B.  C.] 


OF  the  name  of  Callistratus,  we  find  mention 
of  three — one,  a  comedian  and  friend  of  Aristo- 
phanes,  living  B.  C.  420, — another,  the  son  of 
Empedus,  recorded  by  Pausanias  as  having  fallen 
in  the  expedition  of  Nicias  against  Sicily,  B.  C.413, 
— and  ft  third,  distinguished  as  an  orator,  and  flour- 
ishing at  Athens,  B.  C.  373.*  Which  of  these 

*  There  was,  indeed,  another  of  the  name,  author  of 
Borne  pieces  of  poetry  and  poetical  criticism  quoted  by 
Athenteus  and  others,  and  placed  by  Mr.  Fynes  Clinton 
at  154  B.  C.  But  Ac  evidently  was  not  the  author,  for  the 


was  the  author  of  the  following  verses  is  a  mere 
matter  of  conjecture,  (though  I  incline  to  believe 
it  was  the  first.) — but  whichsoever  it  might  have 
been,  it  is  solely,  as  associated  with  the  noble 
ode  in  honour  of  the  Athenian  patriots,  Harmo- 
dius  and  Aristogeiton,  that  the  name  of  Callis- 
tratus remains  hallowed  in  our  memories.  That 
ode  may  be  called  the  great  National  Anthem  of 


power  of  Athens  had  then  perished,  and  "  Greece  was 
living  Greece  no  more." 

N  145 


146 


ARISTOPHANES. 


Athens,  and  was  sung  at  their  theatres  and  places 
of  public  entertainment,  in  alternate  parts,  the 
whole  company  joining  inchorus. — Bishop  Lowth, 
in  his  Sacred  Poesy  of  the  Hebrews,  regrets 
that  the  Romans  had  no  such  hymns.  "  Quod 
si  post  Idus  illas  martias  e  Tyrannoctonis  quis- 


piam  tale  aliquod  carmen  Plebi  tradisset,  inque 
Suburram  et  Fori  circulos  et  in  ora  Vulgi  intulis- 
set,  actum  profecto  fuisset  de  partibus  et  de 
dominatione  C<Bsarum  ;  plus  mehercule  valuis- 


set  unum 


pcse  omnes 


*Apjt65«>u  /uskoj,  quam  Ciceronis  Philip- 
" 


HYMN 

N  HONOUR  OF  HARMODIUS  AND  ARISTOGEITON. 

IN  myrtle  my  sword  will  I  wreathe, 
Like  our  patriots  the  noble  and  brave, 

Who  devoted  the  tyrant  to  death, 
And  to  Athens  equality'gave. 

Loved  Harmoclius,  thou  never  shalt  die ! 

The  poets  exultingly  tell, 
That  thine  is  the  fullness  of  joy, 

Where  Achilles  and  Diomed  dwell. 

In  myrtle  my  sword  will  I  wreathe, 
Like  our  patriots,  the  noble  and  brave, 

Who  devoted  Hipparchus  to  death, 
And  buried  his  pride  in  the  grave. 

At  the  altar  the  tyrant  they  seized, 
While  Minerva  he  vainly  implor'd, 

And  the  Goddess  of  Wisdom  was  pleased 
With  the  victim  of  Liberty's  sword. 

May  your  bliss  be  immortal  on  high, 
Among  men  as  your  glory  shall  be! 

Ye  doomed  the  usurper  to  die, 

And  bade  our  dear  country  be  free. 

Another  translation  of  the  Same. 
WREATHED  with  myrtle  be  my  glaive, 

Wreathed  like  yours,  stout  hearts !  when  ye 
Death  to  the  usurper  gave, 

And  to  Athens  liberty. 


Dearest  youths !  ye  are  not  dead, 

But,  in  islands  of  the  blest, 
With  Tydean  Diomed, 

With  unmatched  Achilles,  rest. 

Yes !  with  wreaths  my  sword  I'll  twine, 
Wreaths  like  yours,  ye  tried  and  true ! 

When,  at  chaste  Athena's  shrine, 
Ye  the  base  Hipparchus  slew. 

Bright  your  deeds  beyond  the  grave ! 

Endless  your  renown !  for  ye 
Death  to  the  usurper  gave/ 

And  to  Athens  liberty!* 


*"  Amidst  the  doubts  and  contradictions  of  historians 
and  philosophers— Herodotus,  Thucydides,  Plato,— it  is 
difficult  not  to  believe  that  the  action  thus  commemo- 
rated, though  prompted,  perhaps,  like  the  revolt  of  Tell, 
by  private  injury,  was  an  example  of  that  rude  justice, 
whose  ambiguous  morality  is  forgiven  for  its  signal  public 
benefits.  Something  of  greatness  and  true  splendour 
there  must  have  been  about  a  deed  of  which  the  memory 
was  cherished  as  an  heir-loom  by  the  whole  Athenian 
community  of  freemen,  and  made  familiar  as  household 
words  by  constant  convivial  celebration.  Not  until  the 
decline  of  Attic  liberty,  and  the  approach  of  universal  de- 
gradation, did  a  comic  writer  presume  to  sneer  at  the  lay 
of  Harmodius  as  wearing  out  of  fashion.  It  was  an  ill 
sign  of  the  poet  to  indulge  in  such  a  sneer,  and  it  was  a 
worse  sign  of  the  people  to  endure  it."— Edin.  Review, 
No.  cxii. 


ARISTOPHANES. 


[About  420  B.  C.] 


THOUGH  eleven  of  the  plays  of  Aristophanes 
have  come  down  to  us ;  yet  we  know  little  of 
him  or  of  his  personal  character.  His  father's 
name  was  Philippus,  and  his  birth-place  is  gene- 
rally supposed  to  have  been  Athens,  but  of  the 
rank  and  station  of  his  family  or  of  his  own  early 
years  and  education,  all  is  bare  conjecture.  His 
first  comedy,  "The  Banqueters,"  appeared  in 
427  B.  C.  It  was  an  exposition  of  the  corrup- 
tions which  had  crept  into  the  Athenian  system 
of  education,  and  obtained  the  second  prize.  In 
426  he  brought  out  "  The  Babylonians,"  and,  in 
the  following  spring,  «  The  Acharnians,"  to  the 


latter  of  which  was  awarded  the  first  prize,  Cra- 
tinus  and  Eupolis  bearing  off  the  second  and 
third.  His  next  play,  "  The  Knights,"  was  ex- 
hibited in  424  B.  C,,  and  likewise  gained  the  first 
prize,  the  second  and  third  being  adjudged  to 
Cratinus  and  Aristomenes.  These  were  followed 
by  "The  Clouds,"  (423  B.  C.,)  ridiculing  the  me- 
taphysics of  the  Sophists — by  "  The  Wasps,"  (422 
B.  C.,)  exposing  the  mania  of  the  Athenians  for 
quarrels  and  law  suits, — by  "  Peace,"  (419  B.  C., ) 
in  praise  .and  recommendation  of  that  first  of 
private  and  public  blessings, — by  the  "  Amphi- 
araus"  and  "The  Birds,"  (414  B.C.,)  exposing 


ARISTOPHANES. 


147 


the  ambitious  schemes  of  Alcibiatles,  and  parody- 
ing and  ridiculing  the  Euripidean  Trilogy  which 
had  appeared  the  year  before — by  the  "  Lysis- 
tram?"  and  "  Thesmophoriazusce,"  (411  B.  C.,)  the  | 
former  in  recommendation  of  peace,  and  the 
Inner  attacking  Euripides, — by  "The  Frogs," 
(409  B.C..)  maintaining  the  superiority  of  the  old 
rhapsodical  tragedy  over  the  sophistical  innova- 
tions of  Euripides,— by  the  "  Plutus,"  (408  B.  C.,) 
vindicating  the  conduct  of  Providence  in  the  or- 
dinary distribution  of  wealth,  and  at  the  same 
time  showing  the  tendency  of  riches  to  corrupt  the 
morals  of  those  who  possess  them, — and  by  the 
u  Ecclesiazusae,  (392  B.  C.,)  a  satire  on  the  ideal 


FROM  THE  KNIGHTS; 

OH,  THE   DEMAGOGUES. 

[Acted  B.  C.  424.] 

THE  professed  object  of  this  singular  compo- 
sition is  the  overthrow  of  that  powerful  dema- 
gogue, Cleon,  whom  the  author,  in  his  Achar- 
nians,  had  foretold  his  i.itention,  at  some  future 
day,  of  cutting  into  shoe-leather;*  and  his  as- 
sistants on  the  occasion  are  the  very  persons,  for 
whose  service  the  exploit  was  to  take  place, — 
vi/.  the  rich  proprietors,  who  among  the  Athe- 
nians constituted  the  class  of  horsemen  or  knights. 
For  this  purpose  Athens  is  represented  as  a 
house :  Demus  (a  personification  of  the  whole 
Athenian  people)  is  the  master  of  it:  Nicias 
and  Demosthenes  are  his  slaves:  and  Cleon  his 
confidential  servant  and  slave-driver.  If  the 
dramatis  persona  are  few,  the  plot  is  still  more 
meagre:  it  consists  merely  of  a  series  of  humi- 
liating pictures  of  Cleon  and  a  succession  of  proofs 
to  Demus,  that  his  favourite  servant  is  wholly 
unworthy  of  the  trust  and  confidence  reposed  in 
him.  The  manners  are  strictly  confined  to  Athens, 
and  might  almost  be  thought  to  belong  to  a  peo- 
ple, who  imagined,  with  the  Indian,  that  his  own 
little  valley  comprehended  the  whole  world;  and 
that  the  sun  rose  <>n  <me  side  of  it  only  to  set 
airain  on  the  other.  Of  all  the  comedies  of  Aris- 
tophanes, scarcely  one  can  be  said  to  exceed 
"The  Knights"  in  value;  not  so  much  as  a  spe- 
cimen of  the  dramatic  art,  as  an  historical  docu- 
ment, giving  a  strong,  full,  and  faithful  picture, 
of  the  most  singular  people  that  ever  existed. 


DRAMATIS    PERSON  \  V.. 


DEMUS,  an  oil  citizen  of  Athens,  in  whom  the  Athe- 
nian people  are  typified. 


TIIK  PAPKLAGONIAW,  (CtEOX,)  Steward  to  DEMUS. 

S\rs  UiK-SKLLER. 

Cnouus  OF  KXIGHTS. 


*  Cleon  was  the  son  of  a  tanner,  and  had  risen  from 
hi*  father's  station,  not  by  any  superior  merit  of  his  own, 
but  by  sheer  impudence  and  demagoguism. 


republics  of  the  philosophers,  with  their  commu- 
nity of  goods  and  wives. — The  two  last  come- 
dies which  Aristophanes  wrote,  were  the  "CEo- 
losieon''  and  "  Cocalus,''the  former  being  a  parody 
on  the  "  .^Eolus''  of  Euripides,  the  latter  a  criti- 
cism on  a  tragedy  or  epic  poem,  whose  hero  was 
Cocalus,  the  fabulous  king  of  Sicily,  and  slayer 
of  Minos. 

Aristophanes  is  supposed  to  have  died  about 
the  commencement  of  the  Hundredth  Olympiad, 
or  380  B.  C.  He  left  three  sons,  Philippus,  Ara- 
ros,  and  Nicostratus,  who,  though  all  poets  of  the 
middle  comedy,  were  by  no  means  inheritors  of 
their  father's  talents. 


SCEJTE. — The  space  before  DEMUS'  house. 

ACT  I. — SCEXE  I. — DEMOSTHENES  and  NICIAS. 

These  two  illustrious  generals  enter  the  stage, 
dressed  in  their  proper  costume  of  slaves,  and 
complain  bitterly  of  the  hardships  they  suffer 
since  the  introduction  of  an  execrable  Paphlago- 
nian  into  the  house  of  their  common  master,  De- 
mus.— Nicias  is  for  deserting  their  old  master 
and  taking  refuge  with  another.  This  being  ob- 
jected to  by  Demosthenes,  he  says: 

'Twere  better  then  to  give  our  cares  the  slip, 
And  end  our  sorrows  and  our  lives  at  once : 
One  only  thought  remains,  to  die  as  most 
Befits  brave  men. 

Demos.  How  best  may  that  be  done  ? 

Nic.  Nought  better  than  a  draught  of  bullock's 

blood  : 

It  was  tbe  dose  that  gave  Themistocles 
A  grave :  who  dies  like  him,  must  needs  die 

bravely. 
Demos.  A  draught  of  bullock's  blood!  a  draught 

of  pure 
And  genuine  wine   might  serve  the  turn  much 

better. 
Nought  genders  thoughts  so  brilliant  as  a  flask. 

Fie.  A  flask !  thy  soul  is  ever  in  thy  cups : 
What  thoughts  can  habit  in  a  toper's  brain? 
Demos.  Hark  ye,  thou  trifling,  bubbling  water- 
drinker, 

Who darest speak  treason  thus  against  good  liquor! 
Resolve   me — speak — What  stirs  the  wit  most 

nimbly  ? 

What  makes  the  purse  feel  heaviest,  or  gives 
Most  life  to  business1?  Wine!    What  masters  all 
Disputes?   A  merry  cup  !    What  gives  the  spirits 
Their  briskest  flow  ?    Good  liquor  !     What  most 

sets 

The  soul  afloat  in  love  and  friendly  benefits? 
A  mantling  bowl ! — Hand  me  a  pitcher  then: 
Quick,  quick,  nay  quick  !  I'll  bathe  my  very  mind 
And  soul  therein,  and  then  see  who  can  hit 
Upon  a  trim  device. 

NIC.  Alaek-a-day ! 

What  will  that  drunkenness  of  thine  engender? 

(goes  in  doors.} 


148 


ARISTOPHANES. 


Demos.  Much   good,   believe  me :   quick  and 

bring  the  wine  then. 

I'll  lay  me  down ;  let  but  the  generous  fumes 
Once  mount  into  my  head,  and  they  will  gender 
Such  dainty  little  schemes — such  tit-bit  thoughts — 
Such  trim  devices ! — 

SCENE  II. 

DEMOSTHENES.     NICIAS  returning  with  wine. 
Nic.  Sing  we  jubilate  ; 

I  have  purloined  the  wine  and  'scaped  observance. 
Demos.  How    fares    the    Paphlagonian,    lad  ? 

Deliver  me. 

Nic.  The  rogue  hath  made  of  confiscation-sales 
A  sorry  meal,  and  filled  his  skin  with  liquor. 
Now  stretch'd  at  full  upon  a  heap  of  hides 
The  sorcerer  sleeps  sound. 

Demos.  Then  pour  me  out 

A  cup  of  wine — no  stint — a  bumper,  look  ye  ; 
And  let  the  echo  smack  her  lips  in  unison. 
Nic.  (pouring  out  wine.}  Now  make  libation  to 

the  Better-Genius — 
To  Him  the  offering. 

Demos.  To  the  Better-Genius ! 

(drinks  and  meditates.) 
A  happy  inspiration  comes  across  me ; 
Thine  be  the  credit  of  this  bright  invention ! 
(looking  at  the  pitcher  with  affected  devotion,  and 

then  turning  to  Nicias.) 

Quick,  quick;  and  while  the  Paphlagonian  sleeps, 
Bring  forth  those  oracles  he  hoards  within. 

Nic.  Is    this    the    scheme    the    Better-Genius 

prompts  ? 

I  fear  me  much  that  your  Divinity 
Will  lose  his  name,  and  only  cross  your  ends. 

(Enters  the  house.) 
Demos.  Meantime    I  put  this  pitcher   to   my 

mouth, 

That  I  may  wet  my  drought-parched  mind,  and  hit 
Upon  some  neat  device.     (Drinks.) 

Nic.  (returning.)       The  rogue  sleeps  soundly, 
Or  I  had  not  come  off  so  clean  :  here  is 
The  oracle.     'Tis  that  he  prizes  most ; 
Hoarding    with    care,    as    if  'twere    somewhat 

sacred. 
Demos.  Thou  art   a  clever   fellow ;    reach  it 

here— 

My  eyes  must  take  account  of  this ;  and,  friend, 
Put  speed  into  thy  hand  and  fill  a  cup. 
I'll  see  what  stuff  these  oracles  are  made  of. 
(reads.)  Anan !  some  liquor,  quick  ! 

Nic.  'Tis  here. — How  runs 

The  oracle  ? 

Demos,  (drinks  and  reads.)     More  liquor. 
Nic.  Call  you  that 

The  wording  on't  ? 

Demos,   (reading.)    0  Bacis  !* 
Nic.        ,  Why,  what  now  ? 

Demos,  (reading.)     Wine,  wine,  more  wine, 
Nic.   (pouring  out  wine.)     This  Bacis  was  no 

flincher. 

Demos,    (reading.)     So,  so;    thou  varlet  of  a 
Paphlagonian ! 


*  Bacis,  a  Boeotian,  who  was  supposed  to  have  received 
the  gift  of  prophecy  from  the  nymphs  of  Mount  Cithseron. 


Twas  this  bred  such  distrust  in  thee,  and  taught 
To  hoard  these  prophecies. 

Nic.  Say  you? 

Demos.  I  say 

Here  is  a  prophecy  which  tells  the  time 
And  mariner  of  this  fellow's  death. 

Nic.  Out  with  it. 

Demos.  The  words  are  clear  enough  :  first  says 

the  oracle — 

There  shall  arise  within  our  state  a  lint-seller,* 
And  to  his  hands  the  state  shall  be  committed. 
Nic.  One  seller  note  we  : — good, — proceed, — 

what  follows  ? 
Demos,    (reading.)     Him  shall  a  sheep-seller 

succeed. 

Nic.  A  brace 

Of  sellers !  good — What  shall  befall  this  worthy? 

Demos,  (reading.)    'Tis  fix'd  that  he  bear  sway 

'till  one  arise 
More  wicked  than  himself — that  moment  seals 

him : 

Then  comes  the  Paphlagonian, — the  hide-seller, — 
Nic.  The  man  of  sheep  then  falls  beneath  the 

lord 
Of  hides? 

Demos.  Even  so :  thus  runs  the  oracle. 
Nic.  Another  and  another  still  succeeds, 
And  all  are  sellers  ! — Sure  the  race  must  be 
Extinct ! — 

Demos.  One  yet  is  left,  whose  craft  may  stir 
Your  wonder. 

Nic.  What's  his  name  ? 

Demos.  Wouldst  learn  ? 

Nic.  Aye,  marry. 

Demos.  I  give  it  to  thee  then :  (with  emphasis) 

the  man  that  ruins 
The  Paphlagonian  is — a  sausage-seller. 

Nic.  You  jest.     A  sausage-seller  ! — 'Tis  a  craft 

Indeed!  and  where  may  such  a  man  be  found? 

Demos.  The  task  remains  with  us  to  search 

him  out. 

Nic.  Why  yonder  see,  he  moves  into  the  forum. 
[SAUSAGE-SELLER  is  seen  at  a  distance. 
The  hand  of  Providence  is  sure  in  this ! 

Demos.  Hither,  thou  happiest  of  sausage-sel- 
lers! 

I  give  thee  hail ! — this  way,  dearest  of  men  ! — 
Mount  up,  thou  saviour  of  our  town  and  us 
Thy  humble  servants. 

SCENE  III. 

DEMOSTHENES,  NICIAS,  and  SAUSAGE-SELLER. 
Sausage.  Prithee  now,  what  wouldst  thou 

With  me  ? 

Demos.      This  way,  this  way:  list  friend,  and 

learn, 
The  happy  and  the  blessed  man  you  are. 

Nic.  First  rid  him  of  his  chopping-block  :  then 

pour 

Into  his  ears  how  runs  the  oracle, 
And  what  the  blessed  fortune  that  awaits  him— 
I'll  turn  an  eye  upon  the  Paphlagonian 
Within.     (Enters  the  house.) 

*  Three  of  Pericles'  successors  in  the  administration 
had  been — Eucrates,  a  lint-seller — Lycicles,  a  sheep-sel- 
ler,— and  Cleon,  a  leather-seller. 


ARISTOPHANES. 


149 


Demos,  (to  the  Sausage-seller.")    First,  please  to 

lay  those  implements 
Upon  the  ground  ;  then  do  all  courtesies 
And  acts  of  adoration  to  the  gods 
And  mother  Earth.* 

Sausage.  A  nan ! 

Demos.  Happiest  of  men  ! 

What  wealth  awaits  thee !     Thou  to-day  art  no- 
thing; 

Yet  shall  to-morrow  see  thee  top  of  all, 
And  blessed  Athens  own  thee  her  prime  minister! 

Sausage.  Good  man,  I  fain  would  wash  me 

these  intestines : 

Why  should  you  put  a  hindrance  in  my  way, 
And  make  a  ilout  at  me? 

Demos.  (contemptuously.)  Intestine.*,  say  you? 
Simple^  of  men! — Your  eyes  this  way  awhile — 
Sees!  thou  yon  companies  of  men?  (pointing  to 

the  audience.) 

Sausage.  I  do : 

What  then? 

Demos.  Of  all  of  those  shalt  thou  be  lord 

And  sovereign — the  pynx,t  the  ports,  the  forum, — 
Not  one  hut  waits  thy  ruling  riod.     The  seriate 
Thy  feet  shall  trample  on ;  the  generals 
Shall  fall,  like  chips,  before  thee:  lord  of  stocks, 
And  sovereign  of  dungeons,  thou  shalt  lock 
And  bind, — nay  further,  (lowering  his  voice)  in  the 

hall  shalt  have 
A  well-spread  bed — nor  want  companion  in  it. 

Sausage.  All  this  for  me  '. 

Demos.  Ay,  and  much  more,  believe  me, 
But  mount  thy  block,  good  friend,  and  cast  thine 

On  yonder  IslesJ — dost  see  them? 

Snisuge.  Yes. 

Demos.  Nay,  but 

The  marts,  the  merchantmen — 

Sausage.  I  mark  them  all. 

Demos.  O  thou  art  Fortune's  very  favourite ! 
The  child  of  happiness! — Your  right  eye,  sir, 
On  Caria — your  left  on  Chalcedon.J 

Sausage.   And   call   you  this  the  top  of  happi- 



To  have  my  eyes  distorted? — Cry  your  mercy. 

Demos.  Nay,  you  mistake — a  whisper  in  your 

ear — 

All  tho--e  ar.-  so  much  money  in  your  purse — 
F<»r  thou  wilt  be — or  there's  no  faith,  be  sure, 
In  oracles — a  mo>r  prodigious  man! 

Suuaaxr.   Go  to.  thou  canting  varlet.  am  not  I 

ii.-age-vender  ?   How  shall  greatness  ever 
£it  on  a  man  of  my  proie>>iou  ? 

Demos.  Tut ! — 

It  is  the  very  source  of  greatness  -. — an.-wer — 
Art  not  a  knave  '. — Art  not  of  the  forum  ?§ — Hast 


*  The.re  appears  to  h-ive  hcen  a  piece  of 
among  tin-  lo\vi:r  orders  of  Athens,  xvliii  h  consisted  in 
kinsina  the  spot  of  p  round  on  which  tin  y  s-tood,  when 
any  piece  of  good  luck  happened  to  them. 

t  The  hill  on  which  tli>-  iM-neral  ;is>t- mblies  were  held, 
and  the  pari>h  of  the  allegorical  Drums. 

J  All  thesi:  isles,  ciu>-s.  ke.,  pointed  out  by  Demos- 
thenes, were  tributary  to  Athens. 

$  '  he  asora  or  forum  was  the  resort  of  all  the  idle  and 
profligate  of  Athens. 


A  front  of  brass  ? — Can  Fortune  set  her  seal 
Of  greatness  with  more  certainty  upon  thee? 

Sausage.  I  cannot  iind  in  me  that  worthiness 
And  seal  of  future  power  you  vaunt  so  mightily. 

Demos.  Anan !     why    sure    thou    hast    some 

squeamishness 

Of  honesty  about  thee  !  all's  not  right, 
I  fear; — answer, — art  fair? — art  honest? — art 
A  gentleman? — How  say'st? 

Sausage,  (coldly)  Not  I,  by  G-d  ! 

I  am — as  all  my  fathers  were — a  blackguard. 

Demos.    Then   thou   art  blest:    Fortune   hath 

shap'd  and  mark'd  thee 
For  state-affairs. 

Sausage.  Nay,  I  want  skill  in  music : 

And  am  the  sorriest  dabster  e'en  at  letters. 

Demos.  Better  you  wanted  that  small  skill  you 

boast — 

'Tis  all  that  makes  'gainst  thy  sufficiencies; 
Music  ami  letters  ! — Tut !  we  want  no  gifts 
Like  these  in  men  who  rule  us — morals,  quotha? — 
A  dolt, — a  knave, — these  are  the  stuff  we  make 
Our  statesmen  of — but  come — throw  not  away 
The  blessing  gracious  heaven  has  put  upon  thee, 
By  virtue  of  these  oracles. 

Sausage.  First  let  me  hear 

The  wording  of  them. 

Demos.  Nay,  you'll  find  no  want 

Of  wisdom  in  them,  nor  variety 
In  the  conceit— observe — (reads) 


When  the  monster,  half-tanner,  half-eagle,  shall 

take 

To  his  mouth,  crooked-beak'd,  the  dull  blood- 
sucking snake : 

Then,  if,  rightly  prophetic,  the  future  I  trace, 
Paphlagonia  and  pickle*  shall  sink  in  disgrace. 
The  vender  of  sausages'  star  shall  arise, 
And  glory  come  down  with  a  crown  from  the 

skies  :— 

Unfading  their  fame,  as  their  sacrifice  great, 
Who  leave  a  good  trade  to  take  care  of  the  state. 

Sausage.  And  how  points  this  to  me  ? 

Demos.  I  will  resolve  thee. 

The  tanner-eagle  is  the  Paphlagonian. 

S-n>.t(i<re.  But  he  is  called  crook-beak'd.— 

Demos.  With  reason  good. 

What  else  his  hands  but  beak,  and  claws,  and 
talons? 

Sausage.  But  then  the  serpent — how  expound 
you  that? 

Demos.  Nay,  'tis  the  clearest  of  similitudes  : 
What  is  a  serpent  but  a  lengthy  thing? 
And  what  your  .-a  lisa  ire  but  the  same? — again — 
Your  sausage  i.-  a  blood-sucker; — so  is 
Your  Miakc — and  snake.  M>  runs  the  prophecy, 
Miall  beat  the  tanner-eagle; — take  he  heed 
Meantime,  that  no  lal.-e  speeches  co/en  him. 

Summer.   The  light  is  broke  upon  me,  and  I  see 
A  call  from  heaven  in  this: — I  marvel  most 
How  I  shall  do  to  rule  the  populace"? 

Demos.  Nought  easier:   model  you  upon  your 
trade — 


Liquid  used  in  tanning. 

K2 


150 


ARISTOPHANES. 


Deal  with  the  people  as  with  sausages — 
Twist,  implicate,  embroil ;  nothing  will  hurt, 
So  you  but  make  your  court  to  Demus — cheating 
And  soothing  him  with  terms  of  kitchen  science. 
All  other  public  talents  are  your  own  ; 
Your  voice  is  strong,  your  liver  white,  and  you  are 
O'  the  forum — say,  could  Diffidence  ask  more 
To  claim  the  reins  of  state  ? — The  Pythian  god, 
The  oracles,  are  in  your  favour ;  clap  then 
A  chaplet  on  your  head ;  drop  instant  prayer 
Unto  Coalernus,*  and  bear  your  manhood 
Entire  against  him. 

Sausage.  But  what  aidance  may  I 

Expect1?   The  wealthier  fear  the  meaner  folk — 
Pay  the  most  crouching  reverence  to  him. 

Demos.  Nay,  nay, 

The  knights  will  be  your  friends ;  there  are  among 

them 

Some  twice  five-hundred,  who  detest  him :  citizens 
Of  breeding  and  of  mark,  be  sure,  will  side 
With  you,  and  such  spectators  here  as  boast 
Right-minded  notions — what's  more  to  the  pur- 
pose, 

Thou'lt  lack  no  aid  which  heaven  and  I  can  give. 
But  see  thou  show  no  fear. 

SCENE  IV. 

NICIAS,  DEMOSTHENES,  CLEON,  SAUSAGE-SELLER, 
and  CHORUS. 

Nic.  He  comes,  he  comes,  the  cursed  Paphla- 
gonian ! 

At  the  sight  of  Cleon,  the  sausage-vender's 
courage  forsakes  him,  and  he  endeavours  to  make 
his  escape.  He  is  brought  back,  however,  to  the 
charge  by  Demosthenes,  and  assisted  by  the 
knights,  who  attack  Cleon  in  a  burst  of  double 
trochaics,  the  common  metre  for  expressing  strong 
emotion  on  the  Greek  stage. 

CHORUS  OF  KNIGHTS. 

Stripes  and  torment,  whips  and  scourges,  for  the 
toll-collecting  knave ! 

Knighthood  wounded,  troops  confounded,  chastise- 
ment and  vengeance  crave. 

Taxes  sinking,  tributes  shrinking,  mark  his  appe- 
tite for  plunder ; 

At  his  craw  and  ravening  maw,  dykes  and  whirl- 
pools fail  for  wonder  ! 

Explanation  and  evasion— covert  art  and  close 
deceit — 

Fraudful  funning,  force  and  cunning,  who  with 
him  in  these  compete'? 

He  can  cheat,  and  eke  repeat  twenty  times  his 
felon  feat, 

All  before  yon  blessed  sun  has  quench'd  his  lamp 
of  glowing  heat. 

Then  to  him — pursue  him — strike,  shiver  and 
hew  him ; 

Confound  him  and  pound  him,  and  storm  all 
around  him. — 

Confounded  by  this  attack,  Cleon  calls  loudly 
on  the  members  of  the  Helicta,  (the  high  court 
of  Judicature)  for  help  : — 

*  The  genius  of  Stupidity. 


Judges,  jurymen,  or  pleaders,  ye  whose  soul  is  in 

your  fee ; 

Ye,  that  in  a  three-piec'd  obol,  father,  mother,  bro- 
ther, see ; 
Ye,  whose  food  I'm  still  providing,  straining  voice 

through  right  and  wrong — 
Mark  and   see — conspiracy  drives   and   buffets 

me  along! 
Ch.  'Tis  with  reason — 'tis  in  season — 'tis  as 

you  yourself  have  done: 
Thou  fang,  thou  claw, — thou  gulf,  thou  maw ! — 

yielding  partage  fair  to  none. 
Where's  the  officer  at  audit,  but  has  felt  your 

cursed  gripe? 

Squeez'd  and  tried  with  nice  discernment,  whe- 
ther yet  the  wretch  be  ripe. 
Like  the  men  our  figs  who  gather,  you  are  skilful 

to  discern, 
Which  is  green,  and  which  is  ripe,  and  which  is 

just  upon  the  turn. 
Is  there  one  well-purs'd  amongst  us,  lamb-like  in 

heart  and  life, 
Link'd  and  wedded  to  retirement,  hating  bus'ness, 

hating  strife  1 
Soon  your   greedy  eye's  upon  him — when  his 

mind  is  least  at  home, — 
Room  and  place — from  farthest  Thrace,  at  your 

bidding  he  must  come. 
Foot  and  hand  are  straight  upon  him — neck  and 

shoulder  in  your  grip, 
To  the  ground  anon  he's  thrown,  and  you  smite 

him  on  the  hip. 

Cleon.  [fawning.^  Ill  from  you  comes  this  irrup- 
tion, you  for  whom  my  cares  provide, 
To    reward    old    deeds    of    valour, — stone    and 

monumental  pride. 
'Twas  my  purpose  to  deliver  words  and  speech 

to  that  intent — 
And  for  such  my  good  intention,  must  I  be  thus 

tern  pest-rent? 
Ch.  Fawning  braggart,  proud  deceiver,  yielding 

like  a  pliant  thong! 
We  are  not  old   men  to  cozen  and  to  gull  with 

lying  tongue. 
Fraud  or  force — assault  or  parry — at  all  points 

will  we  pursue  thee : 
And  the  course  which  first  exalted,  knave,  that 

same  shall  now  undo  thee. 

Cleon.  (to  the  audience.)  Town  and  weal — I  make 
.  appeal — back  and  breast  these  monsters 

feel. 
Ch.  Have  we  wrung  a  clamour  from  thee,  pest 

and  ruin  of  the  town  ? 
Sausage.  Clamour  as  he  will,  I'll  raise  a  voice 

that  shall  his  clamour  drown. 
Ch.  To  outreach  this  knave  in  speech  were  a 

great  and  glorious  feat — 
But  to  pass  in  face  and  brass — that  were  triumph 

all  complete. 
Cleon.  (to  the  audience.]  Allegation,  affirmation, 

I  am  here  prepared  to  make, 
That  this  man  (pointing  to  Sausage-seller)  shipp'd 

spars,  and  sausages,  arid  all  for  Sparta's 

sake. 
Sausage.  Head   and  oath,  I  stake  them  both, 

and  free  before  this  presence  say, 


ARISTOPHANES. 


151 


That  the  hall  a  guest  most  hurgry  sees  in  this 

man  (pointing  to  Clean)  every  day: 
He  walks  in  with  belly  empty  and  with  full  one 

goes  away. 
Demus.  Add   to  this,  on  my  witness,  that  in 

covert  close  disguise, 
Of  fish,  and  flesh,  and   bread   most  fragrant,  he 

makes  there  unlawful  prize; 
Pericles,  in  all  his  grandeur,  ne'er  was  gifted  in 

such  gnisc. 
Clean,  (loudly.}    Fate    had    mark'd  you  with 

her  eye  : 
Yet  awhile  and  both  must  die. 

Sausage,  (louder.}  Pitch  your  voice,  knave,  as 

you  will, 
I'll  that  voice  outclamour  still. 

Cleon.  (crescendo.)  When    I    soar,  the  ocean's 

roar 
Fails  for  very  wonder. 

Sausage.  In  my  throat  I've  but  one  note, 
And  that  note  is — thunder.   (  Very  loud.} 

Cleon.  I  have  test  your  parts  to  try: 
Look  at  me,  nor  wink  your  eye. 

Sausage.  Be  your  challenge  on  your  head  : 

(Looks  witJuwt  winking.} 
Where  suppose  ye  I  was  bred  ? 

Cleon.  I  can  steal,  and,  matchless  grace! 
Own  it  with  unblushing  face; 
You  dare  not  thus  pursue  it. 

Sausage.  Empty  boasting,  void  as  air 
I  can  steal,  and  then  outswear 
The  man  who  saw  me  do  it. 
Cleon.  (mortified.}  Small    applause    your   feats 

demand  ; 

The  art,  'tis  known, 
Is  not  your  own  ; 

You're  but  a  ki  ave  at  second  hand. 
But  to  the  hall*  anon  I  go; 
Incontinent  our  chairmen  know 
You've  inte-iines  here  which  owe 
A  tythe  to  Jove  and  heaven. 

Ch.  Wretch  !  without  a  parallel. — 
Son  of  thunder— child  of  hell, — 
Creature  of  one  mighty  sense, 

•entrated  Impudence! — 
From  earth's  centre  to  the  sea, 
Nature  stinks  of  that  and  thee. 
It  stalks  at  the  bar, 
It  lurks  at  the  tolls; 
In  th'  as-embly,  black  war 
And  defiance  it  rolls, 
It  speaks  to  our  curs 
In  an  accent  of  thunder, 
It  c  imbs  to  the  spl, 
And  rives  h-aven  asunder. 


The  storm  is  kept  up  so  loudly  and  incessant- 
ly, that  Cleon  is  fain  to  throw  himself  upon  the 
senate,  and  chalUv  ges  his  rival  to  meet  him  at 
that  awful  bar.  His  antagonist  professes  his 
willingness  to  do  so:  and  tlie  Choru«.  eon>ider- 
ing  him  as  one  of  the  combatants  who  were 
going  to  exhibit  in  the  wrestling  school,  anoint 

*  The  Prytaneum. 


his  body  with  the  fat  of  his  own  sausages,  that 
he  "may  slip  from  his  adversary's  calumnies;" 
they  feed  him  like  a  fighting  cock  with  pungent 
garlic ;  they  remind  him  (in  allusion  to  the  com- 
bats of  the  same  bird,)  to  peck  at  his  adversary, 
— to  tread  him  down, — to  gnaw  his  crest, — and 
swallow  his  gills;  and  they  finally  recommend 
him  to  the  protection  of  that  divinity,  which,  in 
modern  times,  would  under  the  same  mythology, 
have  presided  over  the  Palais  Royal  of  Paris,  or 
the  Piazza  di  Marco  at  Venice. 

PAUABASIS.* 
WEHE  it  one  of  that  old  school,  learned  sirs,  who 

long  the  rule 

And  the  tone  to  our  drama  hath  given, 
Who  his  lessons  and  his  verse  having  taught  us 

to  rehearse 

Would  before  this  high  presence  have  driven; 
'Tis    great   chance    that    his    request,    however 

warmly  prest, 

Might  have  met  with  no  easy  compliance : — 
But  indulgent  we  have  heard  the  petitions  of  a 

bard 

Of  new  mettle  and  noblest  appliance. 
And  well  may  he  command  aid  and  service  at 

your  hand  ; 

For  his  hatreds  and  ours  closely  blending 
Into  one  concurring  point  leap,  and  hand  and 

heart  and  joint 

To  the  same  noble  object  are  tending. 
He  no  shade  nor  shelter  seeks ,- — what  he  thinks  he 

boldly  speaks: — f 

Neither  skirmish  nor  conflict  declining, 
He  marches  all-elate  'gainst  that  Typhon  of  the 

state, 

Storm  and  hurricane  and  tempest  combining. 
Marvel  much  we  hear  l>as  grown,  and  inquiries 

through  the  town, 

Of  the  poet  have  been  most  unsparing, 
(With  submission  be  it  known,  that  these  words 

are  not  our  own, 

But  his  own  proper  speech  and  declaring.) 
Why  his  dramas  hitherto  came  not  forward  as 

was  due, 

Their  own  proper  Choregus  obtaining ; 
Take  us  with  you,  sirs,  awhile,  and  a  moment's 

easy  toil 

Will  in  brief  be  the  reason  explaining. 
'Twas  no  folly  bred,  we  say,  this  distrust  and 

cold  delay, 
But  a  sense  of  th'  extreme  application, 


*  The  Parabasis  is  a  <lizre«.-innal  address  to  the  spec- 
tators liy  the  Chorus,  in  the  name  and  under  the  authority 
of  the  poet,  ami  lias  no  concern  with  the  subject  of  the 
piece. — In  the  present  one,  the  writer  has  taken  the  op- 
portunity thus  ailonlei!  him  of  displaying  the  ingratitude 
of  the  Athenians  towards  many  of  their  old  poets,  and  of 
explain  ins  why  he  had  not  complied  with  the  established 
custom  of  putting  his  work  into  the  hands  of  one  of  those 
wealthy  persons,  who  either  voluntarily  undertook,  or 
by  compulsion  of  the  law  were  enjoined  to  defray  the 
expenses  of,  the  choral  and  theatrical  exhibitions. 

t  Such  was  the.  dread  entertained  of  the  party  of  Cleon, 
that  no  mask-maker  would  venture  toeiecute  his  likeness. 
The  poet,  therefore,  embraced  the  resolution  of  acting 
the  part  himself,  with  his  face  merely  painted  over. 


152 


ARISTOPHANES. 


And  the  toil  which  he,  who  woos  in  our  town 

the  comic  muse, 

Must  encounter  in  such  his  vocation. 
Then  your  tempers  quick — severe — ever  chang- 
ing with  the  year — 

To  this  thought  added  fears  more  appalling, 
And  a  sense  of  those  disasters  which,  through 

you,  their  fickle  masters, 
Old  age  on  our  poets  sees  falling. 
Could  it  scape  observing  sight,  what  was  Magnes 

wretched  plight, 

When  the  hairs  on  his  temples  were  hoary ; 
Yet  who  battled  with  more  zeal,  or  more  trophies 

left  to  tell 

Of  his  former  achievements  and  glory? 
He  came  piping,  dancing,  tapping, — fig-gnatting 

and  wing-clapping, — * 

Frog-besmear'd  and  with  Lydian  grimaces : 
Yet  he,  too,  had  his  date,  nor  could  wit  nor  merit 

great 

Preserve  him,  unchang'd  in  your  graces. 
Who  Cratinus  may  forget,  or  the  storm  of  whim 

and  wit, 

Which  shook  theatres  under  his  guiding"? 
When  panegyric's  song  pour'd  her  flood  of  praise 

along, 

Who  but  he  on  the  top  wave  was  riding1? 
Who  but  he  the  foremost  guest  then  on  gala-day 

and  feast? 

What  strain  fell  from  harp  or  musicians, 
But  "Doro,  Doro,  sweet,  nymph  with  fig-beslip- 

per'd  feet," 

Or  —  "Ye    verse-smiths    and    bard-mechani- 
cians?'^ 
Thus  in  glory  was  he  seen,  while  his  years,  as 

yet,  were  green ; 

But  now  that  his  dotage  is  on  him, 
God  help  him  !  for  no  eye,  of  all  who  pass  him  by, 

Throws  a  look  of  compassion  upon  him. 
'Tis  a  couch,  but  with  the  loss  of  its  garnish  and 

its  gloss  ; — 

'Tis  a  harp,  that  hath  lost  all  its  cunning, — 
'Tis  a  pipe,  where  deftest  hand   may  the   stops 

no  more  command, 
Nor  on  its  divisions  be  running. 
Connas-ftfce,}:  he's  chaplet-crown'd,  and  he  paces 

round  and  round, 

In  a  circle,  which  never  is  ended  ;— 
On  his  head  a  chaplet  hangs,  but  the  curses  and 

the  pangs 

Of  a  drought  on  his  lips  are  suspended. 
0,  if  ever  yet  on  bard  waited,  page-like,  high 

reward  ; — 

Former  exploits  and  just  reputation, 
By  an  emphasis  of  right,  sure   had  earn'd  this 

noble  wight 
In  the  hall  a  ne'er-failing — potation  ;§ 

*  The  poet  here  alludes  in  his  own  peculiar  manner  to 
the  titles  of  some  of  the  dramatic  works  of  Magnes. 

fTwo  celebrated  songs  of  Cratinus  began  in  this 
manner. 

t  Connas  was  a  flute-player,  and,  from  a  fragment  of 
Cratinus,  appears  to  have  made  himself  a  little  conspicu- 
ous by  constantly  wearing  a  chaplet  on  his  head. 

$  Cratinus  is  said  to  have  been  rather  addicted  to  pota- 
tions. 


And  in  theatres  high  station  ;*  there  a  mark  for 

Admiration 

To  anchor  her  aspect  and  face  on, 
In  his  honour  he  should  sit,  nor  serve  triflers  in 

the  pit 

As  an  object  their  rude  jests  to  pass  on. 
I  spare  myself  the  toil  to  record  the  buffets  vile, 

The  affronts  and  the  contumelies  hateful, 
Which  on  Crates |  frequent  fell,  yet  I  dare  you, 

sirs,  to  tell 

Where  was  caterer  more  pleasing  and  grate- 
ful? 
Who  knew  better  how  to  lay  soup  piquant  and 

entremets, 

Dainty  patties  and  little  side-dishes? 
Where,  with  all  your  bards,  a  muse  cook'd  more 

delicate  ragouts, 

Or  hashed  sentiment  so  to  your  wishes? 
Princely  cost  nor  revenue  ask'd  his  banquets,  it 

is  true ; 

Yet  he  is  the  only  stage-master, 
Through  all   changes  and  all  chances,  who  un- 
daunted still  advances 
Alike  master  of  success  and  disaster. 
Sirs,  ye  need  no  more  to  hear — ye  know  whence 

the  hue  of  fear 

O'er  our  bard's  cheek  of  enterprise  stealing, 
And  why,  like  prudent  men,  who  look  forth  with 

wider  ken, 

In  proverbs  he's  wont  to  be  dealing ; 
Saying — better  first  explore  what  the  powers  of 

scull  and  oar, 

Ere  the  helm  and  the  rudder  you're  trying ; 
At  the  prow  next  take  your  turn,  there  the  mys- 
teries to  learn 

Of  the  scud  and  the  winds,  that  are  flying. 
This  mastery  attain'd,  time  it  is   a  skiff  were 

gain'd 

And  your  pilotage^  put  upon  trial : — 
Thus  with  caution  and  due  heed,  step  by  step 

would  he  proceed 

In  a  course  that  should  challenge  denial. 
Nor  let  it  breed  offence,  if  for  such  befitting  sense 

And  so  modest  a  carriage  and  bearing, 
We  ask  some  mark  of  state  on  its  author  here  to 

wait, — 

Guard  of  honour,  procession,  or  chairing  :— 
With  a  shout  of  such  cheering 
As  Bacchus  is  hearing, 
When  vats  overflowing 
Set  Mirth  all  a-crowing, 
And  Joy  and  Wine  meet 
Hand  in  hand,  in  each  street. 
So  his  purpose  attain'd 
And  the  victory  gain'd, 


*  There  were  distinct  seats  in  the  theatre.  The  most 
commodious  and  honourable  were  those  near  the  images 
of  the  gods. 

•{•  Crates  was  first  an  actor  and  afterwards  a  writer  of 
the  Old  Comedy. 

J  The  pilot,  says  Archbishop  Potter,  held  a  much  higher 
rank  in  the  Greek,  than  in  our  navy.  He  had  the  care 
of  the  ship  and  the  government  of  the  seamen,  and  all 
things  were  managed  according  to  his  direction.  It  was, 
therefore,  necessary  that  he  should  have  an  exact  know- 
ledge of  the  art  of  navigation. 


ARISTOPHANES. 


153 


Your  bard  shall  depart 
With  a  rapture-touch'd  heart, 
While  Triumph  shall  throw 
O'er  his  cheeks  such  a  glow, 
That  Pleasure  might  trace 
Her  own  self  in  his  face. 
***** 

CHORAL  HYMX. 

0  THOU,  whom  patroness  we  call 
Of  this  the  holiest  land  of  all 

That  circling  seas  admire  ; 
The  land  where  Power  delights  to  dwell, 
And  War  his  mightiest  feats  can  tell, 
And  Poesy  to  sweetest  swell 

Attunes  her  voice  and  lyre ; 

Come,  blue-eyed  Maid,  and  with  thee  bring 
The  goddess  of  the  eagle-wing, 

To  help  our  bold  endeavour ; 
Long  have  our  armies  own'd  thine  aid, 
O  Victory,  immortal  Maid  ; 
But  now  of  other  deeds  we  tell; 
A  bolder  foe  remains  to  quell ; 

Give  aid  then  now  or  never. 

ACT  II.     SCENE  I. 
SAUSAGE-SELLER  and  CHORUS. 

The  Sausage-seller  having  returned  victorious 
from  the  senate,  is  received  with  shouts  of  accla- 
mation by  the  Chorus,  and  requested  to  give  a 
particular  account  of  his  exertions. 

Sausage.  And  trust  me,  friends,  the  tale  will 

pay  the  hearing — 

Straight  as  he  went  from  hence,  I  clapt  all  sail 
And  followed  close  behind.   Within  I  found  him 
Launching  his  bolts  and  thunder-d riving  words, 
Denouncing  all  the  knights  as  traitors,  vile 
Conspirators — jags,  crags,  and  masses  huge 
Of  stone  were  nothing  to  the  monstrous  words 
His  foaming  mouth  heaved  up.  All  these  to  hear 
Did  the  grave  council  seriously  incline ; 
They  love  a  tale  of  scandal  to  their  hearts, 
And  his  had  been  as  quick  as  golden-herb. 
Mustard  was  in  their  faces,  and  their  brows 
With    frowns   were    furrowed    up.     I    saw  the 

storm, 
Marked  how   his  words  had   sunk  upon  them, 

taking 

Their  very  senses  prisoners: — and,  oh  ! 
In  knavery's  name,  thought  I. — by  all  the  fools 
And  scrubs,  and  rogues,  and  scoundrels  in  the 

town, 

By  that  same  forum,  where  my  early  youth 
Receiv'd  its  first  instruction,  ],-t  tin-  gather 
True  courage  now  :  be  oil  upon  my  tongue, 
And  shameless  Impudence  direct  my  s|..-c<-h. 
Just  as  these  thoughts  pass'd  over  me,  I  heard 
A  sound  of  thunder  pealing  on  my  light — 
And     mark'd     the     omen, — grateful,    kiss'd  the 

ground, 

Raised  my  voice  to  its  highest  pitch,  and  thus 
HeL'an  upon  them — ••  Me-.-ieurs  of  the  senate, 
I  bring  good  news,  and  hope  your  favour  for  it. 
Anchovies,  such  as,  since  the  war  began, 
Ne'er  crossed  my  eyes  for  cheapness,  do  this  day 


Adorn  our  markets'' — at  the  words  a  calm 
Came  over  every  face,  and  all  was  hushed. 
A  crown  was  voted  me  upon  the  spot.* 
Then  I  (the  thought  was  of  the  moment's  birth,) 
Making  a  mighty  secret  of  it,  bade  them 
Put  pots  and  pans  in  instant  requisition, 
And  then — 1;  One  obol  loads  you  with  anchovies," 
Said  I :  anon  most  violent  applause, 
And  clapping  hands  ensued  ;  and  every  face 
Grew  into  mine,  gaping  in  idiot  vacancy. 
— My  Paphlagonian  discern'd  the  humour 
O'  the  time ;  and  seeing  how  the  members  all 
Were  tickled  most  with  words,  thus  uttered  him  : 
"Sirs, — gentlemen, — 'tis  my  good  will  and  plea- 
sure. 

That,  for  this  kindly  news,  we  sacrifice 
One  hundred  oxen  to  our  patron-goddess. "J" 
Straight  the  tide  turned  :  each  head  within  the 

senate 

Nodded  assent  and  warm  good  will  to  Cleon : 
"What!  shall  a  little  bull-flesh  gain  the  day?" 
Thought  I  within  me :  then  aloud,  and  shooting 
Beyond  his  mark: — "I  double,  sirs,  this  vote;— 
Nay,  more,  sirs,  should  to-morrow's  sun  see  sprats 
One  hundred  to  the  penny  sold,  I  move 
That  we  make  offering  of  a  thousand  goats 
Unto  Diana." — Every  head  was  raised ; 
And  all  turned  eyes  incontinent  on  me. — 
This  was  a  blow  he  ne'er  recovered  ;  straight 
He  fell  to  muttering  fooleries  and  words 
Of  no  account. — The  chairman  and  the  officers 
Were  now  upon  him.— All  meantime  was  uproar 
In  th'  assembly; — nought  talk'd  of  but  anchovies. 
How  fared  our  statesman  ?— He,  with  suppliant 

tones, 
Begg'd  a  few  moments'  pause.— "Rest  ye,  sirs, 

rest 

Awhile. — I  have  a  tale  will  pay  the  hearing— 
A  herald  is  arrived  from  Sparta,  claiming 
An  audience. — He  brings  terms  of  peace,  and 

craves 

Your  leave  to  utter  them  before  you." — "Peace!" 
Cried  all,  (their  voices  one.)     "Is  this  a  time 
To  talk  of  peace? — Out,  dotard  !  What!  the  rogues 
Have  heard  the  price  anchovies  bear ! — Marry, 
Our  needs,  sirs,  ask  not  peace. — War,  war,  for  us — 
And,  chairman,  break  the  assembly  up."— 'T was 

done 

Upon  their  bidding,  straight. — Who  might  oppose 
Such  clamour  ? — Then,  what  haste  and  expedition 
On  every  side!  One  moment  clears  the  rails! 
I.  the  meantime,  steal  privately  away, 
And  buy  me  all  the  leeks  and  coriander 
In  the  market — these  I  straight  make  largess  of, 
And  gratis  give  as  sauce  to  dress  their  fish.— 
Who  may  recount  the  praises  infinite 
An<l  groom-like  courtesies  this  bounty  gained  me? 
In  short,  for  a  few  pennyworths  of  leeks 
And  coriander  vile,  I  have  purchased  me 

*  A  crown  or  chaplet  was  a  reward  usually  conferred 
upon  such  persons  as,  by  itic  annunciation  of  good  news, 
gaiin'il  the  momentary  affections  of  the  Athenians. 

t  When  the  Athenian  people  were  to  be  cajoled,  a  feast 
or  sacrifice  (and  they  were  nearly  synonymous,  for  a 
small  portion  only  of  the  victim  was  offered  to  the  gods,) 
was  the  surest  and  most  effectual  mode. 


154 


ARISTOPHANES. 


An  entire  senate. — Not  a  man,  among  them, 
But  is  at  my  behest,  and  does  me  reverence.* 

CHOHUS  OF  KNIGHTS. 

Well,  my  son,  hast  thou  begun,  and  well  hast 

thou  competed ; 
Rich  bliss  and  gain  wilt  thou  attain,  thy  mighty 

task  completed. 
He,  thy  rival,  shall  admire, 
Choked  with  passion,  pale  with  ire. 
Thy  audacity  and  fire  : — 
He  shall  own,  abash'd,  in  thee 
Power  and  peerless  mastery, 
In  all  crafts  and  tricks  that  be. — 
At  all  points  art  thou  equipt, 
Eye  and  tongue  with  treason  tipt, 
Soul  and  body,  both  deep-dipt 

In  deceit  and  knavery. 

SCENE  II. 
CHORUS,  SAUSAGE-SELLER,  CLEOST. 

The  Paphlagonian  returns  to  the  stage  at  the 
conclusion  of  the  Chorus'  address,  with  thunder- 
ing aspect  and  menacing  words,  but  they  are  all 
lost  upon  the  Sausage-seller.  Another  scene  of 
altercation  takes  place  between  these  intellectual 
gladiators.  Cleon,  after  a  volley  of  abuse,  threat- 
ens to  bring  his  adversary  before  Demus :  (that 
is,  in  other  words,  the  people.) — "There,"  says 
he,  "you  will  be  sure  to  be  worsted — you  will 
find  no  credit  there,  while  I  can  play  upon  him 
as  I  please." — "  You  seem  to  consider  this  Demus 
as  your  own  property." — "Yes,  for  I  know  the 
morsels  that  he  likes  to  feed  upon." — "True,  and 
like  children's  nurses,  you  grudge  the  food  you 
give  him — you  champ,  and  champ  ;  and,  for  one 
morsel  that  you  give  the  child,  eat  three  your- 
self."— Cleon  now  calls  loudly  for  Demus,  the 
representative  of  the  people ;  and  that  dignified 
person  makes  his  appearance.  The  two  candi- 
dates state  their  several  claims  to  his  favour.  "I 
am  the  friend  of  Demus,"  says  Cleon,  "  and  arn 
as  much  attached  to  him  as  a  lover  to  his  mis- 
tress."— "  I  am  your  rival  in  his  affections,"  says 
the  Sausage-seller, — "  Yes,  my  dear  Demus,  I  have 
loved  you  this  long  time,  and  it  would  give  me 
the  greatest  pleasure  to  be  of  service ;  and  all 
honest  men  partake  my  sentiments ;  but  this  man 
keeps  us  away,  and  prevents  our  showing  you 
proofs  of  our  attachment." — He  proceeds  to  state 
very  candidly  to  Demus,  that  he  resembled  very 
much  those  capricious  beauties,  who  dismiss  such 
suitors  from  them  as  are  men  of  probity  and 
honour,  and  dispose  of  their  favours  and  affec- 
tions to  the  lowest  of  mankind — to  lamp-lighters, 
tanners,  and  curriers Cleon,  knowing  his  strong- 
hold, proposes  that  Demus  should  call  a  general 
assembly,  and  that  it  should  be  there  decided, 

*  Absurd  as  some  parts  of  the  above  narration  may 
appear  to  a  modern  reader,  it  can  hardly  be  called  a  cari- 
cature of  the  public  meetings  in  Athens.  Every  person 
conversant  with  the  orators  and  historians  of  that  singular 
republic,  has  occasionally  met  with  instances  of  ridiculous 
conduct,  which  hardly  fall  below  what  is  here  repre- 
sented. He  has  seen  the  most  frivolous  circumstances 
swelled  into  importance,  and  the  most  important  trifled 
with,  in  her  crowded  and  noisy  assemblies. 


who  had  most  pretensions  to  his  favour.  His 
adversary  has  no  objection,  provided  the  assembly 
be  not  held  in  the  PNTX.  "The  old  gentleman," 
says  he,  "is  a  man  of  excellent  sense,  while  he 
abides  at  home ;  but  the  moment  he  goes  to  that 
cursed  place,  he  is  as  much  at  his  wit's  end,  as 
the  man  who  wishes  to  dry  his  figs  in  the  sun, 
and  has  not  a  stalk  to  fasten  them  by." — But 
Demus  will  hear  of  no  other  place.  "Psrrx:*  is 
my  true  and  proper  seat.  I  hold  my  sittings  no 
where  else." — "Then  I  am  a  ruined  man,"  says 
the  sausage-monger. — The  Chorus,  however, 
encourage  their  friend,  and  prepare  him  for  the 
arduous  contest. 

SCENE  III. — The  Pnyx  hill. 
CLEON,  SAUSAGE-SELLER,  DEMUS,  CHORUS. 
Cleon.  (anapcestics.)  With  our  lady  divine,  the 

town's  saviour  and  mine, 

My  prayers  make,  as  meet,  their  beginning: — 
[a  pause  of  affected  devotion. 

If  disguise  none  I  wear,  while  to  Demus  I  swear 
Such  love,  as  from  none  he  is  winning. 
Sausage.  To  love — fair  and  true — I  can  make 

my  claim  too ; 

And  if  ever  its  chain  should  less  bind  me ; 
May  I  mince  into  meat,  so  minute  that  who  eat, 
Must  have  eyes  keen,  as  Attic,  to  find  me. 
Cleon.  (to  Demus.}  For  service  and  zeal,  I  to 

facts,  sir,  appeal : — 

Say,  of  all  that  e'er  swayed  this  proud  city, 
Who  had  ever  more  skill  your  snug  coffer  to  fill, 

Undisturb'd  by  respectance  and  pity? 
For  one  and  for  two,  I've  the  rope  and  the  screw, 

To  a  third  I  make  soft  supplication ; 
And  I  spurn  at  all  ties,  and  all  laws  I  despise, 
So  that  Demus  find  gratification. 
Sausage.  Mere  smoke  this  and  dust!  Demus, 

take  it  on  trust, 

That  my  service  and  zeal  can  run  faster; 
I  am  he  that  can  steal  at  the  mouth  a  man's  meal, 

And  set  it  before  my  own  master. 
Other  proofs  than  of  love  in  this  knave's  grate 

and  stove, 

Noble  lord,  may  your  eyes  be  discerning: 
There  the  coal  and  the  fuel,  that  should  warm 

your  own  gruel, 

To  your  slave's  ease  and  comfort  are  burning. 
Nay,  since  Marathon's  day,  when  thy  sword  (to 

Demus)  paved  the  way, 
To  Persia's  disgrace  and  declension, 
(That  bountiful  mint,  in  which  bards,-f-  without 

stint, 

Fashion  words  of  six-footed  dimension.) 
Like  a  stone  or  a  stock,  hast  not  sat  on  a  rock,t 

Cold,  comfortless,  bare,  and  derided,— 
While  this  chief  of  the  land,  never  yet  to  your 
hand 

*  The  PNYX  was  a  public  place,  which  derived  its  name 
from  the  number  of  stones  with  which  it  was  filled.  Ao 
the  general  assemblies  were  usually  held  on  it,  it  has 
been  made  the  parish  of  the  allegorical  Dennis. 

t  Not  only  bards  and  orators  swore  by  the  battles  of 
Marathon  and  Salamis,  but  the  very  cooks  embellished 
their  diction  by  the  same  appeal.— Vid.  Mhen.  ix.  380. 

\  An  allusion  to  the  stones  with  which  the  Pnyx  h  11 
was  crowded. 


ARISTOPHANES. 


155 


A  cushion  or  seat  hath  provided  ? 
But  take  this  (giving  a  cushion)  to  the  ease  of  your 

hams  and  your  knees, 
For  since  Salamis,  proud  day  of  story, 
With  a  fleet  ruin  hurl'd,  they  took  rank  in  the 

world, 

And  should  seat  them  in  comfort  and  glory. 
Dernus.  What  vision  art  thou?  Let  me  read  on 

thy  brow, 

What  lineage  and  kindred  have  won  thee ! 
Thou  wast  born  for  my  weal,  and  the  impress 

and  seal 

Of  Harmodius  are  surely  upon  thee. 
Clean,  (mortified.}  0   feat  easy  done!  And   is 

Demus  thus  won 

By  diminutive  gifts  and  oblations? 
Sausage.  Small  my  baits  I  allow,  but  in  size 

they  outgo 
Your  own  little  douceurs  and  donations. 

The  contest  proceeds  for  some  time  in  the  same 
strain,  Cleon  all  the  while  talking  of  his  unex- 
ampled love  for  Demus.  "But  tell  me,"  (says 
the  sausage-dealer,  addressing  himself  to  Cleon,) 
"you,  who  deal  in  leather,  and  profess  so  great 
an  alfeetion  for  Demus— did  you  ever,  in  the 
plentitude  of  your  love,  make  him  your  debtor 
for  a  pair  of  shoes?" — That  I'll  be  sworn  he 
never  did,"  exclaims  the  old  gentleman.  The 
sausage-vender  follows  up  his  blow  by  instantly 
presenting  a  pair.  Demus  is  all  gratitude — he 
declares  that  himself,  the  republic,  and  his  toes 
never  had  so  sincere  a  friend. 
»  •  *  *  *  *  * 

Demus.  I  have  observed  this  man;  he  wears  a 

show 

Of  honesty,  more  than  I  ever  saw 
In  those  who  go  for  many  to  the  penny.* 
In  sooth  I  love  the  man — for  you,  fine  Paphlago- 

nian, 

Who  hold  such  large  professions  of  your  love, 
Know  that  you've  anger'd  me  beyond  all  suffer- 
ance, 
And  art  dismiss'd  : — I  ask  your  ring  of  office. 

[Cleon  gives  the  ring. 

(To  Sausage.)  To  you  and  to  your  care  do  I  com- 
mend it. 
Cleon.  One  word  at  parting — I  have  left  your 

service— 

Who  follows  me,  believe,  will  prove  a  knave 
Still  greater  than  myself. — But  one  word  more- 
One  word — upon  my  knees — I  have  some  oracles, 
Make  your  ear  partner  to  them  ere  you  pass 
Your  last  resolve. 

<nge.  I  too  have  oracles, 

Tluit  claim  a  hearing. 

I'll  on.  Then,  produce  your  oracles. 

Snirsiizr.   I  wait  no  second  bidding. 
Demus.  (to  Cleon.)  Let  the  same 

Be  done  by  you. — 

(  In m.  Your  bidding  is  obeyed — 

I  go.— (Hurrying  off.) 

jSe/K-  I  vanish. 

*  Drums  alludes  to  the  obol,  the  usual  compensation 
for  services  among  the  Athenians. 


ACT  III.     SCENE  I. 

The  two  candidates  for  the  favour  of  Demus 
enter,  labouring  under  a  weight  of  oracles,  which 
they  severally  rehearse.  As  they  would  try  the 
reader's  patience,  however,  they  are  all,  with  the 
exception  of  the  last,  omitted. 

Cleon.  But  enough — I've  an  oracle  yet  to  de- 
clare, 

It  comes  from  the  clouds  and  is  borne  on  the  air. 
(To  Demus.}  Like    an   eagle,  it  tells,  you   shall 

spread  your  wide  wings, 
A  lord  over  monarch?,  a  king  over  kings. 

Sausage,  (eagerly)  I've  the  same ;  while  a  clause 

supplemental  extends 
Your  reign  to  the  Red-sea,  and  earth's  farthest 

ends.* 

With  a  seat  on  the  bench  in  remote  Ecbatane, 
And  a  banquet  of  sweets,  while  the  suits  are  in 

train. 
Cleon.  I've  seen  me  a  vision ;  I've  dream'd  me 

a  dream : 

Its  author  was  Pallas,  and  Demus  its  theme : 
The  cup  Aryta;na-|-  blazed  bright  in  her  hand, 
And  riches  and  plenty  fell  wide  o'er  the  land. 
Sausage.  I,  too,  have  rny  visions  and  dreams  of 

the  night : 

Our  Lady$  and  Owl  stood  confest  to  my  sight : 
From  the  cup  Aryballus§  choice  blessings  she 

threw ; 

On  him  (Cleon}  fell  tan-pickle,  and  nectar  on  you. 

(To  Demus.} 

One  only  resource  now  remained  for  Cleon. 
The  nation,  which  ranked  cookery  among  the 
liberal  arts,  had  other  appetites  to  be  gratified 
besides  a  love  of  power  and  dominion ;  and  Cleon 
determines  to  appeal  from  his  master's  hopes 
and  fears  to  the  humbler  gratifications  of  his 
palate.  The  first  attack  is  made  through  the 
medium  of  barley,  and  the  offer  of  providing 
him  daily  sustenance — but  the  bare  mention  of 
barley  is  offensive  to  Demus.  He  had  been  de- 
ceived enough  on  that  point  by  Cleon.  An  offer 
of  prepared  wheat  does  not  propitiate  him  more. 
The  sausage-vender  is  both  more  delicate  and 
profuse :  the  banquet  which  he  proposes  to  lay 
before  his  master  is  to  consist  of  nice  little  pud- 
dings, well  baked,  and  broiled  fish  ;  and  his  life, 
as  this  aspirant  to  his  favour  declares,  shall  be 
nothing  but  a  scene  of  mastification. 

The  imagination  of  Demus  begins  to  open  to 
the  flattering  prospect. 

Demus.  About  it  straight  then,  and — observe—- 
Who caters  best  and  offers  me  most  presents, 
To  him  I  give  the  state  and  all  its  harness. 


*  A  singular  oath  was  taken  by  the  young  men  of 
Athens,  before  they  went  upon  an  expedition,  implying, 
that  they  would  consider  wheat  and  barley,  and  vm-s 
and  olives  to  be  the  limits  of  Attica  ;  liy  which,  says  I'lu- 
tart-h,  they  were  taught  to  claim  a  title  to  all  lands  that 
were  manured  and  fruitful. — Life  of  Jllcibia.de s. 

f  The  Aryttcna  was  a  sort  of  cup  or  vessel  for  drawing 
water. 

£  Our  Lady,— Minerva. 

j  The  Jryballus  was  a  vessel  shaped  like  a  purse,  broad 
at  bottom,  and  narrow  at  top. 


156 


ARISTOPHANES. 


Clean,  (running.}  Sayst  thou  ?  I'm  on  my  legs 

and  start  this  instant. 
Sausage,  (running  faster.')     I've   left  already 

longer  space  behind  me. 

ACT  IV.     SCEKE  I. 

CLEOX,  SAUSAGE-SELLER,  DEMUS,  CHORUS. 
Cleon.  (to  Sausage.)  Off,  knave !  and  feast  the 

crows. 

Sausage.  On  your  own  head 

Fall  the  ill  wish ! 

Cleon.  Demus,  I  wait  a  week 

With  hands  prepared  to  shower  my  gifts  upon 

you. 

Sausage.  And  I  a  month — a  year — a  century — 
Time  out  of  mind,  mind,  mind. 

Demus.  And  I  wait  here 

Expecting  your  large  promises,  and  venting 
Curses  on  both  (mimics)  before  creation — ation—- 

ation. 

Sausage,  (to  Demus.}  Knowst  what  to  do  ? 
Demus.  Your  wisdom  can  advise  me. 

Sausage.  Start  him  and  me,  observe,  as  from 

the  barriers  : 
We'll  run  a  race  as  'twere,  who  most  can  give 

you. 
Demus.  :Tis  well  advis'd :  one — two — three — 

away ! 

Sausage.  We're  gone. 
Demus.  Run  quick. 

Cleon.  I  dare  him  to  outstrip  me. 

[Exeunt  CLEOX  and  SAUSAGE-SELLER. 
Demus.  (solus.)  I  must  be  dainty  nice  indeed, 

if  such 
A  pair  of  lovers  do  not  satisfy  me ! 

The  rival  candidates  now  commence  their 
contest  of  presents,  consisting  chiefly  of  culinary 
articles.  For  some  time  the  sausage-vender  has 
the  advantage,  till  Cleon  awakens  his  fears  by 
talking  of  a  dish  of  hare,  which  he  has  exclu- 
sively to  present.  His  rival,  disconcerted  at 
first,  has  recourse  to  a  stratagem.  "  Some  am- 
bassadors come  this  way  to  me,  and  their  purses 
seem  well  filled." — "Where  are  they?" — exclaims 
Cleon  eagerly  and  turns  about.  The  hare-flesh 
was  immediately  in  the  hands  of  his  rival,  who 
presents  the  boasted  dainty,  in  his  own  name,  to 
Denrns !  While  the  sausage-vender  piously  re- 
fers the  suggestion  of  this  little  theft  to  Minerva, 
and  modestly  takes  the  execution  only  to  him- 
self, Cleon  resents  the  surprise  very  warmly — 
"  I  had  all  the  danger  of  catching  the  hare,"  says 
he,  referring  to  his  predecessor  Demosthenes. — 
"  And  I  had  all  the  trouble  of  dressing  it,"  says 
his  rival. — "  Fools !"  says  Demus,  in  the  true  spirit 
of  vulgar  selfishness,  "  I  care  not  who  caught  it, 
or  who  dressed  it ;  all  I  regard  is  the  hand  that 
serves  it  up  to  table."  A  conscious  feeling  of 
inferiority  now  comes  over  Cleon,  and  one  of 
those  powerful  words  which  the  Greek  language 
only  supplies,  expresses  his  fears  that  the  race  is 
against  him,  and  that  he  shall  be  distanced  in 
impudence.  His  rival  proposes  a  new  test  of 
affection.  "  Let  our  chests,"  says  he,  "be  search- 
ed. It  will  then  be  proved,  who  loves  Demus 


most."  This  is  accordingly  done.  That  of  the 
new  candidate  for  power  is  found  empty.  "  He 
had  given  his  dear  little  Demus  every  thing." 
In  Cleon's,  on  the  contrary,  is  found  abundance 
of  good  things  ;  and  a  tempting  cheese-cake  par- 
ticularly excites  Demus'  surprise.  "The  rogue!" 
says  this  representative  of  the  sovereign  multi- 
tude, "  to  conceal  such  a  cake  as  this,  and  to  cut 
me  off  but  a  mere  morsel  of  it;  arid  that,  too," 
subjoins  the  complainant  (changing  his  dialect 
from  the  Attic  to  the  Doric,  for  a  reason  which 
the  learned  reader  will  appreciate)  "  after  I  had 
made  him  a  present  of  a  chaplet  and  added 
many  other  douceurs  besides!" — Cleon  in  vain 
pleads,  that  he  stole  for  the  good  of  the  country. 
He  is  ordered  to  lay  down  his  chaplet,*  and  in- 
vest his  antagonist  with  it. — "  Nay,"  says  he,  still 
struggling  for  the  retention  of  office : 

Cleon.  I  have  an  oracle ; — it  came  from  Phoe- 
bus, 

And  tells  to  whom  Fate  wills  I  yield  the  mas- 
tery. 
Sausage.  Declare  the  name — my  life  upon't — 

the  god 
Refers  to  me. 

Cleon.  Presumptuous ! — You ! — Low  scoundrel ! 
To  the  proof: — Where  were  you  school'd?  and 

who  the  teacher 

That  first  imbued  your  infant  mind  with  know- 
ledge ? 
Sausage.  The  kitchen  and  the  scullery  gave  me 

breeding; 

And  teacher  I  had  none  save  cuffs  and  blows. 
Cleon.  (aside.)    My  mind  misgives  me:  what 

am  I  deliver'd ! 
But  pass  we  on  : — (aloud)  say  further  what  the 

wrestling  master 
Instructed  you1? 

Sausage.  To  steal — to  look  the  injured 

Straight  in  the  face,  and  then  forswear  the  theft. 
Cleon.  (aside.)   Angels  and  ministers  of  grace 

protect  me ! 
(aloud)  But  say  what  art  or  trade  your  manhood 

practised  ? 

Sausage.  I  dealt  in  sausages. 
Cleon.  Aught  more  ? 

Sausage.  I  found 

The  bagnios  employment. 

Cleon.  (aside.)  I'm  undone. 

One  only  hope  remains.   (Aloud.}  Resolve  me — 

practis'd  you 
Within  the  market-place  or  at  the  gates  ?•}• 

Sausage.  Nay,   at  the  gates,  among  the  men 

who  deal 
In  salted  fish. 

Cleon.  Why  then,  all  is  accomplished. 

It  is  the  will  of  heaven  ; — boar  me  within  : — 
A  long  farewell  to  all  my  former  greatness ! 


*  Cleon,  according  to  the  Scholiast,  had  received  a 
chaplet  in  full  assembly  from  the  people,  with  the  privi- 
lege perhaps  attached,  of  wearing  it  on  all  occasions. 

t  Only  the  lowest  tradesmen  practised  at  the  gates  of 
the  town.  Every  answer  is  made  to  show  the  utter  I  ase- 
ness  of  Cleon's  rival,  and  thus  to  place  him  in  the  most 
ignominious  light. 


ARISTOPHANES. 


157 


Adieu,  fair  chaplet  !*  'gainst  my  will  I  quit  thee, 
And  give  thy  matchless  sweets  to  other  hands! — 
There  may  be  knaves  more  fortunate  than  I, 
But  never  shall  the  world  see  thief  more  rascally. 

Sausage,  (devoutly.)  Thine  be  the  triumph,  Jove 

Ellenian  !f 
****** 

The  piece  ends  with  a  triumphal  rejoicing, 
ike  scene  changing  from  the  Pnyx  to  the  majestic 
Propyloeon ;  where  Demus,  whose  youth  lias 
been  miraculously  renewed,  comes  forward  in 
the  garb  of  an  ancient  Athenian,  and  shows  that, 
with  his  early  strength,  he  has  also  recovered  his 
nobler  spirit  and  the  sentiments  of  the  age  of 
Marathon.  —  See  Schlegel's  Dramatic  Literature, 
Lecture  VL 


FROM  THE  CLOUDS. 

[Acted  B.  C.  423.] 

"THE  Clouds"  was  intended  as  an  exhibition 
of  the  corrupt  state  of  education  at  Athens,  and 
as  an  exposure  of  Socrates,  whom  the  poet  chose 
to  consider  as  the  principal  author  of  that  corrup- 
tion. The  story  is  of  a  young  spendthrift,  who 
has  involved  his  father  in  debt  by  his  passion  for 
horses,  and  who,  being  placed  under  the  care  of 
Socrates,  soon  learns  to  defraud  his  creditors,  to 
contemn  his  father,  and  to  regard  honour  amongst 
men,  and  piety  towards  the  gods,  as  the  by-gone 
dreams  and  vulgar  prejudices  of  a  barbarous  age. 
The  metaphysics  of  the  Sophists  are  embodied  in 
the  person  of  Socrates.  How  foul  a  wrong  this 
was  to  that  great  and  good  man,  (himself  a  most 
decided  antagonist  of  the  Sophists,}:)  every  one  at 
all  read  in  Grecian  history  well  knows;  nor  is  it 
an  excuse  for  the  traducer  to  say  that  he  erred 
through  ignorance,  or  foresaw  not  the  destruction 
which  his  calumnies  were  assistant  in  bringing 
down  on  the  head  of  his  guiltless  victim. — But 
time  has  set  all  even,  and  "poor  Socrates'' — as  a 
far  loftier  bard  has  sung — 

"Poor  Socrates, 

By  what  he  taught,  and  suffered  for  so  doing, 

For  truth's  sake  sufferine  death  unjust,  lives  now, 

Equal  in  fame  to  proudest  conquerors." 

Par.  Reg.  b.  iij.  v.  96. 

DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

STREPSIADES. 
PUKIDII'PIDKS. 
SERVANT  to  Strepsiades. 
DISCIPLES  of  Socrates. 
SOCRATES. 
CHORUS  of 


ADICXOLOGOS. 

PASIAS. 

AM  \  vi AS. 

WlTM 

CHXREPHON. 


I  K — Athens. 


*  Parodied  from  Euripides'  description  of  the  dying 
Alcestia  taking  leave  of  her  bridal  l>r<l. 

t  Jupiter  was  worshipped  at  /Ksina  under  this  title 
upon  the  following  occasion.  A  great  drought  prevailed 
in  that  island,  which  had  nearly  bronchi  the  people  to 
ruin,  but  was  at  length  removed  by  the  united  prayers 
of  the  Pan-Hellenes,  or  universal  Greeks. 

t  The  very  utmost  that  ran,  with  any  semblance  of 
truth.be  urn«-d  aL-aiii-t  Socrates,  is  that  he  may  some- 
times have  engaged  the  Sophists,  and  defeated  them,  with 
their  own  weapons. 


SCENE  I. 

STREPSIADES  is  discovered  in  his  chamber,  PHEIDIP- 
PIDES  sleeping  in  his  bed.   Time,  before  break  of  day. 

Strep,  (stretching  and  yawning.)  Ah  me,  ah  me  ! 

will  this  night  never  end  ? 
Oh  kingly  Jove,  shall  there  be  no  more  day? 
And  yet  the  cock  sung  out  long  time  ago ; 
I  heard  him,  but  my  people  lie  and  snore, 
Snore  in  defiance,  for  the  rascals  know 
It  is  their  privilege  in  time  of  war, 
Which  with  its  other  plagues  brings  this  upon  us, 
That  we  mayn't  rouse  these  vermin  with  a  cudgel. 
There's  my  young  hopeful  too,  he  sleeps  it  through, 
Snug  under  five  fat  blankets  at  the  least. 
Would  I  could  sleep  so  sound !  but  my  poor  eyes 
Have  no  sleep  in  them ;  what  with  debts  and  duns 
And  stable-keepers'  bills,  which  this  fine  spark 
Heaps  on  my  back,  I  lie  awake  the  whilst: 
And  what  cares  he  but  to  coil  up  his  locks, 
Ride,  drive  his  horses,  dream  of  them  all  night, 
Whilst  I,  poor  devil,  may  go  hang — for  now 
The  moon*  in  her  last  quarter  wanes  apace, 
And  my  usurious  creditors  are  gaping. 
What  hoa!  a  light!  bring  me  my  tablets,  boy! 
That  I  may  set  down  all,  and  sum  them  up. 
Debts,  creditors,  and  interest  upon  interest — 

[.Boy  enters  with  a  light  and  tablets. 
Let  me  see  where  I  am  and  what  the  total — 
Twelve    poundsf    to    Pasias — Hah!    to    Pasias 

twelve ! 

Out  on  it,  and  for  what  ? — A  horse  forsooth. 
Right  noble  by  the  mark — curse  on  such  marks ! 
Would  I  had  given  this  eye  from  out  this  head, 
Ere  I  had  paid  the  purchase  of  this  jennet ! 

Phei.  Shame  on  you,  Philo!j  keep  within  your 
ring. 

Streps.  There  'tis!   that's  it!  the  bane  of  all 

my  peace 
He's  racing  in  his  sleep. 

Phei.  A  heat — a  heat ! 

How  many  turns  to  a  heat  ? 

Streps.  More  than  enough ; 

You've  given  me  turns  in  plenty — I  am  jaded. 
But  to  my  list — what  name  stands  next  to  Pasias  ? 
Amynias — three  good  pounds — still  for  the  race — 
A  chariot  mounted  on  its  wheels  complete. 

Phei.  Dismount!  unharness  and  away  ! 

Streps.  I  thank  you  ; 

You  have  unharness'd  me :  I  am  dismounted, 
And  with  a  vengeance — all  my  goods  in  pawn, 
Fines,  forfeitures,  and  penalties  in  plenty. 

Phei.  (wakes.)  My  father!  why  so  restless?  who 
has  vex'd  you? 

Streps.  The  sheriff  vexes  me ;  he  breaks  my 
rest. 

Phei.  Peace,  self-tormentor,  let  me  sleep ! 

*  The  30th  of  the  month,  the  term  for  enforcing  pay- 
ments and  taking  out  executions  against  debtors,  was  in 
near  approach. 

f  The  Athenian  pound  was  of  the  value  of  one  hundred 
drachmae,  and  each  drachmae  of  six  oboli.  The  pound 
may  be  computed  at  three  of  ours,  which  gives  the  price 
of  the  horse  about  361. 

t  Philon,  Phoenix,  Corax,  &c.,  were  Grecian  appella- 
tions for  horses ;  substitutes  for  our  High-flyer,  Sly-boots, 
Diamond,  &c. 

O 


158 


ARISTOPHANES. 


Streps.  Sleep  on! 

But  take  this  with  you ;  all  these  debts  of  mine 
Will  double  on  your  head ;  a  plague  confound 
That  cursed  match-maker,  who  drew  me  in 
To  wed,  forsooth,  that  precious  clam  of  thine. 
I  liv'd  at  ease  in  the  country,  coarsely  clad, 
Rough,  free,  and  full  withal  as  oil  and  honey 
And  store  of  stock  could  fill  me,  till  I  took, 
Clown  as  I  was,  this  limb  of  the  Alcmaeons, 
This  vain,  extravagant,  high-blooded  dame : 
Rare  bed-fellows  and  dainty — were  we  not? 
I,  smelling  of  the  wine-vat,  figs  and  fleeces, 
The  produce  of  my  farm ;  all  essence  she, 
Saffron  and  harlot's  kisses,  paint  and  washes, 
A  pamper'd  wanton — idle  I'll  not  call  her ; 
She  took  due  pains  in  faith  to  work  my  ruin, 
Which  made  me  tell  her,  pointing  to  this  cloak, 
Now  threadbare  on  my  shoulders — see,  good  wife, 
This  is  your  work — in  troth  you  toil  too  hard. 

[Boy  re-enters. 

Boy.  Master,  the  lamp  has  drunk  up  all  its  oil. 

Sireps.  Ay,  'tis  a  drunken  lamp ;  the  more  fault 

yours ; 
Whelp,  you  shall  howl  for  this. 

Boy.  Why  ?  for  what  fault  ? 

Streps.  For  cramming  such  a  greedy  wick  with 
oil.  [Exit  Boy. 

Well!  in  good  time  this  hopeful  heir  was  born; 
Then  I  and  my  beloved  fell  to  wrangling 
About  the  naming  of  the  brat — my  wife 
Would  dub  her  colt  Xanthippus  or  Charippus, 
Or  it  might  be  Callipides,  she  car'd  not 
So  'twere  equestrian*  the  name — but  I 
Stuck  for  his  grandfather  Pheidonides ; 
At  last  when  neither  could  prevail,  the  matter 
Was  compromis'd  by  calling  him  Pheidippides : 
Then  she  began  to  fondle  her  sweet  babe, 
And  taking  him  by  th'  hand — Lambkin,  she  cried, 
When  thou  art  some  years  older  thou  shalt  drive, 
Megacles-like,  thy  chariot  to  the  city, 
Rob'd  in  a  saffron  mantle. — No,  quoth  I, 
Not  so,  my  boy,  but  thou  shalt  drive  thy  goats, 
When  thou  art  able,  from  the  fields  of  Phelle, 
Clad  in  a  woollen  jacket  like  thy  father : 
But  he  is  deaf  to  all  these  frugal  rules, 
And  drives  me  on  the  gallop  to  my  ruin ; 
Therefore  all  night  I  call  my  thoughts  to  council, 
And  after  long  debate  find  one  chance  left, 
To  which  if  I  can  lead  him,  all  is  safe, 
If  not — but  soft:  'tis  time  that  I  should  wake  him. 
But  how  to  soothe  him  to  the  task — (speaking  in 

a  soft  gentle  tone)  Pheidippides ! 
Precious  Pheidippides ! 

Phei.  What  now,  my  father  ? 

Streps.  Kiss  me,  my  boy!  reach  me  thine  hand — 

Phei.  Declare, 

What  would  you? 

Streps.  Dost  thou  love  me,  sirrah  ?  speak ! 

Phei.  Aye,  by  equestrian  Neptune ! 


*  Names  ending  in  ippos  or  ippides  among  the  Greeks, 
showed  a  connection  with  equestrian  rank;  hence  this 
lady's  partiality  for  the  terms  Xanthippus,  Charippus, 
&c.  The  name  Pheidonides,  which  Strepsiades  contends 
for,  is  derived  from  a  Greek  word,  implying  a  man  ad- 
dicted to  parsimony  ;  the  compromise  therefore  for  Phei- 
dippides is  so  contrived  as  to  suit  both  parties. 


Streps,  (angrily.)  Name  not  him, 
Name  not  that  charioteer;  he  is  my  bane, 
The  source  of  all  my  sorrow — but,  my  son, 
If  thou  dost  love  me,  prove  it  by  obedience. 

Phei.  In  what  must  I  obey? 

Streps.  Reform  your  habits  ; 

Quit  them  at  once,  and  what  I  shall  prescribe 
That  do ! 

Phei.         And  what  is  it  that  you  prescribe  ? 

Streps.  But  wilt  thou  do't? 

Phei.  Yea,  by  Dionysus  !* 

Streps.  'Tis  well:  get  up!  come  hither,  boy! 

look  out ! 

Yon  little  wicket  and  the  hut  hard  by- 
Dost  see  them  ? 

Phei.  Clearly.   What  of  that  same  hut? 

Streps.  Why  that's  the  council-chamber  of  all 

wisdom : 
There  the  choice  spirits  dwell,  who  teach  the 

world 

That  heav'ns  great  concave  is  one  mighty  oven, 
And  men  its  burning  embers:  these  are  they, 
Who  can  show  pleaders  how  to  twist  a  cause 
So  you'll  but  pay  them  for  it,  right  or  wrong. 

Phei.  And  how  do  you  call  them  ? 

Sireps.  Troth,  I  know  not  that, 

But  they  are  men,  who  take  a  world  of  pains ; 
Wondrous  good  men  and  able. 

Phei.  Out  upon  'em  ! 

Poor  rogues,  I  know  them  now ;  you  mean  those 

scabs, 

Those  squalid,  barefoot,  beggarly  impostors. 
The  mighty  cacodcemons,  of  whose  sect 
Are  Socrates  and  Chserephon.  Away ! 

Streps.  Hush,  hush  !  be  still ;  don't  vent  such 

foolish  prattle ; 

But  if  you'll  take  my  counsel,  join  their  college 
And  quit  your  riding-school. 

Phei.  Not  I,  so  help  me 

Dionysus  our  patron  !  though  you  brib'd  me 
With  all  the  racers  that  Leogaras 
Breeds  from  his  Phasian  stud. 

Streps.  Dear,  darling  lad, 

Prythee  be  rul'd,  and  learn. 

Phei.  What  shall  I  learn  ? 

Streps.  They  have  a  choice  of  logic ;  this  for 

justice, 

That  for  injustice :  learn  that  latter  art, 
And  all  these  creditors,  that  now  beset  me, 
Shall  never  touch  a  drachma  that  I  owe  them. 

Phei.  I'll  learn  of  no  such  masters,  nor  be  made 
A  scare-crow  and  a  may-game  to  my  comrades: 
I  have  no  zeal  for  starving. 

Streps.  No,  nor  I 

For  feasting  you  and  your  fine  pamper'd  cattle 
At  free  cost  any  longer — Horse  and  foot 
To  the  crows  I  bequeath  you.     So  be  gone ! 

Phei.  Well,  sir,  I  have  an  uncle,  rich  and  noble ; 
Megacles  will  not  let  me  be  unhorsed ; 
To  him  I  go :  I'll  trouble  you  no  longer.       [Exit. 

Streps,    (alone.)    He    has    thrown    me    to    the 
ground,  but  I'll  not  lie  there ; 


*  The  poet,  with  due  attention  to  character,  makes  the 
young  man  first  swear  by  equestrian  Neptune ;  when 
driven  from  that  he  resorts  to  Dionysus,  the  patron  of 
the  feast  then  in  actual  celebration. 


ARISTOPHANES. 


159 


I'll  up,  and,  with  permission  of  the  gods, 
Try  if  I  cannot  learn  these  arts  myself: 
But  being  old,  sluggish,  and  dull  of  wit, 
How  am  I  sure  these  subtilties  won't  pose  me  ? 
Well !  I'll  attempt  it. 

SCENE  II. — House  of  SOCHATES. 
STREPSIADES  knocking  violently  at  the  door. 

Streps.  Hoa !  within  there!  Hoa  ! 

Disciple,  (half-opening  the  efoor.)  Go,  hang  your- 
self! and  give  the  crows  a  dinner—- 
What noisy  fellow  art  thou  at  the  door  ? 

Streps.  Strepsiades  of  Cicynna,  son  of  Pheidon. 

Dis.  Whoe'er  thou  art,  "fore  heaven,  thou  art 

a  fool 

Not  to  respect  these  doors ;  battering  so  loud, 
And  kicking  with   such   vengeance,  you   have 

marr'd 

The  ripe  conception  of  my  pregnant  brain, 
And  brought  on  a  miscarriage. 

Streps.  Oh  !  the  pity ! — 

Pardon  my  ignorance :  I'm  country  bred 
And  far  a-field  am  come :  I  pray  you  tell  me 
What  curious  thought  my  luckless  din  has  stran- 
gled, 
Just  as  your  brain  was  hatching. 

Dis.  These  are  things 

We  never  speak  of  but  amongst  ourselves. 

Streps.  Speak  boldly  then  to  me,  for  I  am  come 
To  be  amongst  you,  and  partake  the  secrets 
Of  your  profound  academy. 

Dig.  Enough ! 

I  will  impart,  but  set  it  down  in  thought 
Amongst  our  mysteries — This  is  the  question, 
As  it  was  put  but  now  to  Chaerephon, 
By  our  great  master  Socrates,  to  answer — 
How  many  of  his  own  lengths  at  one  spring 
A  flea  can  hop — for  we  did  see  one  vault 
From  Chserephon's  black  eye-brow  to  the  head 
Of  the  philosopher. 

Streps.  And  how  did  t'other 

Contrive  to  measure  this? 

Dis.  Most  accurately : 

He  dipt  the  insect's  feet  in  melted  wax, 
Which,  hard'rung  into  sandals  as  it  cool'd, 
Gave  him  the  space  by  rule  infallible. 

Streps.  Imperial  Jove !  what  subtilty  of  thought ! 

Dis.  But  there's  a  deeper  question  yet  behind; 
What  would  you  say  to  that? 

Streps.  I  pray,  impart  it. 

Dis.  'Twas  put  to  Socrates,  if  he  could  say, 
When  agnathumm'd,  whether  the  sound  did  issue 
From  mouth  or  tail. 

Streps.  Aye  ;  marry,  what  said  ho  ? 

Dis.  He  said  your  gnat  doth  blow  his  trumpet 

backwards 

From  a  sonorous  cavity  within  him, 
Which,  being  filled  with  breath,  and  forc'd  along 
The  narrow  pipe  or  rectum  of  hi.s  body, 
Doth  vent  itself  in  a  loud  hum  behind. 

Streps.  Hah  !  then  I  see  tin-  podex  of  your  gnat 
Is  trumpet-fashion'd — Oh!  the  blessings  on  him 
For  this  discovery  ;  well  may  he  escape 
The  law's  strict  scrutiny,  who  thus  developes 
The  anatomy  of  a  gnat. 

Dis.  Nor  is  this  all ; 


Another  grand  experiment  was  blasted 
By  a  curst  cat. 

Streps.  As  how,  good  sir ;  discuss  ? 

Dis.  One  night  as  he  was  gazing  at  the  moon, 
Curious  and  all  intent  upon  her  motions, 
A  cat  on  the  house  ridge  was  at  her  needs, 
And  squirted  in  his  face. 

Streps.  Beshrew  her  for  it ! 

Yet  I  must  laugh  no  less  to  think  a  cat 
Should  so  bespatter  Socrates. 

Dis.  Last  night 

We  were  bilk'd  of  our  supper. 

Streps.  Were  you  so  ? 

What  did  your  master  substitute  instead  ? 

Dis.  Why,  to  say  truth,  he  sprinkled  a  few  ashes 
Upon  the  board,  then  with  a  little  broach, 
Crook'd  for  the  nonce,  pretending  to  describe 
A  circle,  neatly  filch'd  away  a  cloak. 

Streps.  Why  talk  we  then  of  Thales?  Open  to  me, 
Open  the  school,  and  let  me  see  your  master : 
I  am  on  fire  to  enter — Come,  unbar ! 

(  The  door  of  the  School  is  unbarred.    The  Socratic 
scholars  are  seen  in  various  grotesque  situations 
and  positions.    Strepsiades,  with  signs  of  aston- 
ishment, draws  back  apace  or  two,  then  exclaims) 
0  Hercules,  defend  me !  who  are  these  ? 
What  kind  of  cattle  have  we  here  in  view? 

Dis.  Where  is  the  wonder  ?    What  do  they  re- 
semble ? 

Streps.  Methinks  they're  like  our  Spartan  pri- 
soners, 

Captur'd  at  Pylos.     What  are  they  in  search  of? 
Why  are  their  eyes  so  riveted  to  the  earth  ? 

Dis.  There  their  researches  centre. 

Streps.  'Tis  for  onions 

They  are   in  quest — Come,  lads,  give  o'er  your 

search ; 

I'll  show  you  what  you  want,  a  noble  plat, 
All  round  and  sound — but  soft!  what  mean  those 

gentry, 
Who  dip  their  heads  so  low  ? 

Dis.  Marry,  because 

Their  studies  lead  that  way :  They  are  now  diving 
To  the  dark  realms  of  Tartarus  and  Night. 

Streps.  But  why  are  all  their  cruppers  mounted 
up  ? 

Dis.  To  practise  them  in  star-gazing,  and  teach 

them 

Their  proper  elevations :  but  no  more : 
In,  fellow-students,  in :  if  chance  the  master  come 
And  find  us  here — 

(Addressing  himself  to  some  of  his  fellow-students, 
who  were  crowding  about  the  new-comer,) 

Streps.  Nay,  prythee  let  'em  stay, 

And  be  of  council  with  me  in  my  business. 

Dis.  Impossible  :  they  cannot  give  the  time. 

Streps.  Now  for  the  love  of  heav'n,  what  have 

we  here? 
Explain  their  uses  to  me. 

Dis.  This  machine  (observing  the  apparatus') 
Is  for  astronomy— 

Streps.  And  this? 

Dis.  For  geometry. 

Streps.  As  how  ? 

Dis.  For  measuring  the  earth. 


160 


ARISTOPHANES. 


Streps.  Indeed ! 

What,  by  the  lot? 

Dis.  No,  faith,  sir,  by  the  lump ; 

Ev'n  the  whole  globe  at  once. 

Streps.  Well  said,  in  troth. 

A  quaint  device,  and  made  for  general  use. 

Dis.  Look  now,  this  line  marks  the  circumfer- 
ence 
Of  the  whole  earth,  d'ye  see — This  spot  is  Athens — 

Streps.  Athens !  go  to,  I  see  no  courts  are  sit- 
ting; 
Therefore  I  can't  believe  you. 

Dis.  Nay,  in  truth, 

This  very  tract  is  Attica. 

Streps.  And  where, 

Where  is  my  own  Cicynna  ? 

Dis.  Here  it  lies : 

And  here's  Euboea — Mark !  how  far  it  runs — 

Streps.  How  far  it  runs!  Yes,  Pericles  has  made  it 
Run  far  enough  from  us — Where's  Lacedsemon? 

Dis.  Here ;  close  to  Athens. 

Streps.  Ah !  how  much  too  close — 
Prythee,  good  friends,  take  that  bad  neighbour 
from  us. 

Dis.  That's  not  for  us  to  do. 

Streps.  The  worse  luck  yours ! 

But  look !  (casting  up  his  eyes )  who's  this  sus- 
pended in  a  basket  ? 

(SOCRATES  is  discovered.) 

Dis.  (with  solemnity.')  HIMSELF.     The  HE.* 

Streps.  The  HE  ?  what  HE  ? 

Dis.  Why,  Socrates. 

Streps.  Hah !  Socrates ! — (to  the  scholar)  Make 

up  to  him  and  roar, 
Bid  him  come  down !  roar  lustily. 

Dis.  Not  I: 

Do  it  yourself:  I've  other  things  to  mind.     [Exit. 

Streps.  Hoa!    Socrates — What   hoa,   my  little 
Socrates ! 

Soc.  Mortal,  how  now !  Thou  insect  of  a  day, 
What  wouldst  thou  ? 

Streps.         I  would  know  what  thou  art  doing. 

Soc.  I  tread  in  air,  contemplating  the  sun. 

Streps.  Ah  !  then  I  see  you're  basketed  so  high, 
That  you  look  down  upon  the  gods — good  hope, 
You'll  lower  a  peg  on  earth. 

Soc.  Sublime  in  air, 

Sublime  in  thought  I  carry  my  mind  with  me, 
Its  cogitations  all  assimilated 
To  the  pure  atmosphere,  in  which  I  float; 
Lower  me  to  earth,  and  my  mind's  subtle  powers, 
Seiz'd  by  contagious  dulness,  lose  their  spirit ; 
For  the  dry  earth  drinks  up  the  generous  sap, 
The  vegetating-  vigour  of  philosophy, 
And  leaves  it  a  mere  husk. 

Streps.  What  do  you  say  ? 

Philosophy  has  sapt  your  vigour  ?    Fie  upon  it. 
But  come  my  precious  fellow,  come  down  quickly, 
And  teach  me  those  fine  things  I'm  here  in  quest 
of. 

Soc.  And  what  fine  things  are  they? 

Streps.  A  new  receipt 

For  sending  off  my  creditors,  and  foiling  them 


*  These  words,  like  the  AUTOC  t?n  of  the  Pythagoreans, 
mark  the  usual  veneration  of  the  Greek  disciple  for  his 
master  with  great  effect. 


By  the  art  logical ;  for  you  shall  know 

By  debts,  pawns,  pledges,  usuries,  executions, 

I  am  rackt  and  rent  in  tatters. 

Soc.  Why  permit  it  ? 

What  strange  infatuation  seiz'd  your  senses? 

Streps.  The    horse-consumption,   a   devouring 

plague  ; 

But  so  you'll  enter  me  amongst  your  scholars, 
And  tutor  me  like  them  to  bilk  my  creditors, 
Name  your  own  price,  and  by  the  gods  I  swear 
I'll  pay  you  the  last  drachm. 

Soc.  By  what  gods? 

Your  gods  ?    Gods  are  not  current  coin  with  me. 

Streps.  How  swear  you  then !     As  the  Byzan- 

tians  swear 
By  their  base  iron  coin? 

Soc.  Art  thou  ambitious 

To  be  instructed  in  celestial  matters, 
And  taught  to  know  them  clearly  ? 

Streps.  Aye,  aye,  in  faith, 

So  they  be  to  my  purpose,  and  celestial. 

Soc.  And  if  I  bring  you  to  a  conference 
With  my  own  proper  goddesses,  the  Clouds  ? 

Streps.  'Tis  what  I  wish  devoutly. 

Soc.  Come  sit  down ; 

Repose  upon  this  sacred  couch. 

Streps.  'Tis  done. 

Socr.  Now  take  this  chaplet — wear  it. 

Streps.  Why  this  chaplet? 

Would'st  make  of  me  another  Athamas,* 
And  sacrifice  me  to  a  Cloud  ? 

Soc.  Fear  nothing; 

It  is  a  ceremony  indispensable 
At  OUR  initiations. 

Streps.  What  to  gain  ? 

Soc.  (instead  of  the  sacred  meat,  which  was  thrown 
on  the  sacrificed  victim,  a  basket  of  stones  is 
showered  on  the  head  of  Strep  siades.} 
'Twill  sift  your  faculties  as  fine  as  powder, 
Bolt  'em  like  meal,  grind  'em  as  light  as  dust ; 
Only  be  patient. 

Streps.  Truly,  you'll  go  near 

To  make  your  words  good ;   an'  you  pound  me 

thus, 
You'll  make  me  very  dust,  and  nothing  else. 

Soc.  (assuming  all    the   magical   solemnity   and 

tone  of  voice  of  an  adept.~) 
Keep  silence  then,  and  listen  to  a  prayer, 
Which  fits  the  gravity  of  age  to  hear—- 
Oh !  Air,  all  powerful  Air,  which  dost  enfold 
This  pendant  globe,  thou  vault  of  flaming  gold, 
Ye  sacred  Clouds,  who  bid  the  thunder  roll, 
Shine  forth,  approach,  and  cheer  your  suppliant's 
soul ! 

Streps.  Hold,  keep  'em  off  awhile,  till  I  am 

ready. 

Ah !  luckless  me,  would  I  had  brought  my  bonnet, 
And  so  escap'd  a  soaking. 

Soc.  Come,  come  away! 

Fly  swift,  ye  Clouds,  and  give  yourselves  to  view  ! 

*  The  poet  plays  upon  a  tragedy  of  Sophocles,  then 
current  in  every  body's  mouth;  the  story  of  which  had 
been  taken  out  of  the  fabulous  and  romantic  history  of 
this  old  Boeotian  prince.  In  the  play  Athamas  is  to  be 
sacrificed  to  the  gods,  and  like  other  victims  he  is  led  to 
the  altar  with  a  chaplet  on  his  head. 


ARISTOPHANES. 


1G1 


Whether  on  high  Olympus'  sacred  top 
Snow-crown'd  ye  sit,  or,  in  the  azure  vales 
Of  your  own  father  Ocean  sporting,  weave 
Your  misty  dance,  or  dip  your  golden  urns 
In  the  seven  mouths  of  Nile;  whether  ye  dwell 
On  Thracian  Mimas,  or  Mirotis'  lake, 
Hear  me,  yet  hear,  and  thus  invok'd  approach! 
Chorus  of  Clouds.     (  The  scene  is  at  the  remotest 
part  of  the  stage.     Thunder  is  heard.    A  large 
and  shapeless  Cloud  is  seen  floating  in  the  air  • 
from  which  the  following  song  is  heard.) 
Ascend,  yo  watery  Clouds,  on  high, 
Daughters  of  Ocean,  climb  the  sky, 
And  o'er  the  mountain's  pine-capt  brow 
Towering  your  fleecy  mantle  throw : 
Thence  let  us  scan  the  wide-stretch'd  scene, 
Groves,  lawns,  and  rilling  streams  between, 
And  stormy  Neptune's  vast  expanse, 
And  grasp  all  nature  at  a  glance. 
Now  the  dark  tempest  flits  away, 
And  lo!  the  glittering  orb  of  day 
Darts  forth  his  clear  ethereal  beam, 
Come  let  us  snatch  the  joyous  gleam. 
Soc.   Yes,  ye  Divinities,  whom  I  adore, 
I  hail  you  now  propitious  to  my  prayer. 
Didst  thou  not  hear  them   speak  in  thunder  to 

me? 

Streps,  (kneeling,  and,  with  various  acts  of  buf- 
foonery, affecting  terror  and  embarrassment.} 
And  I  too  am  your  Cloudships'  most  obedient, 
And  under  sufferance  trump  against  your  thun- 
der: — 
Nay,  (turning  to  Socrates.}  take  it  how  you  may, 

my  frights  and  fears 

Have  pinch'd  and  cholic'd  my  poor  bowels  so, 
That  I  can't  chuse  but  treat  their  holy  nostrils 
With  an  unsavoury  sacrifice. 

Soc.  Forbear 

These  gross  scurrilities,  for  low  buffoons 
And  mountebanks  more  fitting.     Hush !  be  still, 
List  to  the  chorus  of  their  heavenly  voices, 
For  music  is  the  language  they  delight  in. 

Chorus  of   Clouds,     (approaching   nearer.)    Ye 

Clouds,  replete  with  fruitful  showers, 
Here  let  us  seek  Minerva's  towers, 
The  cradle  of  old  Cecrops'  race. 
The  world's  chief  ornament  and  grace; 
Here  mystic  fanes  and  rites  divine 
And  lamps  in  sacred  splendour  shine; 
Here  the  go.ls  dwell  in  marble  domes, 

1  •([  \viih  costly  hci-atumbs, 
That  round  their  votive  statues  blaze, 
Whilst  crowded  temples  ring  with  praise; 
And  pompous  sacrilices  here 
Make  holidays  throughout  the  year. 
And  when  gay  spring-time  comes  again, 
Bromius  convok  ;:ive  train, 

And  pipe,  and  song,  and  choral  dance 
Hail  the  soft  hours  as  th--y  advance. 
Streps.  Now,  in  the  name  of  Jove,  I  pray  thee 

tell  me 

Who  are  the<e  ranting  dames,  that  talk  in  stilts? 
Of  the  Amazonian  cast  no  doubt. 

Soc.  Not  so, 

No  dames,  but  Clouds  celestial,  friendly  powers 
To  men  of  sluggish  parts ;  from  these  we  dra  -y 
21 


Sense,  apprehension,  volubility, 

Wit  to  confute,  and  cunning  to  ensnare. 

Streps.  Aye,  therefore  'twas  that  my  heart  leapt 

within  me 

For  very  sympathy  when  first  I  heard  'em : 
Now  I  could  prattle  shrewdly  of  first  causes, 
And  spin  out  metaphysic  cobwebs  finely, 
And  dogmatize  most  rarely,  and  dispute 
And  paradox  it  with  the  best  of  you  : 
So,  come  what  may,  I  must  and  will  behold  'em; 
Show  me  their  faces,  I  conjure  you. 

Soc.  Look, 

Look  towards  Mount  Parnes  as  I  point — There, 

there ! 

Now  they  descend  the  hill ;  I  see  them  plainly, 
As  plain  as  can  be. 

Streps.      Where,  where  ?  I  prythee,  show  me. 

Soc.  Here !  a    whole   troop    of  them  through 

woods  and  hollows, 
A  bye-way  of  their  own. 

Streps.  What  ails  my  eyes, 

That  I  can't  catch  a  glimpse  of  them? 

Soc.  Behold ! 

Here  at  the  very  entrance— 

Streps.  Never  trust  me, 

If  yet  I  see  them  clearly. 

Soc.  Then  you  must  be 

Sand-blind  or  worse. 

Streps.  Nay,  now  by  father  Jove, 

I  cannot  choose  but  see  them — precious  creatures! 
For  in  good  faith  here's  plenty  and  to  spare. 

Enter  CHOKUS  OF  CLOUDS. 

Soc.  And  didst  thou  doubt  if  they  were   god- 
desses ? 

Streps.  Not  I,  so  help  me  !  only  I'd  a  notion 
That  they  were  fog,  and  dew,  and  dusky  vapour. 

Soc.  For   shame !     Why,  man,  these    are  the 

nursing  mothers 

Of  all  our  famous  sophists,  fortune-tellers, 
Quacks,  med'cine-mongers,  bards  bombastical, 
Chorus  projectors,  star  interpreters, 
And  wonder-making  cheats — The  gang  of  idlers, 
Who  pay  them  for  their  feeding  with  good  store 
Of  flattery  and  mouth-worship. 

Streps.  Now  I  see 

Whom  we  may  thank  for  driving  them  along 
At  such  a  furious  dithyrambic  rate, 
Sun-shadowing  clouds  of  many-colour'd  hues, 
Air-rending  tempests,  hundred-headed  Typhons; 
Now  rousing,  rattling  them  about  our  ears, 
Now  gently  wafting  them  adown  the  sky, 
Moist,  airy,  bending,  bgrsting  into  showers; 
For  all  which  fine  descriptions  these  poor  knaves 
Dine  daintily  on  scraps. 

Soc.  And  proper  fare  ; 

What  better  do  they  merit? 

Streps.  Under  favour, 

If  these  be  clouds,  (d'you  mark  me  ?)  very  clouds, 
How  came  they  metamorphosed  into  women  ? 
Clouds  are  not  such  as  these. 

Soc.  And  what  else  are  they? 

Streps.  Troth,  I  can't  rightly  tell,  but  I  should 

guess 

Something  like  flakes  of  wool,  not  women,  sure  ; 
And  look !  these  dames  have  noses. — 

ot 


162 


ARISTOPHANES. 


Soc.  Hark  you,  friend, 

I'll  put  a  question  to  you. 

Streps.  Out  with  it ! 

Be  quick :  let's  have  it. 

Soc.  This  it  is  in  short — 

Hast  thou  ne'er  seen  a  cloud,  which  thou  could'st 

fancy 
Shap'd  like  a  centaur,  leopard,  wolf  or  bull  ? 

Streps.  Yea,  marry,  have  I,  and  what  then  ? 

Soc.  Why  then 

Clouds  can  assume  what  shapes  they  will,  be- 
lieve me ; 

For  instance  ;  should  they  spy  some  hairy  clown 
Rugged  and  rough,  and  like  the  unlick'd  cub 
Of  Xenophantes,  straight  they  turn  to  centaurs, 
And  kick  at  him  for  vengeance. 

Streps.  Well  done,  Clouds ! 

But  should  they  spy  that  peculating  knave, 
Simon,  that  public  thief,  how  would  they  treat 
him? 

Soc.  As  wolves — in  character  most  like  his  own. 

Streps.  Aye,  there  it  is  now ;  when  they  saw 

Cleonymus, 

That  dastard  runaway,  they  turn'd  to  hinds 
In  honour  of  his  cowardice. 

Soc.  And  now, 

Having  seen  Cleisthenes,  to  mock  his  lewdness 
They  change  themselves  to  women. 

Streps.  Welcome,  ladies ! 

Imperial  ladies,  welcome!  An'  it  please 
Your  highnesses  so  far  to  grace  a  mortal, 
Give  me  a  touch  of  your  celestial  voices. 

Ch.  Hail,  grandsire !  who  at  this  late  hour  of 

life 

Would'st  go  to  school  for  cunning;  and  all  hail, 
Thou  prince  pontifical  of  quirks  and  quibbles, 
Speak  thy  full  mind,  make  known  thy  wants  and 

wishes ! 

Thee  and  our  worthy  Prodicus  excepted, 
Not  one  of  all  your  sophists  have  our  ear : 
Him  for  his  wit  and  learning  we  esteem, 
Thee  for  thy  proud  deportment  and  high  looks, 
In  barefoot  beggary  strutting  up  and  down, 
Content  to  suffer  mockery  for  our  sake, 
And  carry  a  grave  face  whilst  others  laugh. 

Streps.  Oh !  mother  Earth,  was  ever  voice  like 

this, 
So  reverend,  so  portentous,  so  divine ! 

Soc.  These  are  your  only  deities,  all  else 
I  flout  at. 

Streps.       Hold !     Olympian  Jupiter — 
Is  he  no  god  ? 

Soc.  What  Jupiter  ?  what  god  ? 

Prythee  no  more — away  with  him  at  once ! 

Streps.  Say'st  thou  ?    Who  gives  us  rain  ?  an- 
swer me  that. 

Soc.  These  give  us  rain ;  as  I  will  straight  de- 
monstrate : 

Come  on  now — When  did  you  e'er  see  it  rain 
Without  a  cloud  ?     If  Jupiter  gives  rain, 
Let  him  rain  down  his  favours  in  the  sunshine, 
Nor  ask  the  clouds  to  help  him. 

Streps.  You  have  hit  it, 

'Tis  so ;  heav'n  help  me  !  I  did  think  till  now, 
When   'twas   his   godship's  pleasure,  he  made 
water 


!  Into  a  sieve  and  gave  the  earth  a  shower. 
But,  hark'ye  me,  who  thunders?  tell  me  that} 
For  then  it  is  I  tremble. 

Soc.  These,  these  thunder, 

When  they  are  tumbled. 

Streps.  How,  blasphemer,  how  ? 

Soc.  When  they  are  charg'd  with  vapours  full 

to  th'  bursting, 

And  bandied  to  and  fro  against  each  other, 
Then  with  the  shock  they  burst  and  crack  amain. 
Streps.  And  who  is  he  that  jowls  them  thus 

together 
But  Jove  himself? 

Soc.  Jove !  'tis  not  Jove  that  does  it, 

But  the  aetherial  Vortex. 

Streps.  What  is  he  ? 

I  never  heard  of  him ;  is  he  not  Jove  ? 
Or  is  Jove  put  aside,  and  Vortex  crown'd 
King  of  Olympus  in  his  state  and  place  ? 
But  let  me  learn  some  more  of  this  same  thunder. 
Soc.  Have  you  not  learnt  ?  I  told  you  how  the 

Clouds, 

Being  surcharg'd  with  vapour,  rush  together, 
And,  in  the  conflict,  shake  the  poles  with  thun- 
der. 

Streps.  Let  that  pass, 

And  tell  me  of  the  lightning,  whose  quick  flash 
Burns  us  to  cinders  ;  that,  at  least,  great  Jove 
Keeps  in  reserve  to  launch  at  perjury. 

Soc.  Dunce,  dotard !  were  you  born  before  the 

flood 

To  talk  of  perjury,  whilst  Simon  breathes, 
Theorus  and  Cleonymus,  whilst  they, 
Thrice-perjur'd    villains,    brave    the    lightning's 

stroke, 
And  gaze  the  heavens  unscorch'd  ?  Would  these 

escape  ? 
Why,  man,  Jove's  random  fires  strike  his  own 

fane, 

Strike  Sunium's  guiltless  top,  strike  the  dumb  oak, 
Who  never  yet  broke  faith  or  falsely  swore. 
Streps.  It  may  be  so,  good  sooth !  You  talk  this 

well : 

But  I  would  fain  be  taught  the  natural  cause 
Of  these  appearances. 

Soc.  Mark  when  the  winds, 

In  their  free  courses  check'd,  are  pent  and  purs'd, 
As  'twere  within  a  bladder,  stretching  then 
And  struggling  for  expansion,  they  burst!  forth 
With  cracks  so  fierce  as  sets  the  air  on  fire. 
Streps.  The  devil  they  do !  why  now  the  mur- 
der's out : 

Ch.  The  envy  of  all  Athens  shalt  thou  be, 
Happy  old  man,  who  from  our  lips  dost  suck 
Into  thy  ears  true  wisdom,  so  thou  art 
But  wise  to  learn,  and  studious  to  retain 
What  thou  hast  learnt ;  patient  to  bear  the  blow.5 
And  buffets  of  hard  fortune ;  to  persist, 
Doing  or  suffering ;  firmly  to  abide 
Hunger  and  cold,  not  craving  where  to  dine, 
To  drink,  to  sport  and  trifle  time  away; 
But  holding  that  for  best,  which  best  becomes 
A  man  who  means  to  carry  all  things  through 
Neatly,  expertly,  perfect  at  all  points 
With  head,  hands,  tongue,  to  force   his  way  to 
fortune. 


ARISTOPHANES. 


163 


Wi 

i 


Sireps.  Be  confident ;  I  give  myself  for  one 
Of  a  tough  heart,  watchful  as  care  can  make  me, 
A  frugal,  pinching  fellow,  that  can  sup 
Upon  a  sprig  of  savory  and  to  bed  ; 
I  am  your  man  for  this,  hard  as  an  anvil. 

Soc.  Tis  well,  so  you  will  ratify  your  faith 
In  these  our  deities — CHAOS  and  CLOUDS 
And  SPEECH — to  these  and  only  these  adhere. 

Streps.  If  from   this   hour   henceforth   I   ever 

waste 

A  single  thought  on  any  other  gods, 
Or  give  them  sacrifice,  libation,  incense, 
Nay,  even  common  courtesy,  renounce  me. 

Ch.  Speak  your  wish  boldly  then,  so  shall  you 

prosper 

As  you  obey  and  worship  us,  and  study 
The  wholesome  art  of  thriving. 

Streps.  Gracious  ladies, 

I  ask  no  mighty  favour,  simply  this — 
Let  me  but  distance  every  tongue  in  Greece, 
And  run  'em  out  of  slight  a  hundred  lengths. 

Ch.  Is  that  all?  there  we  are  your  friends  to 

serve  you ; 

We  will  endow  thee  with  such  powers  of  speech, 
As  henceforth  not  a  demagogue  in  Athens 

all    spout    such   popular    harangues    as    thou 
shalt. 

Streps.  A  iig  for  powers  of  spouting!  give  me 

powers 
Of  nonsuiting  my  creditors. 

Ch.  A  trifle — 

Granted  as  soon  as  ask'd  5  only  be  bold, 
And  show  yourself  obedient  to  your  teachers. 

Streps.  With  your  help  so  I  will,  being  undone, 
Stript  of  my  pelf  by  these  high-blooded  cattle, 
And  a  fine  dame,  the  torment  of  my  life. 
Now  let  them  work  their  wicked  will  upon  me  ; 
They're  welcome  to  my  carcass :  let  'em  claw  it, 
Starve  it  with  thirst  and  hunger,  fry  it,  freeze  it,* 
Nay,  Hay  the  very  skin  off;  'tis  their  own; 
So  that  I  may  but  fob  my  creditors, 
Let  the  world  talk ;  I  care  not  though  it  call  me 
A  bold-faced,  loud-tongued,  overbearing  bully ; 
A  shameless,  vile,  prevaricating  cheat; 
A  triekinir,  quibbling,  double-dealing  knave; 
A  prating,  pettyfogging  limb  o'  the  law; 
A  sly  old  f"X.  a  perjurer,  a  hang-dog, 
A  ragamuffin  made  of  shreds  and  patches, 
The  leavings  of  a  dunghill. — Let  'em  rail, 

marry,  let  "em  turn  my  guts  to  fiddle-strings. 
May  my  bread  be  my  poison !  if  I  care. 

Ch.  This    fellow   hath   a   prompt  and   daring 

spirit — 

Come  hither,  sir;  do  you  perceive  and  feel 
What  great  and  glorious  Came  you  shall  acquire 
15y  this  our  schooling  of  you  ? 

Streps.  What,  I  pray  you  ? 

Ch.  What  but  to  live  the  envy  of  mankind 
Under  our  patronage  ? 


*  It  may  not  he  unimportant  to  remark,  that  a  word  is 
here  omitted,  which  expresses  the  willingnesn  of  Strep- 
siades  to  uive  up  his  carcass  to  the  dirt  and  filth,  as  well 
as  hardy  privations  of  his  future  teachers.  All  the  ideas 
of  the  poet  on  the  Socratic  character  are  evidently 
formed  upon  exteriors,  and  show  that  he  had  very  little 
knowledge  of  the  inner  Socrates. 


Streps.  When  shall  I  see 

Those  halcyon  days? 

Ch.  Then  shall  your  doors  be  thronged 

With  clients  waiting  for  your  coming  forth, 
All  eager  to  consult  you,  pressing  all 
To  catch  a  word  from  you,  with  abstracts,  briefs, 
And  cases  ready  drawn  for  your  opinion. 
But  come,  begin  and  lecture  this  old  fellow ; 
Sift  him.  that  we  may  see  what  meal  he's  made  of. 

Soc.  Hark  ye,  let  s  hear  what  principles  you 

hold, 

That  these  being  known,  I  may  apply  such  tools 
As  tally  with  your  stuff. 

Streps.  Tools !  by  the  gods ; 

Are  you  about  to  spring  a  mine  upon  me  ? 

Soc.  Not  so,  but  simply  in  the  way  of  practice 
To  try  your  memory. 

Streps.  Oh !  as  for  that, 

My  memory  is  of  two  sorts,  long  and  short : 
With  them  that  owe  me  aught,  it  never  fails; 
My  creditors  indeed  complain  of  it, 
As  mainly  apt  to  leak  and  lose  its  reck'ning. 

Soc.  But  let  us  hear  if  nature  hath  endow'd  you 
With  any  grace  of  speaking. 

Streps.  None  of  speaking, 

But  a  most  apt  propensity  to  cheating. 

Soc.  If  this  be  all,  how  can  you  hope  to  learn? 

Streps.  Fear  me  not,  never  break  your  head 
for  that. 

Soc.  Well  then  be  quick,  and  when  I  speak 

of  things 

Mysterious  and  profound,  see  that  you  make 
No  boggling,  but— 

Streps.  I  understand  your  meaning; 

You'd  have  me  bolt  philosophy  by  mouthfuls, 
Just  like  a  hungry  cur. 

Soc.  Oh  !  brutal,  gross 

And  barbarous  ignorance !  I  much  suspect, 
Old  as  thou  art,  thou  must  be  taught  with  stripes: 
Tell  me  now,  when  thou  art  beaten,  what  dost 
feel? 

Streps.  The  blows  of  him  that  beats  me  I  do 

feel; 

But  having  breath'd  awhile  I  lay  my  action 
And  cite  my  witnesses ;  anon  more  cool, 
I  bring  my  cause  into  the  court,  and  sue 
For  damages. 

Soc.  Strip  off  your  cloak !  prepare. 

Streps.  Prepare  for  what?  what  crime  have  I 
committed  ? 

Soc.  None ;  but  the  rule  and  custom  is  with  us, 
That  all  shall  enter  naked. 

Streps.  And  why  naked? 

I  come  with  no  search-warrant;  fear  me  not; 
I'll  carry  nought  away  with  me. 

Soc.  No  matter ; 

Conform  yourself,  and  strip. 

Sireps.  And  if  I  do, 

Tell  me,  for  my  encouragement,  to  which 
Of  all  your  scholars  will  you  liken  me. 

Soc.  You  shall  be  call'd  a  second  Chserephon. 

Streps.  Ah !  Cha-rephon  is  but  another  name 
For  a  dead*  corpse — excuse  me. 

*  Aristophanes  generally  makes  himself  merry  with 
the  paleness  and  meagre  body  of  this  pupil  of  Socrates. 
See  "The  Wasps  and  the  Birds." 


164 


ARISTOPHANES. 


Soc.  No  more  words  : 

Pluck  up  your  courage,  answer  not,  but  follow  ; 
Haste  and  be  perfected. 

Streps.  Give  me  my  dole* 

Of  honey-cake  in  hand,  and  pass  me  on ; 
Ne'er  trust  me  if  I  do  not  quake  and  tremble 
As  if  the  cavern  of  Trophonius  yawn'd, 
And  I  were  stepping  in. 

Soc.  What  ails  you  ?  enter ! 

Why  do  you  halt  and  loiter  at  the  door  ? 

[SOCRATES  and  STREPSIADES  enter  the  mansion 

of  the  former. 
Ch.  Go,  brave  adventurer,  proceed  ! 

May  fortune  crown  the  gallant  deed ; 
Tho'  far  advanc'd  in  life's  last  stage, 
Spurning  the  infirmities  of  age, 
Thou  canst  to  youthful  labours  rise, 
And  boldly  struggle  to  be  wise. 

SCENE  III. 

SOCRATES,  (coming  out  of  the  house  in  violent  indig- 
nation,) STREPSIADES,  CHORUS. 

Soc.  0  vivifying  breath,  eethereal  air, 
And  thou  profoundest  chaos,  witness  for  me 
If  ever  wretch  was  seen  so  gross  and  dull, 
So  stupid  and  perplex'd  as  this  old  clown, 
Whose  shallow  intellect  can  entertain 
No  image  nor  impression  of  a  thought ; 
But  ere  you've  told  it,  it  is  lost  and  gone ! 
'Tis  time  however  he  should  now  come  forth 
In  the  broad  day — What  hoa !  Strepsiades — 
Take  up  your  pallet ;  bring  yourself  and  it 
Into  the  light. 

Streps.  Yes,  if  the  bugs  would  let  me. 

Soc.  Quick,  quick,  I  say ;  set  down  your  load 
and  listen ! 

Streps.  Lo!  here  am  I. 

Soc.  Come,  tell  me  what  it  is 

That  you  would  learn  besides  what  I  have  taught 

you; 
Is  it  of  measure,  verse,  or  modulation  ? 

Streps.  Of  measure  by  all  means,  for  I  was  fobb'd 
Of  two  days'  dole  i'  the  measure  of  my  meal 
By  a  damn'd  knavish  huckster. 

Soc.  Pish !  who  talks 

Of  meal  ?  I  ask  which  metre  you  prefer, 
Tetrameter  or  trimeter. 

Streps.  I  answer — 

Give  me  a  pint  pot.f 

Soc.  Yes,  but  that's  no  answer. 

Streps.  No  answer !  stake  your  money,  and  I'll 

wager 
That  your  tetrameter  is  half  my  pint  pot. 

Soc.  Go  to  the   gallows,  clodpate,  with   your 

pint  pot ! 
Will  nothing  stick  to  you?  But  come,  perhaps 


*  In  the  ceremonials  of  Trophonius'  cave,  honey-cake 
was  an  indispensable  oblation  to  the  prophetic  dragon 
under  ground. 

I  There  was  a  certain  measure,  as  near  as  possible  to 
our  pint,  which  the  Greeks  dealt  out  daily  of  meal  to  their 
slaves.  To  this  Strepsiades  alludes  when  he  says  he 
was  defrauded  of  two  measures,  and  to  this  humorous 
mat-entendu  he  obstinately  adheres  through  the  whole 
scene. 


|  We  may  try  further  and  fare  better  with  you — 
Suppose  I  spoke  to  you  of  modulation. ; 
Will  you  be  taught  of  that? 

Streps.  Tell  me  first, 

Will  I  be  profited  ?  will  I  be  paid 
The  meal  that  I  was  chous'd  of?   tell  me  that. 

Soc.  You  will  be  profited  by  being  taught 
To  bear  your  part  at  table  in  some  sort 
After  a  decent  fashion;  you  will  learn 
Which  verse  is  most  commensurate  and  fit 
To  the  arm'd  chorus  in  the  dance  of  war, 
And  which  with  most  harmonious  cadence  guides 
The  dactyl  in  his  course  poetical. 

Streps.  The  dactyl,  quotha  !  Sure  I  know  that 
well. 

Sor.  As  how  ?  discuss. 

Streps.'  Here,  at  my  fingers'  end  ; 

This  is  my  dactyl,  and  has  been  my  dactyl 
Since  I  could  count  my  fingers. 

Soc.  Oh  !  the  dolt. 

Streps.  I  wish  to  be  no  wiser  in  these  matters. 

-Soc.  What  then  ? 

Streps.  Why  then,  teach  me  no  other  art 

But  the  fine  art  of  cozening. 

Soc.  Granted  ;  still 

There  is  some  previous  matter,  as  for  instance 
The  genders  male  and  female — Can  you  name 
them  ? 

Streps.  I  were  a  fool  else — These  are  mascu- 
line ; 
Ram,  bull,  goat,  dog,  and  pullet. 

Soc.  There  you're  out : 

Pullet  is  male  and  female. 

Streps.  Tell  me  how? 

Soc.  Cock  and  hen  pullet — So  they  should  be 
nani'd. 

Streps.  And  so  they  should,  by  the  Eethereal  air! 
You've  hit  it;  for  which  rare  discovery, 
Take  all  the  meal  this  cardopus  contains. 

Soc.  Why   there    again    you    sin    against    the 

genders, 

To  call  your  bolting-tub  a  cardopus, 
Making  that  masculine  which  should  be  fem'- 
nine. 

Streps.  How  do  I  make  my  bolting-tub  a  male  ? 

Soc.  Did  you  not  call  it  cardopus  ?  As  well 
You  might  have  call'd  Cleonymus  a  man ; 
He  and  your  bolting-tub  alike  belong     ' 
To  t'other  sex,  believe  me. 

Streps.  Well,  my  trough 

Shall  be  a  cordopa,  and  he  Cleonyma ; 
Will  that  content  you  ? 

Soc.  Yes,  and  while  you  live 

Learn  to  distinguish  sex  in  proper  names. 

Streps.  I  do ;  the  female  I  am  perfect  in. 

Soc.  Give  me  the  proof. 

Streps.  Lysilla,  she's  a  female  ; 

Philinna,  and  Demetria,  and  Cleitagora. 

Soc.  Now  name  your  males. 

Streps.  A  thousand — as  for  instance, 

Philoxenus,  Melesias,  and  Amyriias. 

Soc.  Call  you  these  masculine,  egregious  dunce '? 

Streps.  Are  they  not  such  with  you  ? 

Soc.  No  ;  put  the  case, 

You  and  Amynias  meet — how  will  you  greet 
him  ? 


ARISTOPHANES. 


165 


Streps.  Why,  thus,  for  instance — Hip  !   holla ! 
Amynia ! 

Soc.  There,  there !  you  make  a  wench  of  him 
at  once. 

Streps.  And   fit  it  is   for  one  who  shuns  the 

field  ;* 

A  coward  ought  not  to  be  call'd  a  man ; 
Why  teach  me  what  is  known  to  all  the  world? 

Soc.  Aye,    why    indeed? — but    come,    repose 
yourself. 

Streps.  Why  so  ? 

Soc.  For  meditation's  sake  :  lie  down. 

Streps.  Not  on  this  pallet,  I  beseech  you,  sir. 
But  if  I  must  lie  down,  let  me  repose 
On  the  bare  earth  and  meditate. 

Soc.  Aw#y! 

There's  nothing  but  this  bed  will  cherish  thought. 

Streps.  It  cherishes,  alas !  a  host  of  bugs, 
That  show  no  mercy  on  me. 

Soc.  Come,  begin, 

Cudgel  your  brains  and  turn  yourself  about ; 
No\v  ruminate  awhile,  and  if  you  start 
A  thought  that  puzzles  you,  try  t'other  side, 
And  turn  to  something  else,  but  not  to  sleep ; 
Suffer  not  sleep  to  close  your  eyes  one  moment. 

Streps,  (after  a  considerable  pause.)  Ah  !  woe  is 
me  :  ah,  woeful,  well-a-day  ! 

Soc.  What  ails  you?  why  this  moaning? 

Streps.  I  am  lost ; 

I    have   roused   the    natives   from    their    hiding 

holes; 

A  colony  of  bugs  in  ambuscade 
Have  fallen  upon  me:  belly,  back,  and  ribs, 
No  part  is  free :  I  feed  a  commonwealth. 

Soc.  Take  not  your  sufferings  too  much  to  heart. 

Streps.  How  can  I  choose — a  wretch  made  up 

of  wants ! 

Here  am  I  penniless  and  spiritless, 
Without  a  skin,  heav'n  knows,  without  a  shoe; 
And  to  complete  my  miseries  here  I  lie, 
Like  a  starv'd  sentinel  upon  his  post, 
At  watch  and  ward,  till  I  am  shrunk  to  nothing. 
(A  pause  of  some  duration.) 

Soc.  How   now ;  how   fare  you  ?     Have  you 
sprung  a  thought  ? 

Streps.  Yes,  yes,  so  help  me  Neptune  ! 

Soc.  Hah!  what  is  it? 

Streps.  Why   I   am   thinking   if  these    cursed 

vermin 
Will  leave  one  fragment  of  my  carcass  free. 

Soc.  A  plague  confound  you. 

Streps.  Spar.-  yourself  that  prayer; 

I'm  plagued  already  to  your  heart's  content. 

Soc.  Prythee  don't  be  so  tender  of  your  skin: 
Tuck  yourself  up  and  buff  it  like  a  man  : 
Keep  your  skull  under  cover,  and  depend  on't 
'Twill  make  your  brain  bring  forth  some  precious 

project 

For  furthering  your  good  fortune  at  the  expense 
Of  little  c\<(>  but  lione>ty  ami  justice. 

Streps.  Ah  !  would  to  heav'n  some  friendly  soul 
would  help  me 

*  This  Amynias  seems  to  have  had  his  full  share  of 
abuse  from  the  comic  poets  of  lus  time  :  Kupolis,  Crate-:. 
and  our  author,  in  various  parts,  bestow  it  very  plenti- 
fully. 


To  a  fine  project  how  to  cheat  the  bugs 

With  a  sleek  lambskin.  (d  long  pause.) 

Soc.  Whereabouts,  I  trow, 

Sits  the  wind   now?    What  ails   you?   are  you 

dozing? 

Streps.  Not  I,  by  heaven ! 
Soc.  Can  you  start  nothing  yet? 

Streps.  Nothing,  so  help  me. 
Soc.  Will  your  head  breed  no  project, 

Tho*  nurs'd  so  daintily  ? 

Streps.  What  should  it  breed  ? 

Tell,  me,  sweet  Socrates ;  give  me  some  hint. 
Soc.  Say  first  what  'tis  you  wish. 
Streps.  A  thousand  times, 

Ten  thousand  times  I've  said  it  o;er  and  o'er — 
My  creditors,  my  creditors — 'Tis  them 
I  would  fain  bilk. 

Soc.  Go  to !  get  under  cover, 

Keep  your  head  warm,  and  rarefy  your  wits 
Till  they  shall  sprout  into  some  fine  conceit, 
Some  scheme  of  happy  promise:  sift  it  well, 
Divide,  abstract,  compound,  and  when  'tis  ready, 
Out  with  it  boldly. 

Streps.  Miserable  me ! 

Would  I  were  out ! 

Soc.  Lie  still,*  and  if  you  strike 

Upon  a  thought  that  baffles  you,  break  off 
From  that  entanglement  and  try  another, 
So  shall  your  wits  be  fresh  to  start  again. 

Streps,  (not  attending  to  what  SOCRATES  issaying.) 
Hah !  my  dear  boy ! — My  precious  Socrates ! 
Soc.  What  would'st  thou,  gaffer  ? 
Streps.  I  have  sprung  a  thought, 

A  plot  upon  my  creditors. 

Soc.  Discuss ! 

Streps.  Answer  me  this — Suppose  that  I  should 

hire 

A  witch,  who  some  fair  night  shall  raise  a  spell, 
Whereby  I'll  snap  the  moonf  from  out  her  sphere 
And  bag  her. 

Soc.  What  to  do ! 

Streps.  To  hold  her  fast, 

And  never  let  her  run  her  courses  more ; 
So  shall  I  'scape  my  creditors. 

Soc.  How  so? 

Streps.  Because  the  calculations  of  their  usury 
Are  n.ade  from  month  to  month. 

Soc.  A  gallant  scheme  ; 

And  yet  methinks  I  could  suggest  a  hint 
As  practicable  and  no  less  ingenious — 
Suppose  you  are  arrested  for  a  debt, 
We'll  say  five  talents,  how  will  you  contrive 
To  cancel  at  a  stroke  both  debt  and  writ  ? 

Streps.  Gramercy!    I    can't   tell  you  how  off 

hand ; 
It  needs  some  cogitation. 

Soc.  Were  you  apt, 

Such  cogitations  would  not  be  to  seek; 


*  Socrates'*  instructions  for  soliciting  the  inspiration 
of  some  sudden  thought,  are,  a  banter  upon  the  pretended 
visions  arid  communications  with  demons  of  the  sophists 
1  and  philosopher-;  tricks  brought  by  them  out  of  Egypt 
and  th«  East,  which  served  to  impose  upon  the  credulous 
and  vuljrar. 

t  Mr.  Cumberland  says,  that  in  this  project  for  arrest- 
{  ing  the  moon,  the  poet  seems  to  glance  at  Pythagoras. 


166 


ARISTOPHANES. 


They  would  be  present  at  your  fingers'  ends, 
Buzzing  alive,  like  chafers  in  a  string, 
Ready  to  slip  and  fly. 

Streps.  I've  hit  the  nail 

That  does  the  deed,  and  so  you  will  confess. 

Soc.  Out  with  it ! 

Streps.  Good  chance  but  you  have  noted 

A  pretty  toy,  a  trinket  in  the  shops, 
Which  being  rightly  held  produceth  fire 
From  things  combustible — 

Soc.  A  burning-glass, 

Vulgarly  call'd — 

Streps.  You  are  right ;  'tis  so. 

Soc.  Proceed ! 

Streps.  Put  the  case  now  your  whoreson  bailiff 

comes, 
Show  me  his  writ* — I,  standing  thus,  d'ye  mark 

me, 

In  the  sun's  stream,  measuring  my  distance,  guide 
My  focus  to  a  point  upon  his  writ, 
And  off  it  goes  in  fumo ! 

Soc.  By  the  Graces ! 

'Tis  wittingly  devis'd. 

Streps.  The  very  thought 

Of  his  five  talents  cancel'd  at  a  stroke 
Makes  my  heart  dance  for  joy. 

Soc.  But  now  again — 

Streps.  What  next  ? 

Soc.  Suppose  yourself  at  bar,  surpris'd 

Into  a  suit,  no  witnesses  at  hand, 
The  judge  prepar'd  to  pass  decree  against  you — 
How  will  you  parry  that  ? 

Streps.  As  quick  as  thought — 

Soc.  But  how  ? 

Streps.  Incontinently  hang  myself, 

And  baulk  the  suitor — 

Soc.  Come,  you  do  but  jest. 

Streps.  Serious,  by  all  the  gods ! «  A  man  that's 

dead 
Is  out  of  the  law's  reach. 

Soc.  I've  done  with  you — 

Instruction's  lost  upon  you :  your  vile  jests 
Put  me  beyond  all  patience. 

Streps.  Nay,  but  tell  me 

What  is  it  my  good  fellow,  that  offends  thee  ? 

Soc.  Your  execrable  lack  of  memory. 
Why  how  now  ;  what  was  the  first  rule  I  taught 

you? 
Streps.   Say'st  thou  the  first?  the  very  first — 

what  was  it  ? 

Why,  let  me  see  ;  'twas  something,  was  it  not? 
About  the  meal — Out  on  it !  I  have  lost  it. 

Soc.  Oh  thou  incorrigible,  old  doating  blockhead, 
Can  hanging  be  too  bad  for  thee  ? 

Streps.  Why  there  now, 

Was  ever  man  so  us'd?     If  I  can't  make 
My  tongue  keep  pace  with  your's,  teach  it  the 

quirks 

And  quibbles  of  your  sophistry  at  once, 
I  may  go  hang — I  am  a  fool  forsooth — 
Where  shall  I  turn  ?  Oh  gracious  Clouds,  befriend 

me, 
Give  me  your  counsel. 


*  It  must  be  remembered,  that  documents  of  this  kind 
were  inscribed  on  tablets  of  wax. 


Ch.  This  it  is,  old  man — 

If  that  your  son  at  home  is  apt  and  docile, 
Depute  him  in  your  stead,  and  send  him  hither. 

Streps.  My  son  is  well  endow'd  with  nature's 

gifts, 
But  obstinately  bent  against  instruction. 

Ch.  And  do  you  suffer  it  ? 

Streps.  What  can  I  do  ? 

He's  a  fine  full-grown  youth,  a  dashing  fellow, 
And  by  the  mother's  side  of  noble  blood : 
I'll  feel  my  way  with  him — but  if  he  kicks, 
Befall  what  may,  nothing  shall  hinder  rne 
But  I  will  kick  him  headlong  out  of  doors, 
And  let  him  graze  e'en  where  he  will  for  me — 
Wait  only  my  return  ;  I'll  soon  dispatch.     [Exit. 
*  *  *          *  #  *  * 

SCENE  IV. 

STIIEPSIADES,  (coming  out  of  his  house  to  his  son, 
who  stands  at  the  door,)  PHEIDIPPIDES. 

Streps.   Out  of  my  house !  I  call  the  Clouds  to 

witness 

You  shall  not  set  a  foot  within  my  doors. 
Go  to  your  Lord  Megacles !  Get  you  hence, 
And  gnaw  his  posts  for  hunger. 

Phei.  Ah,  poor  man ! 

I  see  how  it  is  with  you.     You  are  mad, 
Stark  mad,  by  Jupiter ! 

Streps.  By  Jupiter ! 

Come,  that's  a  good  one,  faith.     By  Jupiter ! 
And  at  your  age  !    By  Jupiter,  indeed  ! 

Phei.  What!  ridicule  such  solemn  truths? 

Streps.  I  laugh 

To  hear  a  child  prate  of  such  old  men's  fables ; 
But  list  to  what  I'll  tell  you,  learn  of  me, 
And  from  a  child  you  shall  become  a  man- 
But  keep  the  secret  close,  do  you  mark  me,  close ; 
Beware  of  babbling. 

Phei.  Heyday!  what  is  coming? 

Streps.  You  swore  but  now  by  Jupiter. 

Phei.  I  did. 

Streps.   Mark  now  what  'tis  to  have  a  friend 

like  me — 
I  tell  you  at  a  word  there  is  no  Jupiter. 

Phei.  How  then? 

Streps.  He's  off;  I  tell  you  for  a  truth — 

He's  out  of  place,  and  Vortex  reigns  instead. 

Phei.  Vortex  indeed  !    What  freak  has  caught 
you  know  ? 

Streps.  No  freak,  'tis  fact. 

Phei.  Who  tells  you  this  ? 

Streps.  E'en  Socrates  the  Melian, 
And  Chcprephon,  the  flea  philosopher. 

Phei.  And  are  you  so  far  gone  in  dotage,  sir, 
As  to  be  dup'd  by  men  like  them,  fellows 
Whose  bile  has  overflow'd  them  ? 

Streps.  Keep  a  good  tongue ; 

Take  heed  you  slander  not  such  worthy  men, 
So  wise  withal  and  learned, — men  so  pure 
And  cleanly  in  their  morals,  that  no  razor 
Ever  profan'd  their  beards  ;  their  unwash'd  hides 
Ne'er  dabbled  in  a  bath,  nor  waited  scent 
Of  od'rous  unguent  as  they  pass'd  along. 
But  you,  a  prodigal  fine  spark,  make  waste 
And  havoc  of  my  means,  as  I  were  dead 
And  out  of  thought — but  come,  turn  in  and  learn. 


ARISTOPHANES. 


167 


Phei.  What  can  I  learn  or  profit  from  such 

teachers  ? 
Streps.  Thou  canst  learn  every  thing  that  turns 

to  profit; 

But  first  and  foremost  thou  canst  learn  to  know 
Thyself  how  totally  unlearn'il  thou  art; 
How  mere  a  hlockhead,  arid  how  dull  of  brain — 
But  wait  awhile  with  patience — 

[Enters  the  house  hastily. 

Phei.  Woe  is  me  ! 

How  shall  I  deal  with  this  old  crazy  father  ? 
What   course    pursue   with   one,   whose  reason 

wanders 

Out  of  all  course?     Shall  I  take  out  the  statute, 
And  cite  him  for  a  lunatic ;  or  wait 
Till  nature  and  his  frenzy,  with  the  help 
Of  the  undertaker,  shall  provide  a  cure '? 

(STREPSIADKS   returns,  with  a  cock  in  one 

hand  and  a  hen  in  the  other.) 
Streps.  Now  we  shall  see !    Lo !  what  have  I 

got  here  ? 
Phei.  A  chicken — 

Streps.  Well;  and  this? 

Phei.  A  chicken  also. 

Streps.  Are  they  the  same  then  ?  Have  a  care, 

good  boy, 

How  you  expose*  yourself,  and  for  the  future 
Describe  them  cock  and  lien-chick  severally. 

Phei.  Ridiculous!     Is  this  the  grand  discovery 
You  have  just  borrow'd   from  these  sons  o'th' 

dunghill? 
Streps.  This,  and  a  thousand  others — but  being 

old 
And  lax  of  memory,  I  lose  it  all 

•  as  it  comes  in. 

Phei.  Yes,  and  methinks 

By  the  same  token  you  have  lost  your  cloak. 

Streps.  No.  I've  not  lost  it ;  I  have  laid  it  out 
Upon  the  arts  and  sciences. 

Phei.  Your  shoes — 

They're  vanish'd  too.    How  have  you  laid  them 

out? 

Streps.  Upon  the  commonwealth — like  Pericles 
I'm  a  barefooted  patriot — Xo\v  no  more  ; 
Do  as  thou  wilt,  so  thou  will  but  conform 
And  humour  me  this  once,  as  in  times  past 
I  humour'd  thee,  and  in  thy  playful  age 
Hrouirht  thee  a  penny  go-cart  from  the  fair, 
Purchas'd  with  what  my  legal  labours  earn'd, 
The  fee  for  my  attendance. 

(Going  towards  the  house  of  SOCRATES.) 
Phei.  You'll  repent, 

My  life  upon  't;  you  will  repent  of  this. 

( Folhirintr  reluctantly.) 
Streps.  No  matter,  so  you'll  humour  me — What, 

hoa! 

Why  Soe rates.  I  say,  come  forth,  behold, 
Here  is  my  son ! 

SCEXE    V. 

brought  him,  though  in  faith 
Sorely  against  the  grain. 

*  The  reader's  mind,  I  think,  will  often  recur  in  this 
play  to  Moliere's  M.  Jourdam. 


Enter  SOCRATES. 

Soc.  Aye,  he's  a  novice, 

And  knows  not  where  the  panniers*  hang  as  yet. 

Phei.  I  would   you'd  hang  yourself  there  in 
their  stead. 

Streps.  Oil  monstrous  impudence !  this  to  your 
master ! 

Soc.  Mark  how  the  idiot  quibbles  upon  hanging, 
Driv'ling  and  making  mouths — Can  he  be  taught 
The  loopholes  of  the  law ;  whence  to  escape, 
How  to  evade,  and  when  to  press  a  suit ; — 
Or  tune  his  lips  to  that  soft  rhetoric, 
Which  steals  upon  the  ear,  and  melts  to  pity 
The  heart  of  the  stern  judge  ? 

Streps.  Come,  never  doubt  him ; 

He  is  a  lad  of  parts,  and  from  a  child 
Took  wondrously  to  dabbling  in  the  mud, 
Whereof  he'd  build  you  up  a  housef  so  natural 
As  would  amaze  you,  trace  you  out  a  ship, 
Make  you  a  little  cart  out  of  the  sole 
Of  an  old  shoe  mayhap,  and  from  the  rind 
Of  a  pomegranate  cut  you  out  a  frog, 
You'd  swear  it  was  alive.     Now  what  do  you 

think  ? 

Hath  he  not  wit  enough  to  comprehend 
Each  rule  both  right  and  wrong?  Or  if  not  both, 
The  latter  way  at  least — There  he'll  be  perfect. 

Soc.  Let  him  prepare  :  his  lecturers  are  ready. 

Streps.  I  will  retire — when  next  we  meet,  re- 
member 

I  look  to  find  him  able  to  contend 
'Gainst  right  and  reason,  and  outwit  them  both. 

[Exit* 

Enter  DICJEOLOGOS  and  AmcasoLooos. 
Die.  Come  forth  ;  turn  out,  thou  bold  audacious 

man, 
And  face  this  company. 

Adic.  Most  willingly : 

I  do  desire  no  better :  take  your  ground 
Before  this  audience,  I  am  sure  to  triumph. 
Die.  And  who  are  you  that  vapour  in  this 

fashion  ? 
Adic.  Fashion   itself — the  very  style   of   the 

times. 
Die.  Aye,  of  the  modern  times,  and  them  and 

you 
I  set  at  naught. 

A  die.  I  shall  bring  down  your  pride. 

Die.  By  what  most  witty  weapon? 
Adic.  By  the  gift 

Of  a  most  apt  invention. 

Die.  Then  I  see 

You  have  your  fools  to  back  you. 

Adic.  No, — the  wise 

Arc;  those  I  deal  with. 

Die.  I  shall  spoil  your  market. 

Adic.  As  how,  good  sooth? 


*  Alluding  to  the  panniers  in  which  Socrates  used  to 
meditate. 

t  Plato,  in  his  system  of  education,  strongly  recom- 
mends, that  the  pupil  should  be  tau-.'ht  to  commence  his 
own  course  of  instruction  in  this  amusing  manner. — De 
Ltz.  1.  i.  p.  572. 

J  A  preparatory  choral  song,  which  preceded  the  en- 
trance of  the  allegorical  Aty**,  is  now  irretrievably  lost. 


1G8 


ARISTOPHANES. 


Die.  By  speaking  such  plain  truths 

As  may  appeal  to  justice. 

jldic.  What  is  justice  1 

There's  no  such  thing — I  traverse  your  appeal. 

Die.  How  !  No  such  thing  as  justice  1 

Jldic.  No;  where  is  it? 

Die.  With  the  immortal  gods. 

Jldic.  If  it  be  there, 

How  chanc'd  it  Jupiter  himself  escap'd  • 
From  his  unnatural  deeds  to  his  own  father  ? 

Die.  For  shame,  irreverent  wretch,  thus  do  you 

talk? 

I  sicken  at  impiety  so  gross, 
My  stomach  kicks  against  it. 

Jldic.  You  are  craz'd ; 

Your  wits,  old  gentleman,  are  off  the  hinges. 

Die.  You  are  a  vile  blasphemer  and  builbon. 

Jldic.  Go  on  !  you  pelt  me — but  it  is  with  roses, 

Die.  A  scoffer ! 

Jldic.  Every  word  your  malice  vents 

Weaves  a  fresh  wreath  of  triumph  for  my  brows. 

Die.  A  parricide ! 

Jldic.  Proceed,  and  spare  me  not — 

You  shower  down  gold  upon  me. 

Die.  Lead,  not  gold, 

Had  been  your  retribution  in  times  past. 

Jldic.  Aye,  but  times  present  cover  me  with 
glory. 

Die.  You  are  too  wicked. 

Jldic.  You  are  much  too  weak. 

Die.  Thank  your  own  self,  if  our  Athenian 

fathers 

Coop  up  their  sons  at  home,  and  fear  to  trust  them 
Within  your  schools,  conscious  that  nothing  else 
But  vice  and  folly  can  be  learnt  of  you. 

Jldic.  Methinks,  friend,  yours  is  but  a  ragged 
trade. 

Die.  And  yours,  oh  shame!  a  thriving  one, 

tho'  late, 

A  perfect  Telephus,  you  tramp'd  the  street 
With    beggar's  wallet    cramm'd    with    hungry 

scraps, 
Choice  gather'd  from — Pandeletus'  larder. 

JLdic.  Oh !  what  rare  wisdom  you  remind  me 
of! 

Die.  Oh !  what  rank  folly  theirs,  who  rule  this 

city, 

And  let  it  nourish  such  a  pest  as  you, 
To  sap  the  morals  of  the  rising  age. 

JLdic.  You'll  not  inspire  your  pupil  with  these 

notions, 
Old  hoary-headed  time ! 

Die.  I  will  inspire  him, 

If  he  has  grace,  to  shun  the  malady 
Of  your  eternal  clack. 

Jldic.  Turn  to  me,  youth ! 

And  let  him  rail  at  leisure. 

Die.  Keep  your  distance, 

And  lay  your  hands  upon  him  at  your  peril. 

Ch.  (interposing.)  Come,  no  more  wrangling. — 

Let  us  hear  you  both ; 

You  of  the  former  time  produce  your  rules 
Of  ancient  discipline — of  modern,  you — 
That  so,  both  weigh'd,  the  candidate  may  judge 
Who  offers  fairest,  and  make  choice  between  you. 

Die.  I  close  with  the  proposal. 


Jldic.  'Tis  agreed. 

Ch.  But  which  of  you  shall  open  ? 
Jldic.  That  shall  he : 

I  yield  him  up  that  point ;  and  in  reply, 
My  words,  like  arrows  levelled  at  a  butt, 
Shall  pierce  him  through  and  through ;  then,  if 

he  rallies, 

If  he  comes  on  again  with  a  rejoinder, 
I'll  launch  a  swarm  of  syllogisms  at  him, 
That,  like  a  nest  of  hornets,  shall  belabour  him, 
Till  they  have  left  him  not  an  eye  to  see  with. 
Ch.  uNow,  sirs,  exert  your  utmost  care, 
And  gravely  for  the  charge  prepare ; 
The  well  rang'd  hoard  of  thought  explore, 
Where  sage  experience  keeps  her  store ; 
All  the  resources  of  the  mind 
Employment  in  this  cause  will  find,-— 
And  he,  who  gives  the  best  display 
Of  argument,  shall  win  the  day : 
Wisdom  this  hour  at  issue  stands, 
And  gives  her  fate  into  your  hands  j 
Yours  is  a  question  that  divides 
And  draws  out  friends  on  different  sides  : 
Therefore  on  you,  who,  with  such  zealous  praise, 
Applaud  the  discipline  of  former  days, 
On  you  I  call;  now  is  your  time  to  show 
You  merit  no  less  praise  than  you  bestow." 
Die.  Thus  summon'd,  I  prepare  myself  to  speak 
Of  manners  primitive,  and  that  good  time, 
Which  I  have  seen,  when  discipline  prevail'd, 
And  modesty  was  sanctioned  by  the  laws. 
No  babbling  then  was  suffer'd  in  our  schools ; — 
The  scholar's  test  was  silence.    The  whole  group 
In  orderly  procession  sallied  forth 
Right  onwards,  without  straggling,  to  attend 
Their  teacher  in  harmonics ;  though  the  snow 
Fell  on  them  thick  as  meal,  the  hardy  brood 
Breasted  the  storm  uncloak'd :  their  harps  were 

strung 

Not  to  ignoble  strains,  for  they  were  taught 
A  loftier  key,  whether  to  chant  the  name 
Of  Pallas,  terrible  amidst  the  blaze 
Of  cities  overthrown,  or  wide  and  far 
To  spread,  as  custom  was,  the  echoing  peal. 
There  let  no  low  buffoon  intrude  bis  tricks, 
Let  no  capricious  quavering  on  a  note, 
No  running  of  divisions  high  and  low 
Break  the  pure  stream  of  harmony;  no  Phrynis 
Practising  wanton  warblings  out  of  place — 
Woe  to  his  back  that  so  was  found  offending ; 
Hard  stripes  and  heavy  would  reform  his  taste. 
Decent  and  chaste  their  postures  in  the  school 
Of  their  gymnastic  exercises  ;  none 
Expos'd  an  attitude  that  might  provoke 
Irregular  desire ;  their  lips  ne'er  mov'd 
In  love-inspiring  whispers,  and  their  walks 
From  eyes  obscene  were  sacred  and  secure. 
Hot  herbs,  the  old  man's  diet,  were  proscribed; 
No  radish,  anise,  parsley,  deck'd  their  board ; 
No  rioting,  no  revelling  was  there 
At  feast  or  frolic,  no  unseemly  touch 
Or  signal,  that  inspires  the  hint  impure. 

Jldic.  Why  these    are    maxims    obsolete    and 

stale ; 

Worm-eaten  rules,  coeval  with  the  hymns 
Of  old  Ceceydas  and  Buphonian  feasts. 


ARISTOPHANES. 


169 


Die.  Yet  so  were  train'd  the  heroes,  that  im- 

bru'd 

The  field  of  Marathon  with  hostile  blood  ; 
This  discipline  it  was  that  braced  their  nerves 
And  fitted  them  for  conquest.     You,  forsooth, 
At  great  Minerva's  festival  produce 
Your  martial  dancers,  not  as  they  were  wont, 
But  smother'd  underneath  the  tawdry  load 
•Of  cumbrous  armour,  till  I  sweat  to  see  them 
Dangling  their  shields  in  such  unseemly  sort 
As  mars  the  sacred  measure  of  the  dance. 
Be  wise,  therefore,  young  man,  and  turn  to  me. 
Turn  to  the  better  guide,  so  shall  you  learn 
To  scorn  the  noisy  forum,  slum  the  bath, 
And  turn  with  blushes  from  the  scene  impure: 
Then  conscious  innocence  shall  make  you  bold 
To  spurn  the  injurious,  but  to  reverend  age 
Meek  and  submissive,  rising  from  your  seat 
To  pay  the  homage  due,  nor  shall  you  ever 
Or  wring  the  parent's  soul,  or  stain  your  own. 
In  purity  of  manners  you  shall  live 
A  bright  example ;  vain  shall  be  the  lures 
Of  the  stage  wanton  floating  in  the  dance, 
Vain  all  her  arts  to  snare  you  in  her  arms, 
And  strip  you  of  your  virtue  and  good  name. 
No  petulant  reply  shall  you  oppose 
To  fatherly  commands,  nor  taunting  vent 
Irreverent  mockery  on  his  hoary  head, 
Crying — "Behold  lapetus*  himself'/' 
Poor  thanks  for  all  this  fond  parental  care. 

Jldic.  Aye,  my  brave  youth,  do,  follow  these 

fine  rules, 

And  learn  by  them  to  be  as  mere  a  swine, 
Driveller,  and  dolt,  as  any  of  the  sons 
Of  our  Hippocrates  ;f — I  swear  by  Bacchus, 
Folly  and  foul  contempt  shall  be  your  doom. 

Die.  Not  so ;  but  fair  and  fresh  in  youthful  bloom 
Amongst  our  young  athletics  you  shall  shine ; 
Not  in  the  forum  loit'ring  time  away 
In  gossip  prattle,  like  our  gang  of  idlers, 
Nor  yet  in  some  vexatious  paltry  suit 
Wrangling  and  quibbling  in  our  petty  courts, 
But  in  the  solemn  academic  grove, 
Crown'd  with  the  modest  reed,  fit  converse  hold 
With  your  collegiate  equals ;  there  serene, 
Calm  as  the  scene  around  you,  underneath 
The  fragrant  foliage  where  the  ilex  spread?, 
Where  the  deciduous  poplar  strews  her  leaves, 
Where  the  tall  elm-tree  and  wide-stretching  plane 
Sigh  to  the  fanning  breeze,  you  shall  inhale 
Sweet  odours  wafted  in  the  breath  of  spring. 
This  is  the  regimen  that  will  insure 
A  healthful  body  and  a  vigorous  mind, 
A  countenance  serene,  expanded  • 
Heroic  stature  and  a  temperate  ton  true  : 
But  take  these  modern  masters,  and  behold 
These  blessings  ail  revers'd  :  a  pnUid  cheek. 
Shrunk  shoulder-,  dic-t  contracted.  >;iple-s  limbs, 
A  tongue  that  never  rest^.  and  mind  (]••' 
By  their  vile  sophistry  perversely  taught 
To  call  good  evil,  evil  good,  and  be 


*  lilpetus  here  stands  for  the  ne  plug  ultra  of  antiquity. 

^  The  sons  of  Hippocrates  (better  known  to  the  spec- 
tators than  they  are  to  us)  were  proverbial  for  their 
stupidity. 

22 


That  thing,  which  nature  spurns  at,  that  disease, 
A  mere  Antimachus,*  the  sink  of  vice. 

Ch.  "Oh  sage  instructor,  how  sublime 
These  maxims  of  the  former  time  ! 
How  sweet  this  unpolluted  stream 
Of  eloquence,  how  pure  the  theme  ! 
Thrice  happy  they,  whose  lot  was  cast 
Amongst  the  generation  past, 
When  virtuous  morals  were  display'd 
And  these  grave  institutes  obey'd. 
Now  you,  that  vaunt  yourself  so  high, 
Prepare;  we  wait  for  your  reply, 
And  recollect,  or  ere  you  start, 
You  take  in  hand  no  easy  part  ; 
Well  hath  he  spoke,  and  reasons  good 
By  better  only  are  withstood  ; 
Sharpen  your  wits  then,  or  you'll  meet 
Contempt  as  certain  as  defeat." 

Adic.  Doubt  not  I'm  ready,  full  up  to  the  throat, 
And  well  nigh  chok'd  with  plethory  of  words, 
Impatient  to  discharge  them.    I  do  know 
The  mighty  masters  of  the  modern  school 
Term  me  the  Lower  Logic,  so  distinguished 
From  the  old  practice  of  the  upper  time, 
By  him  personified;  which  name  of  honour 
I  gain'd  as  the  projector  of  that  method, 
Which  can  confute  and  puzzle  all  the  courts 
Of  law  and  justice — An  invention  worth 
Thousands  to  them  who  practise  it,  whereas 
It  nonsuits  all  opponents. — Let  that  pass. 
Now  take  a  sample  of  it  in  the  ease, 
With  which  I'll  baffle  this  old  vaunting  pedant 
With  his  warm  baths,  that  he  forsooth  forbids. 
Harkye,  old  man,  discuss,  if  so  it  please  you, 
Your  excellent  good  reason  for  this  rule, 
That  interdicts  warm  bathing. 

Die.  Simply  this — 

I  hold  it  a  relaxer,  rendering  men 
Effeminate  and  feeble. 

Adic.  Hold  awhile — 

I  have  you  on  the  hook.     Answer  me  this — 
Of  all  the  heroes  Jupiter  has  fathered 
Which  is  for  strength,  for  courage,  and  a  course 
Of  labours  most  renown'd  1 

Die.  I  know  of  none 

Superior  in  those  qualities  to  Hercules. 

Jldic.  And  who  e'er  heard  Herculean  bathsf 

were  cold  1 
Yet  Hercules  himself  you  own  was  strong. 

Die.  Aye,  this  is  the  very  style  of  the  times ; 
These  are  the  dialectics  now  in  fashion 
With  our  young  sophists  who  frequent  the  baths 
Whilst  the  pahi-stra  starves. 

Adic.  I  grant  you  this  ; 

It  is  the  style  of  the  times,  by  you  condemn'd, 
By  me  approv'd,  and  not  without  good  cause ; 
For  how  but  thus  doth  ancient  Nestor  talk? 
Can  Homer  eir?     Were  all  his  wise  men  fools? 
They  are  my  witnesses. — Now  for  this  tongue, 
This  member  out  of  use  by  his  decree, 


*  Antimachus,  acrordine  to  the  Scholiast,  appears  to 
have  been  equally  ronspi<  nous  for  his  beauty,  his  effemi- 
nacy, and  the  utter  corruption  of  his  morals. 

f  Tepid  baths,  according  to  fabulous  legends,  being  the 
gift  of  Vulcan  to  Hercules,  it  became  a  fashion  to  term 
all  such  baths  Herculean. 


170 


ARISTOPHANES. 


Not  so  by  mine. — His  scholar  must  be  silent 
And  chaste  withal — damping  prescriptions  both — 
For  what  good  fortune  ever  did  betide 
The  mute  and  modest?     Instance  me  a  case. 
Die.  Many — chaste    Peleus*    so   obtained  his 

sword. 
Jldic.  His  sword !  and  what  did  Peleus  gain 

by  that1? 

Battle  and  blows  this  modest  Peleus  gain'd ; 
Whilst  mean  Hyperbolas,  whose  wretched  craft 
Was  Jamp-making,  by  craft  of  viler  sort 
Garbled  his  thousands,  solid  coin,  not  swords. 

Die.  But  continence  befriended  Peleus  so, 
As  won  the  goddess  Thetis  to  his  bed. 

Jldic.  And   drove  her  out  of  it — for  he  was 

cold, 

Languid  and  listless :  she  was  brisk  and  stirring, 
And  sought  the  sport  elsewhere.     Now  are  you 

answered  ? 
Good  sooth  you're  in  your  dotage.     Mark,  young 

sir, 

These  are  the  fruits  of  continence :  you  see 
What  pleasure  you  must  forfeit  to  preserve  it — 
All  the  delights  that  woman  can  bestow ; 
No  am'rous  sports  to  catch  the  fair  one's  smile, 
No  luscious  dainties  shall  you  then  partake, 
No  gay  convivial  revels,  where  the  glass 
With  peals  of  laughter  circulates  around  ; 
These  you  must  sacrifice,  and  without  these 
What  is  your  life  ? — So  much  for  your  delights. — 
Now  let  us  see  how  stands  your  score  with  na- 
ture— 

You're  in  some  scrape  we'll  say — intrigue — adul- 
tery— 
You're  caught,  convicted,  crush'd — for  what  can 

save  you? 
You  have  no  powers  of  speech — but  arm'd  by 

me, 

You're  up  to  all  occasions :  Nothing  fear  ; 
Ev'n    give    your    genius    scope ;    laugh,    frolic, 

sport, 

And  flout  at  shame  ;  for  should  the  wittol  spouse 
Detect  you  in  the  fact,  you  shall  so  pose  him 
In  his  appeal,  that  nothing  shall  stick  to  you ; 
For  Jove   shall   take   the   blame   from  off  your 

shoulders, 

Being  himself  a  cuckold-making  god, 
And  you  a  poor  frail  mortal — Why  should  you 
Be  wiser,  stronger,  purer  than  a  god  ? 

Die.  But  what  if  this  your  scholar  should  incur 
The  adulterer's  correction — pill'd  and  sanded, 
And  garnish'd  with  a  radish  in  his  crupper, 
The  scoff  of  all  beholders — what  fine  quirk 
Will  clear  him  at  that  pinch,  but  he  must  pass 
For  a  most  perfect  Ganymede? 

Jldic.  What  then  ? 

Where  is  the  harm  ? 

Die.  Can  greater  harm  befall  him  ? 

*  Peleus,  having  withstood  the  solicitations  of  Atalante, 
wife  of  Acastus,  was  rewarded  for  his  continence  by  the 
gods,  with  a  sword  of  celestial  temper,  the  workmanship 
of  Vulcan.  But  Atalante,  having  accused  him  to  her 
husband,  and  stimulated  Acastus  to  revenge  a  supposed 
attempt  upon  her  honour,  Peleus  found  himself  driven  to 
declare  war  against  him,  and  to  this  Adicaeologos  alludes 
in  his  retort  upon  Dicaeologos. 


Jldic.  What  will  you  say  if  here  I  can  confute 

you? 
Die.  Nothing — my  silence  shall  confess  your 

triumph. 

Jldic.  Come  on  then — answer  me  to  what  I  ask. 
Our  advocates — what  are  they  ? 

Die.  Catamites. 

Jldic.  Our  tragic  poets — what  are  they  ? 
Die.  The  same. 

Jldic.  Good,  very  good ! — our  demagogues — 
Die.  No  better. 

Jldic.  See  there !  discern  you  not  that  you  are 

foil'd  ? 
Cast  your  eyes  round  this  company ! 

Die.  I  do. 

Jldic.  And  what  do  you  discover  ? 
Die.  Numerous  birds 

Of  the  same  filthy  feather,  so  heaven  help  me! 
This  man  I  mark ;  and  this,  and  this  fine  fop 
With  his  curl'd  locks. — To  all  these  I  can  swear. 
Jldic.  What  say  you  then  ? 
Die.  I  say  I  am  confuted — 

Here,  wagtails,  catch  my  cloak — I'll  be  amongst 

you.* 

Soc.  (to  STREPSIADES,  ^MSt  returned.) 
Now,  friend,  what  say  you?   who   shall  school 

your  son  ? 
Streps.  School  him  and  scourge  him,  take  him 

to  yourself, 

And  mind  you  whet  him  to  an  edge  on  both  sides, 
This  for  slight  skirmish,  that  for  stronger  work. 
Soc.  Doubt  not,  we'll  finish  him  to  your  con- 
tent 
A  perfect  sophist. 

Phei.  Perfect  skin  and  bone — 

That  I  can  well  believe. 

Soc.  No  more — Away ! 

(STREPSIADES  retires.) 

Phei.  Trust  me  you've  made   a  rod  for  your 
own  back. 

(Follows  SOCRATES  into  the  house.) 


SCEXE  VI. 

STREPSIADES  (with  a  sack  of  meal  on  his  shoulder, 
and  talking  to  himself.) 

Lo!  here's   the  fifth  day  gone — the  fourth — 

the  third — 

The  second  too — day  of  all  days  to  me 
Most  hateful  and  accurs'd — the  dreadful  eve, 
Ushering  the  new  moon,  that  lets  in  the  tide 
Of  happy  creditors,  all  sworn  against  me, 
To  rack  and  ruin  me  beyond  redemption. 
I,  like  a  courteous  debtor,  wno  would  fain 
Soften  their  flinty  bosoms,  thus  accost  them— 

*  Thus  ends  this  famous  episode,  says  Mr.  Cumber-- 
land, reversing  the  Choice  of  Hercules,  and  making  the 
spectators  parties  in  the  criminality  and  injustice  of  the 
decision.  Wieland,  after  applauding  the  truly  comic; 
manner  in  which  the  dialogue  concludes,  and  allowing 
the  necessity  there  was  of  giving  the  upper  hand  to  the 
genius,  or  representative  of  things  on  their  wrong  side, 
is  still  in  doubt,  whether  a  due  regard  to  the  moral  graces 
allowed  of  the  contest  being  so  easily  given  up  by  tlu 
genius  or  representative  of  things  on  their  right  side. 


ARISTOPHANES. 


171 


"  Ah,  my  good  sir,  this  payment  comes  upon  me 
At  a  bad  time,  excuse  me — That  bill's  due, 
But  you'll   extend   your  grace — This    you   will 

cancel, 

And  totally  acquit  me.'' — By  no  means  ; 
All  with  one  voice  cry  out,  they  will  be  paid, 
And  I  must  be  be-knav;d  into  the  bargain, 
Ar.d  threaten'd  with  a  writ  to  mend  the  matter — 
Well,  let  it  come ! — They    may   ev'n  do  their 

worst ; 

I  care  not  so  my  son  hath  learnt  the  trick 
Of  this  new  rhetoric,  as  will  appear 
When  I  have  beat  this  door — (knocks  at  the  door*) 
— Boy,  boy  !  come  for'.h. 

(SociiATES  comes  forth.) 

Soc.  Hail  to  Strepsiades  ! 

Streps,  Thrice  hail  to  Socrates  ! 

But  firrit  I  pray  you  (setting  down  the  meal  against 

the  door}  take  this  dole  of  meal 
In  token  of  the  reverence  I  bear  you ; 
And  now,  so  please  you,  tell  me  of  my  son, 
Your  late  noviciate.     Comes  he  on  apace  ? 

Soc.  He  apprehends  acutely. 

Streps.  Oh  brave  news! 

Oli  the  transcendent  excellence  of  fraud  ! 

Soc.   Yes,    you    may    set    your    creditors    at 
naught — 

Streps.  And  their  avouchers  too?— 

Soc.  Had  they  a  thousand. 

Streps,  (singing  and  dancing.}  Then  I'll  sing  out 

my  song,  and  sing  aloud, 
And  it  shall  be — Woe,  woe  to  all  your  gang, 
Ye  money-jobbing  caitiffs,  usurers,  sharks ! 
Hence  with  your  registers,  your  cents-per-cent ; 
I  iear  you  not ;  ye  cannot  hook  me  now. 
Oh !  such  a  son  have  I  in  training  for  you, 
Ai  m'd  with  a  two-edg'd  tongue  that  cuts  o'  both 

sides, 

The  stay,  support,  and  pillar  of  my  house, 
The  scourge  of  my  tormentors,  the  redeemer 
Ol'  a  most  wretched  father. 


CHORUS. 

"  Mark  here,  how  rarely  it  succeeds 
To  build  our  trust  on  guilty  deeds : 
Mark  how  this  old  cajoling  elf, 
Who  sets  a  trap  to  catch  himself, 
Falsely  believes  he  has  found  the  way 
To  hold  his  creditors  at  b;iy. 
Too  late  he'll  curse  the  Sophists'  school, 
That  tauglit  his  son  to  cheat  by  rule, 
And  train'd  the  modest  lips  of  youth 
In  the  vile  art  of  torturing  truth  ; 
A  modern  logic:  much  in  use, 
Invented  for  the  law's  abuse; 
A  subtle  knack  of  spying  flaws 
To  cast  in  doubt  the  clearest  cause, 
Whereby,  in  honesty's  despite, 
The  wrong  side  triumphs  o'er  the  right — 
Alas!  short  triumph  he  must  have, 
Who  glories  that  his  son's  a  knave  : 
Ah  foolish  sire,  the  time  will  come 
You'll    wish    that    son    of    your's    were 
dumb." 


SCENE  VIII. 

STREPSIADES  (rushing  out  of  the  house,  in  great 
confusion,  followed  by  his  son)  PHEIDIPPIDES, 
CHORUS. 

Streps.  Hoa  there !    What  hoa !  for  pity's  sake 

some  help ! 

Friends,  kinsmen,  countrymen !  turn  out  and  help ! 
Oh!  my  poor  head,   my  cheeks  are  bruis'd  to 

jelly- 
Help  by  all  means  ! — Why,  thou  ungracious  cub, 
Thy  father  wouldst  thou  beat? 

Phei.  Assuredly. 

Streps.  There,  there!  he  owns  that  he  would 
beat  his  father. 

Phei.  I  own  it,  good  my  father ! 

Streps.  Parricide ! 

Impious  assassin  !  Sacrilegious  wretch ! 

Phei.  All,  all,  and  more — You  cannot  please 

me  better ; 
I  glory  in  these  attributes.     Go  on! 

Streps.  Monster  of  turpitude  ! 

Phei.  Crown  me  with  roses ! 

Streps.  Wretch,  will  you  strike  your  parent? 

Phei.  Piously, 

And  will  maintain  the  right,  by  which  I  do  it. 

Streps.  Oh  shameless  villain!  can  there  be  a 

right 
Against  all  nature  so  to  treat  a  father  ? 

Phei.  That  I   shall   soon  make  clear  to  your 
conviction. 

Streps.  You,  you  convince  me  ? 

Phei.  With  the  greatest  ease: 

And  I  can  work  the  proof  two  several  ways ; 
Therefore  make  choice  between  them. 

Streps.  What  do  you  mean? 

Phei.  I  mean  to  say  we  argue  up  or  down — 
Take  which  you  like.  It  comes  to  the  same  end. 

Streps.  Aye,  and  a  precious  end  you've  brought 

it  to. 

If  all  my  care  of  you  must  end  in  this, 
That  I  have  put  you  in  the  way  to  beat  me, 
(Which  is  a  thing  unnatural  and  profane) 
And  after  justify  it.* 

Phei.  That  I'll  do 

By  process  clear  and  categorical, 
That  you  shall  fairly  own  yourself  a  convert 
To  a  most  wholesome  cudgelling. 

Streps.  Come  on ! 

Give  me  your  arguments — but  spare  your  blows. 

*«****« 

Ch.  How  to  restrain  this   headstrong    son  of 

yours 

Behoves  you  now,  old  man,  to  find  the  means, 
For  sure  lie  could  not  be  thus  confident 
Without  some  cause  ;  something  there  needs  must 

be, 

Some  strong  possession  of  himself  within, 
That  buoys  him  up  to  this  high  pitch  of  daring, 

*  It  is  not  easy  to  conceive  any  incident  more  pointed- 
ly severe  than  this,  which  the  poet  has  employed  for  in- 
teresting the  spectators  in  his  attack  upon  the  sophists. 
A  son  exhibited  in  the  impious  act  of  striking  his  father, 
and  justifying  the  crime  upon  principle,  is  surely  as  bitter 
an  invective  against  the  schools  of  the  philosophers  as 
can  be  devised. 


172 


ARISTOPHANES. 


This  bold  assumption;  which  that  we  may  know, 
Give  us  distinctively  the  whole  detail 
From  first  to  last  whence  this  contention  sprang, 
So   shall  we   hear,  and,  hearing,  judge  betwixt 
you. 

Streps.  So  please  you  then  I  will  the  cause  un- 
fold 

Of  this  base  treatment  to  your  patient  ears  ; 
And  thus  it  stands — When  we  had  supp'd  to- 
gether, 

As  you  all  know,  in  friendly  sort,  I  bade  him 
Take  up  his  lute  and  give  me  the  good  song 
Of  old  Simonides, — "The  ram  was  shorn  j" — 
But  he  directly  scouted  my  request — 
It  was  a  fashion  out  of  date  forsooth — 
He  would  not  sit  twanging  the  lute,  not  he ; 
'Twas  not  for  him  to  cackle  o'er  his  wine, 
As  if  he  were  some  wench  working  the  hand- 
mill*— 

Phei.  Grossly  so ; 

And  was  it  not  high  time  that  I  should  beat  you, 
Who  had  no  better  manners  than  to  set 
Your  guest  a  chirping  like  a  grasshopper? 

Streps.  These  were  his  very  words,  and  more 

than  these  j 

For  by  and  bye  he  told  me  that  Simonides 
Was  a  most  paltry  poet.     This  you'll  own 
Was  a  tough  morsel,  yet  I  gulp'd  it  down, 
And  pass'd  it  off  with  bidding  him  recite 
Some  passage  out  of  ^Escliylus,  withal 
Tendering  a  myrtle  wreath,  as  custom  is 
To  grace  the  recitation — He  forsooth, 
Flouting  my  tender,  instantly  replied — 
"I  hold  your  JEschylus,  of  all  our  poets, 
First  of  the  spouters,  incoherent,  harsh, 
Precipitous  and  turgid." — Oh  my  friends, 
Was  not  this  more  than  flesh  and  blood  should 

bear? 

Yet,  yet  I  smother'd  rage  within  my  heart, 
And  calmly  said — "  Call  something  else  to  mind 
More  to  your  taste  and  from  some  modern  bard, 
So  it  be  good  withal  and  worth  the  hearing" — 
Whereat,  would  you  believe  it?  he  began 
Repeating  from  Euripides — Great  Jove, 
Guard  my  chaste  ears  from  such  another  dose ! 
A  perilous  long-winded  tale  of  incest 
T'wixt  son  arid  daughter  of  the  same  sad  mother.t 
Sick  to  the  soul  I  spurned  at  such  declaiming, 
Adding,  as  well  I  might,  all  that  my  scorn 
Of  such  vile  trash  could  add!  till,  to  be  short, 
Words  begat  words,  and  blows  too  as  it  prov'd, 
For  leaping  from  his  seat  he  sprung  upon  me, 


*  Alluding  to  the  ballads  sung  by  women,  whilst  at 
work  upon  the  hand-mill.  The  names  of  several  of  these 
may  be  found  in  Hesychius  and  Athenaeus.  One  of  the 
simplest  is  preserved  in  .Elian,  lib.  vii.  c.  4.  It  bore  the 
name  of  Pittacus,  one  of  the  seven  wise  men  of  Greece, 
and  king  of  Mitylene',  who,  according  to  Plutarch,  took  a 
peculiar  pleasure  in  grinding  his  own  corn  arid  making 
his  own  bread.  The  women  at  their  mills  did  not,  of 
course,  forget  so  honourable  a  testimony  to  their  craft. 

Grind,  grind,  good  my  mill,  grind; 

Pittstcus  turns  a  mill  as  we  all  find. 

Grind,  grind,  good  my  mill,  grind, 

This  miller-king,  oh  he's  the  man  to  my  mind. 
t  The  story  of  Macareus  the  son  of  JEolus,  and  h 
uterine  sister  Canace. 


Struck,  buffeted,  and  bang'd  me  out  of  measure,  • 
Throttled  me,  pounded  me  well  nigh  to  dust — 

Phei.  And  what  less  does  that  heretic  deserve. 
Who  will  not  praise  Euripides,  the  first 
In  wisdom  of  all  poets  ? 

Streps.  He  the  first ! 

How  my  tongue  itches ! — but  the  rogue  is  ready ; 
He'll  beat  me  if  I  answer. 

Phei.  And  with  reason. 

Streps.  What  reason,  graceless  cub,  will  bear 

you  out 

For  beating  me,  who  in  your  baby  age 
Caress'd  you,  dandled  you  upon  my  knee, 
Watch'd  every  motion,  humour d  all  your  wants? 


Phei.  How  gratefully  the  mind  receives  new 

lights, 

Emerging  from  the  shades  of  prejudice, 
And  casting  old  establishments  aside ! 
Time  was  but  now,  when  every  thought  of  mine 
Was  centred  in  the  stable ;  then  I  had  not 
Three  words  upon  my  tongue  without  a  stumble; 
But  now,  since  I've  been  put  into  the  way 
Of  knowing  better  things,  and  the  fine  art 
Of  subtle  disputation,  I  am  bold 
To  meet  this  question  and  convince  my  hearers 
How  right  it  is  to  punish  this  old  sinner. 

Streps.  Mount,  mount  your  chariot !   Oh,  that  I 

could  see  you 

Seated  again  behind  your  favourite  horses, 
Though  'twere  with  four  in  hand,  so  that  you  kept 
From  driving  me  at  such  a  pelting  rate. 

Phei.  Now  then,  I  ask  you,  gathering  up  my 

thread 

Where  it  was  broken  off,  if  you,  my  father, 
When  I  was  but  a  stripling,  spar'd  rny  back? 
Streps.  No,  for  I  studied  all  things  for  your 

good, 
And  therefore  I  corrected  you. 

Phei.  Agreed, 

I  also  am  like  studious  of  your  good, 
And  therefore  I  most  lovingly  correct  you ; 
If  beating  be  a  proof  of  love,  you  have  it 
Plenteous  in  measure,  for  by  what  exemption 
Is  your  most  sacred  carcass  freed  from  stripes 
And  mine  made  subject  to  them  ?     Am  not  I 
Free-born  as  you  ?     Say,  if  the  son's  in  tears, 
Should  not  the  father  weep  ? 

Streps.  By  what  one  rule 

Of  equity  ? 

Phei.  What  equity  were  that 

If  none  but  children  are  to  be  chastis'd? 
And    grant   they  were,  the    proverb's   in   your 

teeth, 

Which  says  old  age  is  but  a  second  childhood. 
Again,  if  tears  are  seen  to  follow  blows, 
Ought  not  old  men  to  expiate  faults  with  tears 
Rather  than  children,  who  have  more  to  plead 
In  favour  of  their  failings? 

Streps.  Where's  the  law 

That  warrants  this  proceeding?     There's  none 

such. 
Phei.  And  what  was  your  law-maker  but  a 

man, 
Mortal  as  you  and  I  are  ?     And  though  time 


ARISTOPHANES. 


173 


Has  sanctified  his  statutes,  may  not  I 

Take  up  the  cause  of  youth,  as  he  of  age, 

And  publish  a  new  ordinance  for  leave 

By  the  right-filial  to  correct  our  fathers, 

Remitting  and  consigning  to  oblivion 

All  ex-post-facto  beating  ?     Look  at  instinct — 

Inquire  of  nature  how  the  brute  creation 

Kick  at  their  parents,  which  in  nothing  differ 

From  lordly  man,  except  that  they  compile 

No  laws,  and  hold  their  rights  without  a  statute. 

Streps.  If  you  are   thus   for  pecking  at  your 

father 

Like  a  young  fighting-cock,  why  do'nt  you  peck 
Your  dinner  from  the  dunghill,  and  at  night 
Roost  on  a  perch  1 

Phei.  The  cases  do  not  tally, 

Nor  does  my  master  Socrates  prescribe 
Rules  so  absurd. 

Streps.  Cease  then  from  beating  me ; 

Else  you  preclude  yourself. 

Phei.  As  how  preclude  ? 

Streps.  Because  the  right  I  have  of  beating  you 
Will  be  your  right  in  time  over  your  son, 
When  you  shall  have  one. 

Phei.  But  if  I  have  none, 

All  my  sad  hours  are  lost,  and  you  die  laughing. 

Streps.  There's  no  denying  that. — How  say  you, 

sirs? 

Methinks  there  is  good  matter  in  this  plea  ; 
And  as  for  us  old  sinners,  truth  to  say. 
If  we  deserve  a  beating  we  must  bear  it. 

Phei.  Hear  me — there's  more  to  come — 

Strrps.  Then  I  am  lost, 

For  I  can  bear  no  more. 

Phei.  Oh  fear  it  not, 

R  \ther  believe  what  I  have  now  to  tell  you 
Will  cause  you  to  make  light  of  what  is  past, 
'Twill  bring  such  comfort  to  you. 

Streps.  Let  me  have  it : 

If  it  be  comfort,  give  it  me. 

Phei.  Then  know, 

Henceforth  I'm  resolv'd  to  beat  my  mother 
As  I  have  beaten  you. 

Streps.  How  say  you  ?     How  ? 

Why  this  were  to  out-do  all  you  have  done. 

Phei.  But  what  if  I  have  got  a  proof  in  petto, 
To  show  the  moral  uses  of  this  beating? 

Streps.  Show  me  a  proof  that  you  have  hang'd 

yourself, 

And  with  your  tutor  Socrates  beside  you 
Gone  to  the  devil  together  in  a  string: 
Those  moral  uses  I  will  thank  you  for — 
Oh  inauspicious  goddesses,  0  Clouds! 
In  you  confiding,  all  these  woes  fall  on  me. 

Ch.  Evil  events  from  evi!  causes  spring, 
And  what  you  suffer  flows  from  what  you've 
done. 

Streps.  Why  was  I  not  furewarn'd  ?    You  saw 

me  old, 
And  practis'd  on  my  weak  simplicity. 

Ch.  'Tis  not  for  us  to  warn  a  wilful  sinner; 
We  stay  him  not,  but  let  him  run  his  course, 
Till  by  misfortunes  rous'd,  his  conscience  wakes. 
And  prompts  him  to  appease  th'  offended  gods. 

Streps.  I  feel  my  sorrows,  but  I  own  them  just: 
Yes,  ye  reforming  Clouds,  I'm  duly  punish'd 


For  my  intended  fraud. — And  now,  my  son, 
Join  hands  with  me,  and  let  us  forth  together 
To  wreak  our  vengeance  on  those  base  deceivers, 
That  Chaerephon  and  Socrates  the  chief, 
Who  have  cajol'd  us  both. 

Phei.  Grace  forbid 

I  should  lift  up  my  hand  against  my  masters! 
Streps.  Nay,  nay,  but  rather  dread  avenging 

Jove, 
God  of  our  ancestors,  and  him  revere. 

Phei.  You're  mad,  methinks,  to  talk  to  me  of 

Jove — 
Is  there  a  god  so  call'd  ? 

Streps.  There  is!  there  is! 

Phei.  There  is  no  Jupiter,  I  tell  you  so ; 
Vortex   has  whirl'd  him   from  his  throne,  and 

reigns 

By  right  of  conquest  in  the  Thunderer's  place. 
Streps.  'Tis  false ;  no  Vortex  reigns  but  in  my 

brain. 

Phei.  Laugh  at  your  own  dull  joke  and  be  a 
fool!  [Exit. 

Streps,  (striking  his  breast.)  Insufferable  block- 
head that  I  was ; 

What  ail'd  me  thus  to  court  this  Socrates, 
Ev'n  to  the  exclusion  of  the  immortal  gods  ? 

0  Mercury,  forgive  me ;  be  not  angry, 
Dear  tutelary  god,  but  spare  me  still, 
And  cast  a  pitying  eye  upon  my  follies, 
For  I  have  been  intemperate  of  tongue, 
And  dearly  rue  it — Oh  my  better  genius, 
Inspire  me  with  thy  council  how  to  act, 
Whether  by  legal  process  to  assail  them, 

Or  by  such  apter  means  as  thou  may'st  dictate. 

1  have  it!  Well  hast  thou  inspir'd  the  thought; 
Hence  with  the  lazy  law  ;  thou  art  not  for  it. 
With  fire  and  faggot  I  will  fall  upon  them, 
And  send  their  school  infitmo  to  the  Clouds. 
Hoa,  Xanthias,  (railing  to  one  of  his  slaves)  hoa ! 

bring  forth  without  delay 

Your  ladder  and  your  mattock,  mount  the  roof, 
Break  up   the  rafters,   whelm   the  house  upon 

them, 

And  bury  the  whole  hive  beneath  the  ruins. 
(Xanlhias  mounts  the  roof  and  begins  working 

with  his  mattock.) 

Haste !  if  you  love  me,  haste !  Oh,  for  a  torch, 
A  blazing  torch  new  lighted,  to  set  fire 
To  the  infernal  edifice. — I  warrant  me 
I'll  soon  unhouse  the  rascals,  that  now  carry 
Their  heads  so  high,  and  roll  them  in  the  dust. 

(One  of  the  scholars  comes  out.) 
1st  Dis.  Woe!  mischief!  misery! 
Streps,  (mounts  the  roof  and  fixes  a  torch  to  the 
joists.)  Torch,  play  your  part : 

And  we  shall  muster  up  a  conflagration. 
1st  Dis.  What  are  you  doing,  fellow? 
Streps.  Chopping  logic ; 

Arguing  a  knotty  point  with  your  house-beams. 
2d  Dis.  Oh  horror !  Who  has  set  our  house  on 

fire? 
Streps.  The  very  man  whose  cloak  you  nabb'd 

so  neatly. 

2rf  Dis.  Undone  and  ruin'd — ! 
Streps.  Heartily  I  wish  it — 

And  mean  you  should  so  be,  if  this  same  mattock 


174 


ARISTOPHANES. 


Does  not  deceive  my  hope,  and  I  escape 
With  a  whole  neck. 

(SOCRATES  comes  forth.} 

Soc.  Hoa  there!  What  man  is  that? 

You  there  upon  the  roof  —  wjiat  are  you  doing1? 
Streps.  Treading  on  air—  contemplating  the  sun  — 
Soc.  Ah  me  !  I'm  suffocated,  smother  d,  lost  — 


appears.) 

Cha.  Wretch  that  I  am,  I'm   melted,  scorch'd, 

consumed  !  — 
Streps.  Blasphemers,  why  did  you  insult  the 

gods? 
Dash,  drive,  demolish  them  !     Their  crimes  are 

many, 

But  their  contemptuous  treatment  of  the  gods, 
Their  impious  blasphemies,  exceed  them  all. 
Ch.  Break  up  !—  The  Chorus  have  fulfill'd  their 
part. 


FROM  PEACE. 

[Acted  B.  C.  419.] 

TRYG^EUS. 

EVER  lovely,  ever  dear, 
How  may  I  salute  thine  ear ! 
0  what  size  of  words  may  tell 
Half  the  charms  that  in  thee  dwell ! 
In  thy  sight  are  joy  and  pleasure, 
Without  stint  and  without  measure. 
In  thy  breath  is  all  that  flings 
Sense  and  thought  of  choicest  things  ; 
Dropping  odours — rosy  wine — 
Fragrant  spike  and  nard  divine. 

CHORUS. 

Pipe  and  lute  and  dance  are  there, 
Tragic  pomp  and  stately  air : 
With  the  Sophoclean  strain, 
When  he's  in  his  noblest  vein, 
And  the  daintier  lays  that  please, 
Falling  from  Euripides. 

TRYGJEUS,  (interrupting.} 
Out  upon  thee  !  Fie  !  for  shame  ! 
Vex  me  not  with  such  a  name  ! 
Half  a  pleader — half  a  bard — 
How  may  such  win  her  regard  ? 

CHORUS. 

0  she's  joy  and  recreation, 
Vintage  in  full  operation, 
Vat  and  cask  in  requisition, 
Strainer  making  inquisition 
For  the  new-press'd  grape  and  wine, 
What  is  foul  and  what  is  fine! 
Round  meantime  the  fleecy  brood 
Clamour  for  their  fragrant  food  ; 
Which  by  village  dame  or  maid — 
Bosom-laden — is  convey'd. 
Thus  without ;  while  all  within 
Marks  the  harvest's  jovial  din  ; 
Hand  to  hand  the  goblets  flying, 
Or  in  sweet  disorder  lying; 


Serf  and  master,  slave  and  free 

Joining  in  the  gladsome  glee 

Of  a  general  jollity. 

These  and  thousand  blessings  more 

Peace  hath  ever  yet  in  store. 


FROM  THE  BIRDS. 

[Acted  B.  C.  414.] 

"THE  Birds,"  says  Schlegel,  "sparkles  with 
the  most  daring  and  rich  invention  in  the  pro- 
vince of  the  fantastically  marvellous.  It  is  a 
joyous,  winged,  gay-plumed  creation.  I  cannot 
agree  with  the  ancient  critic,  who  conceives  the 
main  purport  of  the  work  to  consist  in  the  most 
universal,  most  undisguised  satire  on  the  corrup- 
tion of  the  Athenian  state,  nay,  of  all  human  so- 
ciety.* Rather  say,  it  is  a  very  harmless  hocus- 
pocus,  with  a  hit  at  everything,  gods  as  well  as 
men,  but  without  anywhere  pressing  towards 
any  particular  object.  All  that  is  remarkable 
about  birds,  whether  to  be  found  in  natural  his- 
tory, in  mythology,  in  the  love  of  augury,  or  in 
proverbial  expressions,  the  poet  has  ingeniously 
drawn  into  his  sphere.  He  goes  back  as  far  as 
the  Cosmogony,  arid  shows  how  first  black-winged 
Night  laid  a  wind-egg,  whence  Eros,  with  golden 
pinions  (beyond  all  doubt  a  bird  !)  soared  aloft, 
and  then  gave  birth  to  all  things.  Two  runagates 
from  the  human  species  find  their  -way  into  the 
domain  of  the  birds,  who  are  determined  to 
avenge  themselves  on  them  for  the  ills  they  have 
suffered  from  man.  The  captives,  however,  save 
themselves  by  proving  to  demonstration  that  the 
birds  are  pre-eminent  above  all  creatures,  and 
advise  them  to  collect  their  scattered  powers  -into 
one  enormous  state.  Thus  the  marvellous  city, 
Cloudcuckootown  (Ntfy&oxoxxvyia)  is  built  above 
the  earth ;  new  gods  are  ordained,  of  course  after 
the  image  of  birds,  (just  as  mankind  had  made 
theirs  after  that  of  human  beings,)  and  the  fron- 
tier of  Olympus  is  walled  up  against  the  old  gods. 

"However  farcical  and  fairy-tale-like"  con- 
tinues Schlegel,  "all  this  may  seem,  there  is, 
nevertheless,  a  philosophical  significance  in  thus 
taking,  for  once  in  a  while,  a  sort  of  birds-eye 
view  of  the  sum  of  all  things,  seeing  that  most 
of  our  conceptions  are  true  only  for  a  human 
station  of  view,  after  all."  See  Schlegel's  Lectures 
on  the  Drama  of  the  ancient  Greeks  and  Romans. 

"Of  the  parabasis  before  us,"  says  Mr.  Frere, 
"  the  merits  are  well  known ;  and  perhaps  no 
passage  of  Aristophanes  has  been  oftener  quoted 
with  admiration.  To  bring  the  most  subjects 
within  the  verge  of  comedy,  and  to  treat  of  them 
with  humour  and  fancy,  without  falling  into 
vulgarity  or  offending  the  principles  of  good  taste, 


*  In  this  play,  (according  to  some  commentators,)  the 
Athenians  are  represented  as  a  set  of  gaping,  foolish 
birds,  persuaded  by  the  promises  of  designing  dema- 
gogues to  set  up  a  city  in  the  clouds,  and  declare  war 
against  the  gods,  the  whole  terminaiing,  as  might  be  ex- 
pected, in  the  chief  adventurer  making  a  meal  for  himself 
of  his  deluded  subjects. — The  satire  seems  to  have  been 
directed  against  the  air-built  castles  and  ambitious 
schemes  of  Alcibiades.  See  Donaldson's  Theatre  of  the 
Greeks,  p.  113. 


ARISTOPHANES. 


175 


seems  a  task  which  no  poet  whom  we  know  of 
could  have  accomplished ;  though,  if  we  were 
possessed  of  the  works  of  Epieharmus,  it  is  pos- 
sible that  we  might  see  other  specimens  of  the 
same  style/' 

Yr,  children  of  man,  whose  life  is  a  span, 
Protracted  with  sorrow  from  day  to  day, 
Naked  and  featherless,  feeble  and  querulous, 
Sickly,  calamitous  creatures  of  clay ! 
Attend  to  the  words  of  the  sovereign  birds, 
(Immortal,  illustrious,  lords  of  the  air) 
Who  survey  from  on  high,  with  a  merciful  eye, 
Your  struggles  of  misery,  labour  and  care. 
Whence  you  may  learn,  and  clearly  discern 
Such  truths  as  attract  your  inquisitive  turn ; 
Which  is  busied  of  late  with  a  mighty  debate, 
A  profound  speculation  about  the  creation, 
An  organical  life,  and  chaotical  strife, 
With  various  notions  of  heavenly  motions, 
And  rivers  and  oceans,  and  valleys  and  moun- 
tains, 

And  sources  of  fountains,  and  meteors  on  high, 
And  stars  in  the  sky.     We  propose  by  and  by, 
(If  you'll  listen  and  hear)  to  make  it  all  clear, 
And  Prodicus  henceforth  shall  pass  for  a  dunce, 
When  his  doubts  are  explained  and  expounded 

at  once. 

Before  the  creation  of  J£\her  and  Light, 
Chaos  and  Night  together  were  plight, 
In  the  dungeon  of  Erebus  foully  bedight ; 
Nor  Ocean,  or  Air,  or  Substance  was  there, 
Or  Solid  or  Rare,  or  Figure  or  Form, 
Bnt  horrible  Tartarus  ruled  in  the  storm. 
At  length,  in  the  dreary  chaotical  closet 
Of  Erebus  old,  was  a  privy  deposit, 

it  the  primeval  in  secrecy  laid; 
A  mystical  egg,  that  in  silence  and  shade 
Was    brooded    and    hatch'd ;    till    time    came 

about : 

And  Love,  the  delightful,  in  glory  flew  out, 
In  rapture  and  light,  exulting  and  bright, 
Sparkling  and  florid,  with  stars  on  his  forehead, 
His  forehead  and  hair,  and  a  flutter  and  flare, 
As  he  rose  in  the  air,  triumphantly  furnish'd, 
To  range  his  dominions,  on  glittering  pinions, 
And  golden  and  azure,  and  blooming  and  bur- 

nish'd. 

He  soon  in  the  murky  Tartarean  recesses, 
With  a  hurricane's  might,  in  his  fiery  caresses, 
Impregnated  Chaos ;  and  hastily  snatch'd 
Tc   being  and  life,  begotten  and  hatch'd, 
The  primitive  Birds :  But  the  Deities  all, 
The  celestial  Lights,  the  terrestrial  Ball, 
Were  later  of  birth,  with  the  <1  \vellers  on  earth, 
More  tamely  combin'd,  of  a  temperate  kind, 
When  chaotical  mixture  appmach'd  to  a  fixture. 
Our  antiquity  prov'd;  it  remains  in  be  shown; 
Tl  at  Love  is  our  author  and  master  alone; 
Lice  him  wo  can  ramble,  and  gambol,  and  fly 
O'or  ocean  an:l  earth,  and  aloft  to  the  sky: 
And   all   the  world   over  we're    friends    to   the 

lover, 
And  when  other  means  fail,  we  are  found  to 

prevail, 

Wden  a  peacock  or  pheasant  is  sent  for  a  pre- 
sent. 


The  City  of  the  Clouds. 
Enter  a  MESSENGER  out  of  breath,  and  speaking  in 

short  snatches. 
Mess.  Where   is  he?    where?    where  is  he? 

where?  where  is  he? 
The  president  Peisthetaerus  ? 

Pcis.  (coolly.)  Here  am  I. 

Mess.  Your  fortification's  finish'd. 
Peis.  Well!  That's  well. 

Mess.  A  most  amazing,  astonishing  work  it  is ! 
So  that  Theagines  and  Proxenides 
Might  flourish,  and  gasconade,  arid  prance  away, 
Quite  at  their  ease,  both  of  them  four  in  hand, 
Driving  abreast  upon  the  breadth  of  the  wail, 
Each  in  his  own  new  chariot. 

Peis.  You  surprise  me. 

Mess.  And  the  height  (for  I  made  measure- 
ment myself) 
Is  just  a  hundred  fathom. 

Peis.  Heaven  and  earth  ! 

How  could  it  be  ?     Such  a  mass !     Who  could 

have  built  it? 

Mess.  The    Birds;    no   creatures    else,  no  fo- 
reigners, 

Egyptian  workmen,  bricklayers,  or  masons, 
But  they  themselves  alone,  by  their  own  efforts, 
(Even  to  my  surprise,  as  an  eye-witness,) — 
The  Birds,  I  say,  completed  every  thing. 

There  came  a  body  of  thirty  thousand  cranes, 
(I  wont  be  positive,  there  might  be  more,) 
With   stones  from  Africa,  in  their  craws  and 

gizzards, 

Which  the  stone-curlews  and  stone-chatterers 
Work'd    into    shape    and   finish'd.     The    sand- 
martins, 

And  mud-larks,  too,  were  busy  in  their  depart- 
ment, 

Mixing  the  mortar,  while  the  water-birds, 
As  fast  as  it  was  wanted,  brought  the  water 
To  temper  and  work  it. 

Peis.  (in  a  fidget.}  But  who  serv'd  the  masons? 
Whom  did  you  get  to  carry  it  ? 

Mess.  To  carry  it? 

Of  course,  the  carrion-crows  and  carrier-pigeons. 


FROM  THE  FROGS. 

[Acted  412  B.  C.] 

THIS  play  treats  of  the  decline  of  the  tragic 
art.  Euripides  was  dead,  so  were  Sophocles  and 
Agathon ;  and  none  but  second-rate  tragedians 
remained.  Bacchus,  missing  Euripides,  goes, 
disguised  as  Hercules,  to  fetch  him  back  from 
the  infernal  world.  He  and  Xanthias  row  them- 
selves across  the  Acherusian  lake,  where  they 
are  greeted  by  the  frogs  with  their  melodious 
croak.  In  the  meantime  a  contest  having  arose 
between  ^Eschylus  and  Knripides  for  the  tragic 
throne  of  the  lower  world,  Pluto  proposes  that 
Bacchus  should  decide  the  cause.  The  two 
poets,  accordingly,  stand  forward  and  submit  to 
him  specimens  of  their  art.  They  sing,  they  de- 
claim against  each  other,  in  verses  characteristic 
of  the  peculiar  style  of  each.  At  length  Bacchus 
becomes  a  convert  to  ^Eschylus,  who  returns 


176 


ARISTOPHANES. 


with  him  to  the  living  world,  leaving  the  tragic 
throne  of  the  lower  one  to  be  occupied  by  So- 
phocles. 

SCENE. — The  Jlcherusian  Lake. 
BACCHUS  and  XANTKIAS  in  Charon's  boat — CHO- 
RUS OF  FROGS. 

Frogs.  Breke-kesh,  breke-kesh, 

Kooash,  kooash. 
Sac.  O  the  Frogs,  consume  and  rot  'em, 

I've  a  blister  on  my  bottom. 

Hold  your  tongues,  you  tuneful  creatures. 
Frogs.  Cease  with  your  profane  entreaties. 

All  in  vain  for  ever  stirring  ; 

Silence  is  against  our  natures. 

With  the  vernal  heat  reviving, 

Our  aquatic  crew  repair 

From  their  periodic  sleep 

In  the  dark  and  chilly  deep, 

To  the  cheerful  upper  air ; 

Then  we  frolic  here  and  there, 

All  amidst  the  meadows  fair ; 

Shady  plants  of  asphodel 

Are  the  lodges  where  we  dwell  5 

Chaunting  in  the  leafy  bowers 

All  the  livelong  summer  hours, 

Till  the  sudden  gusty  showers 

Send  us  headlong,  belter  skelter, 

To  the  pool,  to  seek  for  shelter ; 

Meagre,  eager,  leaping,  lunging, 

From  the  sedgy  wharfage  plunging 

To  the  tranquil  depth  below, 

There  we  muster  all  a-row ; 

Where,  secure  from  toil  and  trouble, 

With  a  tuneful  bubble-bubble, 

Our  symphonious  accents  flow. 

Brekeke-kesh,  koash,  koash. 
Sac.  I  forbid  you  to  proceed. 
Frogs.  That  would  be  severe  indeed, 

Arbitrary,  bold,  and  rash, 

Brekeke-kesh,  koash,  koash. 
Sac.  I  command  you  to  desist — 

0  my  back,  there !     Oh  my  wrist ! 
What  a  twist ! 
What  a  sprain ! 
Frogs.  Once  again — 

We  renew  the  tuneful  strain. 

Brekeke-kesh,  koash,  koash. 
Sac.  I  disdain — (hang  the  pain) — 

All  your  nonsense,  noise,  and  trash. 

Oh  my  blister ! — oh  my  sprain  ! 
Frogs.  Brekeke-kesh,  koash,  koash. 

Friends  and  frogs,  we  must  display 

All  our  powers  of  voice  to-day  ; 

Suffer  not  this  stranger  here, 

With  fastidious,  foreign  ear, 

To  confound  us  and  abash. 

Brekeke-kesh,  koash,  koash. 
Sac.  Well,  my  spirit  is  not  broke, 

If  it's  only  for  a  joke, 

I'll  outdo  you  with  a  croak. 

Here  it  goes,  "  Koash,  koash." 
Frogs.  Now  for  a  glorious  croaking  crash, 

Brekeke-kesh,  koash,  koash. 
Sac.  I'll  disperse  you  with  a  splash. 
Frogs.  Brekeke-kesh,  koash,  koash. 


Sac.  I'll  subdue 

Your  rebellious  noisy  crew. 

— Have  amongst  you  there,  slap-dash. 
Frogs.  Brekeke-kesh,  koash,  koash, 

We  defy  your  oar  arid  you. 
*#*,,#_##« 

SCEKE. — The  shore  of  Hades. 
BACCHUS,   XANTHIAS,  and  CHORUS  OF    THE    Iir- 

ITIATED. 

Sac.  (to  the  Chorus.) 

Prithy,  my  good  fellows, 
Would  you  please  to  tell  us, 

Which  is  Pluto's  door  ? 
I'm  an  utter  stranger, 
Never  here  before. 
Ch.    Friend,  you're  out  of  danger, 
You  need  not  seek  it  far ; 
There  it  stands  before  ye, 

Before  ye,  where  you  are. 
Sac.  Take  up  your  bundles,  Xanthias. 
Xant.     Hang  all  bundles. 

[Exeunt  BACCHUS  and  XANTHIAS. 

CHORUS. 

Now  we  go  to  dance  and  sing 

In  the  consecrated  shades  ; 
Round  the  secret,  holy  ring, 

With  the  matrons  and  the  maids. 
Hither  I  must  haste  to  bring 

The  mysterious  early  light, 

Which  must  witness  every  rite 

Of  the  joyous  happy  night. 

SEMICHORUS. 

Let  us  hasten,  let  us  fly, 

Where  the  lovely  meadows  lie ; 
Where  the  living  waters  flow, 
Where  the  roses  bloom  and  blow. 

Heirs  of  immortality, 

Segregated,  safe,  and  pure, 

Easy,  sorrowless,  secure, 

Since  our  earthly  course  is  run 

We  behold  a  brighter  sun, 

Holy  lives — a  holy  vow— 

Such  rewards  await  us  now. 

FROM  THE  PARABASIS  OF  TUE  CHORUS. 

Often  times  have  I  reflected  no  a  similar  abuse 

In  the  choice  of  men  for  office,  and  of  coins  for 
common  use. 

For  your  old  and  standard  pieces,  valued  and 
approved,  and  tried, 

Here  among  the  Grecian  nations,  and  in  all  the 
world  beside, 

Recognis'd  in  every  realm  for  trusty  stamp  and 
pure  assay, 

Are  rejected  and  abandon'd  for  the  trash  of  yes- 
terday,— 

For  a  vile,  adulterate  issue,  drossy,  counterfeit 
and  base, 

Which  the  traffic  of  the  city  passes  current  in 
their  place ! 

JLnd  the  men  that  stood  for  office^  noted  for  acknow- 
ledg'd  worth, 

And  for  manly  deeds  of  honour,  and  for  honour- 
able birth, 


ARISTOPHANES. 


177 


Trained  in  exercise  and  art,  in  sacred  dances  and 

in  song, 
All  are  ousted  and  supplanted  by  a   base,  ignoble 

throng, 
Paltry  stamp  and  vulgar  mettle  raise  them  to 

command  and  place ; 
Brazen  counterfeit  pretenders,  scoundrels  of  a 

scoundrel  race ; 
Whom   the   state  in  former  ages  scarce  would 

have  allowed  to  stand 
At  the  sacrifice  of  outcasts,  as  the  scape-goats  of 

the  land, 
— Time  it  is, — and  long  has  been, — renouncing 

all  your  follies  past, 
To  recur  to  sterling  merit,  and  intrinsic  worth  at 

last; 
If  we  rise,  we  rise  with   honour,   if  we   fall,  it 

must  be  so. — 


CflORAL  PRELUDE  TO  THE  CONTEST  BETWEEN  1RS- 

CHTLUS  AND  EURIPIDES  FOR  THE  THRONE  OF 

TRAGEDY. 

The  full-mouth'd  master  of  the  tragic  quire, 
We  shall  behold  him  foam  with  rage  and  ire  ; 
Confronting  in  the  list 

His  eager,  shrewd,  sharp-tooth'd  antagonist. 
Then  will  his  visual  orbs  be  wildly  whirl'd, 
And  huge  invectives  will  be  hurl'd. 
Superb  and  supercilious, 
Atrocious,  atrabilious, 

With  furious  gesture  and  with  lips  of  foam, 
And  lion-crest,  unconscious  of  the  comb, 
Erect  with  rage  ; — his  brows  impending  gloom, 
O'ershadowing  his  dark  eyes'  terrific  blaze. 
The  opponent,  dexterous  and  wary, 
Will  fend  and  parry  : 
While  masses  of  conglomerated  phrase, 

Enormous,  ponderous,  and  pedantic, 

With  indignation  frantic, 

And  strength  and  force  gigantic, 
Are  desperately  sped 
At  his  devoted  head. — 

Then,  in  different  style, 

The  touchstone  and  the  file, 

And  subtleties  of  art 

In  turn  will  play  their  part; 

Analysis  and  rule, 

And  every  modern  tool, 

With  critic  scratch  and  scribble, 

And  nice  invidious  nibble  ; 

Contending  for  the  important  choice  ; 

A  vast  expenditure  of  human  voice. 


I 


PLUTUS,  THE  GOD  OF  RICHES. 

[Acted  B.  C.  408.] 

A  VERT  pretty  allegory,  which  is  wrought 
into  a  play  by  Aristophanes  the  Greek  comedian. 
It  seems  originally  designed  as  a  satire  upon  the 
rich,  though,  in  some  parts  of  it,  it  is  a  kind  of 
comparison  between  wealth  and  poverty.".  .  .  . 

"  This  allegory  instructed  the  Athenians  in  two 
points  ;  first,  as  it  vindicated  the  conduct  of  Pro- 


vidence  in  its  ordinary  distributions  of  wealth  ; 
and,  in  the  next  place,  as  it  showed  the  great 
tendency  of  riches  to  corrupt  the  morals  of  those 
who  possess  them." — ADDISON,  Spec.  No.  464. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONJE. 

CHREMYLUS.  A  GOOD  MAN. 

CARION,  his  Slave.  AN  INFORMER. 

PLUTUS.  AN  OLD  WOMAN. 

CHORUS  OF  HUSBANDMEN.  A  YOUTH. 

BLEPSIDEMUS.  HERMES. 

POVERTY.  PRIEST  OF  JOYE. 
THE  WIFE  OF  CHREMYLUS. 

SCENE — Athens  and  the  Neighbourhood. 

A  Street  in  Athens. 

CHREMYLUS  and  CARION  folloiving  PLUTUS, 

who  is  blind. 
Cation.  How  hard  a  hap,  0  Jove,  and  all  ye 

gods, 

Bondman  to  be  of  a  half-witted  master  ! 
For  let  the  slave  give  counsel  e'er  so  precious, 
An'  please  it  not  his  lord  to  take  it — mark  me, 
Your  slave  perforce  shall  have  his  share  of — 

basting : 

Since  of  his  carcass  not  the  owner,  but,. 
By  Fortune's  grace,  the  buyer  has  disposal. 
Well, — let  it  pass !  But  Delphi's  obscure  god, 
Who  from  the  golden  tripod,  where  he  haunts, 
Breathes  verse  oracular,  of  right  I  charge, 
That  being  leech,  and  seer,  they  say,  and  sage, 
Bile-mad  he's  sent  my  master  from  him.    Lo ! 
He  dogs  a  blind  man's  heels — a  blind  old  beg- 
gar's— 

0  huge  reverse  of  what  beseems !  'Tis  we, 
We  that  have  eyes  should  lead  the  eyeless — but 
He  goes  behind,  and  me  to  boot  compels — 
And  all  for  one  says  not  so  much  as — boh  ! 
Now  then  I'll  hold  no  longer : — master  mine, 
Why,  in  the  name  of  wonder,  tell  me,  why 
We  follow  thus,  or  I  will  plague  thee  rarely. 
Beat  me  thou  durst  not,  while  I  wear  the  laurel.* 

Chrem.  No !  But  I'll  doff  thy  laurel,  an'  thou 

tease  me, 
So  shalt  thou  smart  the  more. 

Car.  Pooh,  pooh  !  I  rest  not 

Till  thou  reveal  me  who  this  knave  may  be. 
Of  kindness  'tis  I  ask  it — all  of  kindness. 

Chrem.  Well,  thou  shalt  hear;  for  of  my  house- 
hold slaves 

1  rate  thee,  after  all,  the  truest — rascal. 

I — the  good  man  and  pious  that  thou  know'st 
me — 

Still  poor  have  been,  and  bare  of  means. 

Car.  No  doubt  on't ! 

Chrem.  All    else   were    rich— church-robbers, 
orators, 

Informers,  reprobates—- 
Car. I'll  take  thy  word  fort. 
Chrem.  So  to  the  god  I  went  a-questioning, 

Not  for  my  miserable  self— I  thought 


*  The  insignia  of  a  sacro-sanct 
from  the  oracle. 


nger  returning 


178 


ARISTOPHANES. 


My  days  already  spent,  my  quiver  empty — 
But  for  my  son  and  sole  inheritor, 
To  ask  if  he  should  mend  his  ways— 
Should   turn    dare-devil,    common   cheat,   mere 

vileness, 
Since  such,  methought,  was  now  the  road  to 

riches. 
Car.  And  what  did  Phoebus  from  his  chaplets 

— bounce  ? 
Chrem.  Attend.     Distinctly  thus  the  god  gave 

answer : 

Whom  on  my  exit  first  I  should  encounter, 
From  him  he  bade  me  part  no  more,  but  win 

him 
To  make  his  home  with  me. 

Car.  And,  prithee,  whom 

Was  it  thy  luck  to  light  on  ? 

Chrem.  This  man  here. 

Car.  What  then — 0  numskull !— what !  thou 

apprehend'st  not 

His  godship's  meaning !  Why,  he  tells  thee  plainly, 

Young  Hopeful  must  adopt  our  country's  fashions. 

Chrem.  How  dost  thou  so  conclude  1 

Car.  Conclude  !  Why,  Phosbus, 

Thinks   even   the   blind  can  see  how  passing 

good 

It  is  to  play  the  thorough  rogue  in  these  times. 
Chrem.  Impossible  !  It  cannot  be  the  oracle 
Should  point  at  this,  but  something  loftier.     Now, 
Would  but  our  man  give  token  of  his  quality, 
And  why  he  came  with  us,  and  what  in  quest  of, 
We'd  riddle  the  response  I  warrant  thee ! 

Car.  Come  then,  be  smart!  your  name  at  once, 

old  gentleman — 
Or  else   you    know  what   follows.     Come,  out 

with  it. 

Plut.  I  tell  thee — go  be  hang'd ! 
Car.  D'ye  understand,  sir  ? 

What  name  was  that  ? 

Chrem.  To  thee,  not  me,  he  says  it : 

Since  doltishly  and  rudely  thou   dost  question 

him. — 

But — if  a  gentleman's  address  delight  th 
To  me  make  known — 

Plut.  Go  hang  thyself  for  company ! 

Car.  There,  sir,  take  man  and  omen  too,  and 

welcome ! 
Chrem.  How  now  ? 

Now,  by  great  Ceres,  thou  shalt  'scape  no  longer. 

Speak,  dog,  or  doglike  I  will  use  thee — speak — 

Plut.  Be  off,  my  friends — both  one  and  t'other. 

Chrem.  Off! 

A  likely  tale ! 

Car.  Well,  I  declare,  good  master, 

My  plan's  the  best,  and  to  his  cost  he'll  find  so. 
I'll  set  him  on  a  certain  crag,  and — leave  him. 
Away  go  I — down  he — his  neck— 

Chrem.  Up  with  him 

Despatch! 

Plut.          0  mercy,  mercy! 

Chrem.  Won't  you  speak,  then  ? 

Plut.  But  should  ye  learn  whom  ye  have  hold 

of— ah ! 

Ye'll  work  me  harm — ye'll  never  let  me  go. 
Chrem.  Nay,  by  the  gods  we  will  though — if 
thou  ask  it. 


Plut.  First,  then,  unhand  me. 

Chrem.  See !  thou  art  unhanded. 

Plut.  Now,  ope  your  ears  and  hear!  For,  will 

I  nill  I, 

Declare  I  must,  it  seems,  what  I  was  minded 
To  hide  for  aye.     I  am — yes — I  am — PLUTUS. 
Chrem.  Plutus — 0  villain!    Plutus,  and   con- 
ceal it! 
Car.  You  Plutus! — you! — in  such  a  beggar's 

pickle ! 

Chrem.  O  Phoebus !  0  Apollo !  Gods  and  de- 
mons ! 
0  Jove !  What  say'st  thou  1  He  himself? 

Plut.  E'en  so. 

Chrem.  His  very  self? 
Plut.  His  self  of  selves. 

Chrem.  Whence,  then, 

So  filthy  com'st  thou  ? 

Plut.  From  Patrocles's,* 

Who  ne'er,  since  his  first  birth-day,  washed  him- 
self. 
Chrem.  But  this  misfortune — how  befell  it?— 

speak ! 

Plut.  Jove  dealt  the  blow  in  envy  to  man- 
kind. 

For  I,  a  stripling  yet,  would  oft-times  threaten 
That  to  the  good,  and  wise,  and  chaste  alone, 
My  steps  should  bend ;  and  so  with  stroke  of 

blindness 
Jove  seal'd  my  sight,  that  it  should  not  discern 

them. 

Such  malice  doth  he  bear  to  virtuous  men ! 
Chrem.  And  yet,  but  for  the  virtuous  and  the 

just, 
Where  were  this  Jove  ? 

Plut.  I  grant  it. 

Chrem.  Go  to  now— 

Mightst  thou  once  more  have  all  thine  eyes  about 

thee, 
Wouldst  henceforth  shun  the  bad  ? 

Plut.     •  For  ever  shun  them. 

Chrem.  And  to  the  good  resort? 
Plut.  None  else,  I  promise  thee. 

I've  seen  them  not,  this  many  a  year. 

Chrem.  No  wonder ! 

Nor  I,  whose  eyes  were  open. 

Plut.  Now  let  me  pass,  ye  know  my  story. 
Chrem.  Pass ! 

Not  we,  by  Jove,  we'll  stick  the  closer  to  thee. 
Plut.  There,  there,  I  warn'd  thee.     Said  I  not 

'twas  sure 
Ye'd  work  me  harm  ? 

Chrem.  Nay,  nay,  be  thou  entreated ! 

Desert  me  not.  Search  where  thou  pleasest — 
Long  as  thou  wilt — thou'lt  find  no  better  man. 
By  Jupiter  I  stand  alone— none  like  me ! 

Plut.  So  say  they  all — but  let  them  only  once 
Lay  hold  on  me  and  fill  their  money-bags, 
They  change  their  note,  and  beat  the  world  for 

villany. 
Chrem.  'Tis  true — too  true — yet  all  are  not  so 

graceless. 

Plut.  Not  all — but  one  and  all. 
Car.  The  saucy  varlet! 


*  A  rich  niggard  who  adopted  Spartan  manners. 


ARISTOPHANES. 


179 


Chrem.  But  for  thyself — just  to  make  plain  what 

good 

Awaits  thy  tarrying  here — a  moment's  patience — 
I  look — I  look — with  heaven's  assistance,  mark 

me, 

To  make  thee  rid  of  this  infirmity, 
And  give  thee  back  thine  eye-sight. 

Plut.  Pray,  excuse  me ; 

Not  for  the  world. 

Chrem.  How's  that? 

Car.  By  very  nature 

This  fellow  was  just  made  for  kicks  and  cuffs! 

Plut.  Jove — well   I  know— did  he  but  hear 

their  madness, 
Would  grind  me  into  powder. 

Chrem.  What  does  he  now, 

That  lets  thee  grope  and  stumble  up  and  down? 

Flut.  I  know  not — but  most  mortally  I  fear 
him. 

Chrem.  Is't  possible?     O  lily-livered  thing, 
Scum  of  celestial  spirits,  think'st  thou  Jove, 
His  empire  and  his  thunders,  worth  three  obols, 
Hadst  thou  a  moment's  space  thine  eyes  again? 

Plut.  A  vaunt,  blasphemer,  rave  not  thus  ! 

Chrem.  Be  easy! 

[  will  demonstrate  thee  more  mighty  far 
Flian  Jove. 

Plut.  Me  thou  demonstrate  ! 

Chrem.  Yes,  by  heavens ! 

For,  look  you  now,  through  whom  hath  Jove  the 
crown  ? 

Car.  Through — money  5    'cause    his   purse    is 
longest. 

Chrem.  Well :  ' 

An  1  where  gets  Jove  the  money? 

Car.  From  our  friend  here. 

Chrem.  Through  whom  do  altars  blaze?    Is't 
not  through  Plutus? 

Car.  Lord,  sir,  they  make  no  secret  on't  in 
praying. 

Chrem.  Then  is  not  he  the  cause  ?    And  could 

he  fail 
Lightly  to  end  it,  were  he  minded  so  ? 

Plut.  As  how  ? 

Chrem.      Because  no  mortal  more  would  offer 
Nor  ox,  nor  cake — not  they — nor  earthly  thing, 
Thou  not  consenting. 

Plut.  How  ? 

Chrem.  Still  how?  How  could  they? 

Hew  will  they  buy.  forsooth,  if  you're  not  there 
To  tell  the  money  down?  So,  were  Jove  restive, 
His  power  youM  >i>on  extinguish — single-handed. 

Plut.  Say'st    thou    through    me   they   worship 
him? 

Chrem.  Through  THEE  : 

And,  by  Jove's  self,  if  auirht  of  bright  or  fair 
Or  lovely  bless  mankind,  through  thee  it  flows. 
The  world,  and  all  therein,  bow  down  to  riches. 

Car.  1 — I  MYSELF — for  a  little  paltry  coin 
Am  servitor: — 'tis  all  for  want  of  riches. 

Chrem.  Then  there's  the  dames  of  Corinth,  as 

they 

If  a  poor  suitor  try  to  tempt  them — 0 
They  turn  him  a  deaf  ear — but  let  a  rich  one, 
And    straight    to    him    they   turn — whate'er  he 
pleases. 


Car.  Yes ;  and  our  youths,  they  say,  will  do  as 

much 
For  love — not  of  the  lovers  but  their  purses. 

Chrem.  Fye !  not  our  gentle  youths :— our  base 

ones  may. 
No  money  do  the  gentle  ask. 

Car.     '  What  then  ? 

Chrem.  One — a  good  horse  ;  and  one — a  pack 
to  hunt  with. 

Car.  Ay,  that's  their  modesty! — Blushing  to 

ask  outright 

For  gold,  what  pretty  names  they  salve  it  o'er 
with! 

Chrem.  All  arts,  all  crafts,  all  man's  inventions 
Are  born  of  thee.     One  sets  him  down 
And  shapes  me  certain  gear  of  leather ;  one 
The  anvil  plies ;  and  one  the  joiner's  tools ; 
One  casts  the  gold  he  has  of  thee ;  another 
Cleans  clothes ;  another — steals  them ;  bent  on 

thee 
The    burglar  breaks   stone  walls;    one  washes 

hides ; 

One  tans,  and  one  cries  leeks ;  for  lack  of  thee 
The  trapp'd  adulterer  feels   a   husband's   ven- 
geance. 

Plut.  Wretch  that  I  was — all  this  escap'd  me ! 

Car.  What! 

Is't  not  through  him  the  great  king  plumes  himself? 
Through  him  the  Assembly -holds  its  sessions? 

What! 

Dost  thou  not  man  our  galleys  ?  Tell  me  that 
At  Corinth  feeds  not  he  our  noble — hirelings  ? 
And  shall  not  Pamphilus  for  him  be  trounc'd  ? 
And  Belonopoles  too  with  Pamphilus  ? 
Is't  not  through  him  Agyrrhius  vents  his  wind, 
Philepsius  his — stories?  Was  it  not 
Through  him  we  sent  the  swart  Egyptians  suc- 
cour ? 

For  what  but  him  does  Lais  love  Philonides  ? 
Timotheus'  tower* 

Chrem.  Crush  thee,  eternal  prater  ! 

But  O,  my  Plutus,  what  is  not  thy  doing  ? 
For  thou  most  only  universal  cause 
Of  good  and  evil  art,  be  sure. 

Car.  In  war 

That  party  ever  wins,  whose  sinking  scale 
This  gentleman  is  pleas'd  to  perch  on. 

Plut.  I! 

Poor  I — unbacked — do  all  these  things  ye  speak  of? 

Chrem.  Yes.  and,  by  Jupiter,  ten  thousand  more : 
So  that  no  living  wight  had  e'er  his  fill 
Of  thee.     Of  all  besides  there  may  be  surfeit : 
Of  love, 

Car.       Of  loaves, 

Chrem.  Of  song ; 

Car.  Of  sugar-comfits ; 

Chrem.  Of  honour, 

Car.  Cheese-cakes, 

Chrem.  Martial  glory, 

Car.  Figs ; 

Chrem.  Ambition, 

Car.  Flummery, 

Chrem.  Command, 

*  The  rich  Timotheus  had  built  himself  a  splendid 
castle.    But  Carion  is  interrupted  when  about  to  say  so. 


180 


ARISTOPHANES. 


Car.  Pease-porridge. 

Chrem.  But  thee!  No  mortal  e'er  was  sated 

of  thee. 

Say  he  has  thirteen  talents, 

Three,  three  to  boot  he  craves,  he  pines  to  grapple : 
That  total  rounded,  lo !  his  mark  is  forty — 
Or  life,  he  swears,  no  more  is  worth  the  living. 

Plut.  Ye  talk  it  well  at  least,  methinks ; — 
One  thing  yet  gives  me  pause. 

Chrem.  Announce  it. 

Plut.  How 

Of  all  this  power  ye  say  I  have,  I  e'er 
Shall  lord  and  master  be  ? 

Chrem.  By  Jove  thou  shalt : 

And  yet  all  say — as  thou  hast  said — that  Plutus 
Is  cowardliest  of  creatures. 

Plut.  Slander,  slander ! 

A  burglar's  calumny!  He  stole  one  day, 
And  could  not — stole  into  the  house,  ye  mark 

me — 

And  could  not  steal — aught  out  of  it — all  fast! 
And  so  he  called  my  caution  cowardice. 

Chrem.  Vex  not  thyself  about  it ;  be 
But  bold  and  zealous  for  thine  own  behoof, 
I'll  make  thee  see  more  sharp  than  Lynceus. 

Plut.  And  how  shalt  thou — a  mortal — so  pre- 
vail ? 

Chrem.  Tut,  man,  there's  hope — such  utterance 

Phoebus  jfave 
While  Delphian  laurels  shook  to  hear  him. 

Plut.  Phcebus ! 

Thou  canst  not  mean  that  Phcebus  knows  it? 

Chrem.  Yea. 

Plut.  Beware! 

Chrem.  Waste  thou  no  thought  upon  it,  friend  ! 
For  I,  be  certain  sure,  although  I  die  for't, 
Myself  will  bear  thee  through. 

Car.  With  me  to  help  thee — 

Chrem.  And  many  a  prompt  ally — good  souls, 

whose  goodness 
Could  never  keep  their  pots  a-boiling. 

Plut.  Pshaw ! 

Sorry  confederates ! 

Chrem.  Not   if  they  get   their  pockets    lined 

afresh — 
But  you  there — haste,  skip,  vanish ! 

Car.  Speak  your  errand. 

Chrem.  Summon  our  fellow-husbandmen,  per- 
chance 

A^field  you'll  find  them,  sweating  at  their  tasks, 
That  hurrying  hither,  each  may  have  his  due 
With  us  in  just  partition  of  this  Plutus. 

Car.  I'm  gone — but  soft — this  little  steak  of 

mine* — 
Within  there — some  one  give  it  safe  conveyance. 

Chrem.  Trust  me  that:  away!      [Exit  CARION. 
But  O,  great  Plutus,  mightiest  of  deities, 
Do  thou  pass  in  with  me.     Behold  the  house, 
The  which  thou  must,  ere  time  be  a  day  older, 
Cram  full  of  wealth — by  fair  means  or  by  foul 
ones. 

Plut.  Now,  by  the  powers  above,  I  am  ever 

loath 
To  tread  a  stranger's  floor,  exceeding  loath : 

*  A  portion  brought  from  the  sacrifice  at  Delphi. 


Ne'er  yet  to  me  did  good  come  of  it. 

For  say  I  made  some  thrifty  soul  my  host, 

Straight  under  ground  he  earth'd  me,  fathom-deep ; 

Then  came  a  friend,  an  honest,  worthy  friend, 

Seeking  some  petty  pelting  coin  to  borrow, 

0 — on  his  oath  he  never  saw  my  face ! 

Or   did    I    share    some   brain-sick    spendthrift's 

quarters, 

To  dice  and  harlots  thrown,  out  of  his  doors 
Stark-naked  was  I  kick'd  in  less  than  no  time. 

Chrem.  Ay,  for  as  yet 

Thou  ne'er  hast  tried  one  reasonable  man. 
But  I — I  know  not  how — a  way  of  mine — 
Have  ever  had  this  turn.     In  saving,  none 
Shall  e'er  out-save  me ;  nor  out-spend  in  spending 
At  seasons  meet.     But  in — I  long  to  show  thee 
To  my  good  wife,  and  only  son,  whom  dearest 
I  cherish — after  thee. 

Plut.  I  do  believe  thee. 

Chrem.  For  why  with  thee  dissemble.    \Exeunt. 

The  Open  Country. 
CAUIOIT,  CHORUS  OF  HUSBANDMEN. 

Car.  0  ye  that  here  for  many  a  year, 

our  trusty  friends  and  neighbours, 
Have  had  your  share  of  master's  fare — 
leek-broth  and  country  labours, 
Come  stir  your  stumps  and  scour  along — 

no  time  for  shilly-shally — 
But  now's  the  very  nick  of  time 

to  make  with  us  a  rally. 
Ch.  And  dost  not  see  how  eagerly 

we  tramp  it  and  we  trudge  it, 
As  fast  as  poor  old  fellows,  sure, 

with  tottering  knees  can  budge  it? 
But  bless  my  heart,  you'd  have  me  start 
to  race  with  thee — unknowing 
For  what,  forsooth,  this  master  rare 
of  thine  has  set  me  going! 
Car.  And  don't  I  roar,  this  hour  and  more  ? 

'Tis  thou  art  hard  of  hearing — 
How  master  says  that  better  days 

for  all  of  you  appearing — 
Cold  hearths  shall  turn  to  fires  that  burn, 
and  churlish  times  to  cheering? 
Ch.  What's  this  you  tell — and  how  befell 

the  burden  of  your  story? 
Car.  Why,  master's  come,  and  brings  us  home 

a  lodger — old  and  hoary: 
He's  bent  and  bow'd  ;  he's  scar'd  and  cow'd  j 

he's  toothless,  foul,  and  tatter'd, 
And  scarce,  I  trow,  the  parts  below 

are  left  him  quite  unbatter'd. 
Ch.  Thou  glad'st  my  ear!  once  more  to  hear 

this  golden  news  it  itches  : 
Our  neighbour  theri's  at  home  again, 

and  brings  a  heap  of  riches. 
Car.  A  heap  of — woes  that  age  bestows, 

sore  bones  and  empty  breeches. 
Ch.  And  think'st  thou  so  to  come  and  go — 

to  mock  me  and  to  flout  me 
Unscath'd,  while  I  a  staff  can  ply, 

and  lay  it  well  about  me  ? 
Car.  And  think  ye  me  a  rogue  to  be 
so  false  and  eke  so  graceless, 


ARISTOPHANES. 


181 


That  every  word  my  lips  have  pour'd, 
must  rotten  be  and  baseless? 
Ck.  0  curse  the  knave,  how  sour  and  grave  ! — 

but  hark,  thy  shins  are  bawling 
Halloo,  halloo! — and  stocks  and  chains 

is  that  for  which  they're  calling. 
Car.  Thy  lot's*  decreed — in  burial-weed 

must  thine  awards  be  spoken: 
What!  still  withstand!  when  Charon's  hand 

is  holding  out  thy  token  ? 
Ch.  0  burst  thy  skin,  thou  devil's  kin ! 

so  apt  to  cheat  and  scold,  sir, 
To  flout  me  and  to  scout  me.  and 

to  leave  it  still  untold,  sir, 
For  what  this  summons-sending  lord 

of  thine  has  made  so  bold,  sir; 
Yet  hasten  we,  though  labour-spent  and 

loath  to  lose  a  minute — 
And  reckless  tread  o'er  many  a  bed 

with  dainty  onions  in  it! 
Car,  The  glorious  tale  no  more  I'll  veil : — 

'tis  Plutus'  self  we  hold,  boys, 
In  master's  train  he  troops  amain, 

to  glut  us  all  with  gold,  boys ! 
Ch.  What!  one  and  all  such  luck  "befall! — 

to  turn  to  peace  and  plenty  ? 
Car.  An  if  ye  please,  to  Midases: — 

if  asses'  ears  content  ye. 
Ch.  How  glad  I  am,  and  mad  I  am, 
and  keen  I  am  for  dancing  it! 
Such  news  as  this,  if  true  it  is, 

will  set  our  feet  a-prancing  it. 
Car.  Then  on,  my  boys,  I'll  share  your  joys — 

sing  derry,  hey  down  derry — 
W ith  Cyclop's-step,t  with  rub-a-dub, 

I'll  caper  it  so  merry! 
So  whisk  it,  frisk  it,  jolly  flock, 

with  bleatings  shake  the  air,  0! 
And  sound  the  lambkin's,  kidling's  strain, 
Till  startled  echo  baa  again, 

And  cock  your  tails  like  frisking  goats,  and  goat- 
like  ye  shall  fare,  0 ! 

Before  the  house  of  CHREMTLUS. 
CHUEMYLUS,  CHORUS. 

Chrem.  See  then   ye  still  stand  by  me :  show 

yourselves 
True  patrons  and  preservers  of  the  god. 

Ck.    l-Yrir  not  :  I'll  wear 

Such  looks — thou'lt  think  a  very  M;irs  beside  thee. 
Twere  strange   were  we,  who  for  three  obols 

push 

And  jostle  i'  th'  assembly — were  we  to  let 
The  actual  MoxKY-fjnn  1),-  wrested  from  us! 
Chrem.  Tis  he — I'll  swear  to  it — 'tis  Blepsi- 

demus 

That  comes  towards  us.  Ay,  lie  has  got  some  wind 
Of  our  affair,  his  pace  bewrays  it. 


*The  judges,  or  jurymen  (dieafts.)  at  Athens-, 
listrihuted  among  the  several  courts  by  lot,  and  received 
a  staff  as  the  token  of  their  office. 

t  So  was  named  a  dance  which  set  forth  the  love  of 
Polyphemus  for  the  sea-nymph  (ialatea.  Our  "  derry, 
hey  down  derry,"  is  substituted  for  the  similar  "threUa- 
nello"  of  the  original. 


Enter  BLEPSIDEMUS  (soliloquizing.) 

Bleps.  Did  they  say  Chremylus  ! 
How  can  it  be — whence — by  what  contrivance- 
Has  he  grown  rich  at  once  ?     I'll  not  believe  it. 
Yet  thus  at  least  says  rumour : — so  help  me,  Her- 
cules, 

There's  not  a  barber's  shop  but  has  the  story, 
That  all  at  once  the  fellow's  rich.     Again 
'Tis   strange — 'tis  passing  strange — that  in  the 

moment 

Of  luck  he  begs  his  friends  to  visit  him- 
That's  not  the  mode  with  us! 

Chrem.  Out  it  shall  come,  by  heavens !     Yes, 

Blepsidemus, 

Things  go  more  smooth  to-day  than  yesterday — 
And  thou  shalt  share  ; — we  hold  thee  one  of  us. 

Bleps.  Nay  but — is't  true?     Art  really,  truly 
rich? 

Chrem.  Shall  be,  at  least — right  suddenly — God 

willing, 
There  is — there  is  some— danger  in  the  business. 

Bleps.  What  kind  ? 

Chrem.  Why  such  as— 

Bleps.  Quick,  whate'er  you  say. 

Chrem.  Such  as — with  luck — makes  men  of  us 

for  ever. 
But,  should  we  fail,  'tis  utter  ruination. 

Bleps.  Ha! 

It  has  an  ugly  air — this  load  upon  thee — 
It  likes  me  not ;  for  thus,  too  hurriedly 
To  wax  so  over-rich — and  then  to  tremble- 
Looks  something  else  than  honest. 

Chrem.  Else  than  honest! 

Bleps.  Suppose,  now — just  suppose — thou  com'st 

from  yonder, 

With  gold  or  silver  from  the  sacred  treasure 
Which  thou  hast — filch'd ;  and  perad venture  now 
Repenting — 

Chrem.         Ph rebus  shield  me  !  no,  by  Jupiter  ! 

Bleps.  No  nonsense,  friend !  I  know  the  whole. 

Chrem.  Suspect  not 

Of  me  such  deed  as  this. 

Bleps.  Alas,  alas! 

That  honesty  should  clean  forgotten  be, 
And  all  be  slaves  of  greed  and  gain! 

Chrem.  By  Ceres, 

Thine  upper  story  seems  a  little  damag'd. 

Elfps.  How  chang'd  a  man  from  all  bis  whilom 
ways! 

Chrem.  Stark    mad — by  heaven   above! — the 
fellow  foams. 

Bleps.  His   very   eye   unfixed! — See   how    it 

wanders ! 
Sure  mark  of  guilt! 

Chrem.  Croak  on,  I  understand  thee ; 

Thou  deem'st  me  thief,  and  fain  wouldst  be  par- 
taker? 

Bleps.  Partaker  would  I  be  ?  Of  what  partaker  ? 

Chrem.  It  is  not  as  thou  deem'st,  but — 

Bleps.  What?    Hast  not  filched  but — forced? 

Chri-m.  The  devil's  in  thee. 

Bleps.  A  breach  of  trust  then  ? 

Chrem.  No. 

Wcj,s.  0  Hercules ! 

Where  must  one  turn  one's  self     No  truth  from 
thee ! 


182 


ARISTOPHANES. 


Chrem.  You  charge  at  random,  ere  you  learn 
my  story. 

Bkps.  Come  friend,  I'm  ready,  for  a  very  trifle 
To  compromise  this  case  before  'tis  public, 
Stopping  the  pleaders'  mouths  with    certain — 
pieces. 

Chrem.  Yes !  like  a  kind — good  friend — you'll 

undertake 
To  spend  three  minae  and  charge  me — a  dozen. 

Bleps.  I  see — I  see— one  to  the  Bema*  wending, 
Suppliant  to  sit  with  customary  bough — 
His  wife,  his  children  near; — no  eye  shall  know 

them 
From  the  Heraclidse  drawn  by  Pamphilus.-f 

Chrem.  Not  so,  thou  sorry  devil ,  but  the  worthy — 
None    else — shrewd    fellows — wise   and    sober 

fellows — 
Will  I  make  full  of  riches. 

Bleps.  What  ? 

Has  stol'n  so  monstrous  much  ? 

Chrem.  Beshrew  my  heart ! 

Thou  wilt  destroy — 

Bleps.  Thou  wilt  thyself  destroy. 

Chrem.  Never ;  for,  hark  ye,  rogue — I've  hold 
of — PLUTUS. 

Bleps.  You — Plutus— you !     What  Plutus  ? 

Chrem.  The  divine  one. 

Bleps.  And  where  ? 

Chrem.  Here. 

Bleps.  Where  ? 

Chrem.  With  me. 

Bleps.  With  thee  ? 

Chrem.  Precisely. 

Bleps.  0,  you  be  hanged !  Plutus  with  thee  ? 

Chrem.  1  swear  it. 

Bleps.  Say'st  true  ? 

Chrem.  Most  true  ? 

Bleps.  By  Vesta  ? 

Chrem.  Yea,  by  Neptune. 

Bleps.  What?  And  not  send  him  round  to  us 
— thy  friends ! 

Chrem.  Not  yet  are  matters  come  to  this. 

Bleps.  Not  yet ! 

Not  come  to  sharing  ? 

Chrem.  No :  for  first — 

Bkps.  What  first? 

Chrem.  We  two  must  give  back  sight — 

Bleps.  Give  sight?     To  whom? 

Chrem.  To  Plutus — by  some  one  device  or  other. 

Bleps.  So  then,  he's  really  blind  ? 

Chrem.  He  is,  by  heaven. 

Bleps.  No  wonder  that  he  never  came  to  me ! 

Chrem.  But   now — so  please  the  gods — he'll 
make  amends. 

Bleps.  Come  then — a  leech  !  a  leech ! — shouldst 
not  have  fetched  one'' 

Chrem.  What  leech  has  Athens  now  ?   They're 

gone  together, 
The  art  and  its  rewards — no  fee  no  physic ! 

Bleps.  Let's  see. 

Chrem.  There's  none. 

Bkps.  Thou'rt  right,  i'  faith. 


*  Here  the  tribunal  of  justice. 

f  A  picture  of  Alcmena  and  the  children  of  Hercules  as 
suppliants. 


Chrem.  Not  one. 

But  listen,  I  was  thinking 
To  lay  him  down  at  ^Esculapius'  shrine. 
That  were  the  way — 

Bleps.  Far  best,  by  all  the  powers ! 

Away — delay  not — something  do,  and  quickly. 

Chrem.  I  go. 

Bleps.  But  haste ! 

Chrem.  Why,  I  am  hasting. 

Enter  POVERTT. 

Pov.  STOP  !— 

0  ye  hot  bloods  !     Ye  moon-struck  manikins  ! 
That  dare  such  lawless,  rash,  and  impious  deed — 
Where,  where  so  fast?     I  charge  ye  stop — 
Bleps.  0  Hercules ! 

Pov.  Wretches,  a  wretched  end  I'll  make  of  you. 
Your  venture — yes,  your  venture  is  a  rare  one, 
Unbrook'd,  unventured  yet  by  god  or  mortal: 
So  that  your  doom  is  fix'd. 

Chrem.  And  who  art  thou  ? 

Bleps.  Perhaps    some    fury   from    the    tragic 

boards : 

Truly  her  air's  a  little  touch'd  and  tragic. 
Chrem.  But  where's  her  torch  ? 
Bleps.  No  torch !     Then  let  her  howl  fbr't. 
Pov.  And  whom  suppose  ye  me? 
Chrem.  Some  paltry  hostess, 

Or  market  wife  mayhap :  else  would'st  thou  not 
Have  bawled  so  loud  at  us  for  nothing. 

Pov.  Nothing! 

Have  ye  not  done  me  deadliest  injury, 
Plotting  from  this  whole  land  to  banish  me  ? 
Chrem.  Why,  hast  thou  not  the  Barathrum*  to 

go  to? 

But — who  thou  art  behoved  thee  answer-^quick ! 
Pov.  One  that,  this  day,  will  ample  vengeance 

take 

For  striving  thus  to  blot  me  from  your  city — 
Bleps.  Sure  now  'tis  just  my  neighbour,  the  old 

tapstress, 

That's  always  cheating  with  her  half-pint  mea- 
sures. 
Pov.  One  that  for  many  a  year  with  both  has 

mated — POVERTY. 

Bleps.  King  Apollo!     Gods  of  heaven  ! 
Where  can  one  flee  ? 

Chrem.  You  there — what  now  ?  Thou  coward 

reptile,  thou — 
Not  stand  thy  ground  ! 

Bleps.  Ne'er  dream  of  it. 

Chrem.  Not  stand ! 

What  we — two  men — to  run,  and  from  a  woman ! 
Bleps.  But  she  is  POVERTY,  thou  rogue,  than 

whom 

No  creature  more  pernicious  e'er  was  gender'd. 
Chrem.  Stand,  I  beseech  thee,  stand. 
Bleps.  Not  I,  by  Jupiter ! 

Chrem.  What  have  we  done,  thou  doom'd  one  ? 

Wherefore  oom'st  thou 
Hither  to  rail,  unwrong'd  of  us  ? 

Pov.  Unwrong'd  ? 

Patience,  ye  gods!     Unwrong'd?     Is't  nothing, 
think  ye, 


*  The  execution  pit  of  Athens. 


ARISTOPHANES. 


183 


No  wrong  to  me — essaying  thus  to  give 
Sight  back  to  Plutus  ? 

Chrem.  Where's  the  wrong  to  thee, 

If  good  we  so  achieve  for  all  mankind  1 

Pov.  The  good — the  mighty  good — that  ye  can 

compass  ? 
Chrem.  Imprimis,  having  thrust  thee  forth  of 

Greece- 
Pay.  ME  forth  of  Greece  ?  And  0,  what  huger 

mischief 

Could  your  curst  frenzy  work  the  race  of  man  ? 
Chrem.  Why,   if  we   purpos'd    so,  and  slept 

upon  it. 

POP.  Now,  on  this  very  point  I  first  address  me 
To  reckon  with  you :  if  I  prove  myself 
Sole  source  of  all  your  blessings ;  that  through  me 
Ye  live  and  breathe  : — if  not,  if  I  deceive  you, 
Do  your  joint  pleasure  on  me. 

Chrem.  Loathliest  hag, 

Dar'st  thou  to  teach  such  things'? 

Pov.  Dare  thou  to  learn  them ! 

Right  readily  I'll  show  thee  all  astray, 
If  tis  the  good  thou  think'st  to  endow  with  riches. 
Bleps.  Cudgels  and  collars,  help  me  to  requite 

her! 
Pov.  No  need  to   bawl  and  bluster  ere  thou 

hear. 

Bleps.  And  who'd  not  bawl  and  call  ohon!  ohon! 
At  words  like  these  ? 

Pov.  Whoe'er  has  brains  in  noddle. 

Chrem.  Name  then  the  damages — how  much 

to  lay  at — 
If  thou  be  cast. 

Pov.  At  what  thou  pleasest. 

Chrem.  Good. 

Pov.  The   same  must  ye   disburse  in  t'other 

issue. 
Bleps.  Dost  think  a  score  of — hangings — were 

enough  ? 

Chrem.  For  her : — for  us  a  pair  or  so  may  serve. 
Pov.  About  it  then — away ! — or  who  hereafter 
Shall  law  or  justice  plead? 

Ch.  Now  clear  your  wit — the  time  is  fit — 

and  deal  her  blow  for  blow, 
In  the  contest  keen  of  the  wordy  war, 
no  weakness  must  ye  know. 
Chrem.  And  plain  it  is  to  all  I  \vi> — 

there's  none  will  say  me  nay — 
That  virtue  fair  and  honesty 

should  carry  still  the  day, 
And  the  rabble  rout  of  godless  men 

be  worsted  in  the  fray. 
To  compass  aim,  so  worthy  fame, 

our  bosoms  long  have  glow'd, 
And  scarce  at  last  have  chanc'd  upon 

a  ri:,rht  and  royal  road  : 
If  Plutus  sight  be  burnish 'd  bright, 

and  dark  no  more  he  rove, 
Where  the  wise  and  pure  his  steps  allure, 

their  mansions  he  will  love; 
And  straight  eschew  the  impious  crew, 

and  of  the  riirhteous  rear 
A  race  around,  with  riches  crown'd, 

the  holy  gods  to  fear ; 
And  where's  the  man  for  brother  men 
can  better  lot  espy  ? 


Bleps.  There's  none  can  do't,  I'm  witness  to't, 

a  fig  for  her  reply ! 
Chrem.  For  mark  as  now  ihe  fates  ordain 

the  life  of  man  to  run, 
'Tis  bedlam  hurl'd  upon  the  world — 

'tis  hell  beneath  the  sun : 
The  base  that  gather'd  gold  by  crime, 

they  flaunt  in  gallant  trim, 
The  good,  they  spend  with  thee  their  time, 

and  pine  with  famine  grim, 
While  sorrow  brews  their  cup  of  tears, 

and  fills  it  to  the  brim. 
Bleps.  But  Plutus  once  to  sight  restor'd, 

and  master  of  the  field, 
Then  doubled  see  the  joys  of  man, 

and  all  his  wrongs  repeal'd ! 
Pov.  Ye  dotard  twain,  whose  addled  brain 

no  law  of  reason  rules, 
Joint  fellows  in  the  maudlin  band 

of  drivellers  and  fools  ! 
Had  ye  your  silly  hearts'  desire, 

what  benefit  to  you, 
Though  Plutus  saw  and  portion'd  fair 

His  heritage  anew  ? 
For  who  would  then  of  mortal  men 

to  handicrafts  apply, 
Or  cumber  mare  his  head  with  lore 

of  science  stern  and  high  ? 
And  who  would  forge,  or  frame  a  wheel, 

or  stately  vessel  plan, 
Or  clout  a  shoe,  or  bake  a  tile, 

or  tailor  it,  or  tan1? 
Or  break  with  ploughs  the  face  of  earth 

and  reap  the  yellow  grain, 
When  all  in  ease  and  idle  mirth 

might  laugh  at  toil  and  pain? 
Chrem.  Thou  senseless  jade,  each  toil  and  trade 

thy  tongue  has  rattled  o'er, 
Our  servitors  will  take  in  hand 

and  labour  as  of  yore. 
Pot?.  And  how  obtain  this  servile  train? 
Chrem.  For  money. 
Pov.  Who  will  sell, 

When  rich  himself  with  stores  of  pelf? 

Chrem.  Dark  Thessaly  may  tell : — 
'Tis  there  the  slaver's  trade  is  rife, 

that  deals  in  human  ware. 
Pov.  But  who  will  lead  the  slaver's  life, 

the  slaver's  forfeit  dare, 
When,  thanks  to  thee,  his  wealth  is  free, 

and  comes  without  a  care  ? 
So  arm  thee  fast  with  spade  and  plough, 

to  dig,  and  drudge,  and  groan, 
With  burthen  heavier  far  than  now — 
Chrem.  The  burthen  be  thine  own  ! 
Pov.  Nor  bed  shall  thou  repose  upon—- 
for bed  there  will  not  be, 
Nor  rug  be  wrought  in  coming  times 

of  blest  equality  : — 
Nor  sprinkle  oils  of  rich  perfume 

on  happy  bridal  day  ? 
Nor  broider'd  work  from  cunning  loom 

of  thousand  hues  display  ; 
And  where's  the  good  of  golden  store, 

if  these  be  reft  away  ? 


184 


ARISTOPHANES. 


But  all  ye  want  'tis  mine  to  grant — 

and  lavish  the  supply — 
For  mistress  like  I  set  me  down 

the  base  mechanic  by, 
And  force  for  need  and  lack  of  bread 

his  daily  task  to  try. 
Chrem.  What  precious  grant  is  thine  to  vaunt 

but  blisters  on  the  skin 
From  bagnio  fires,*  arid  starving  brats, 

and  scolding  grannums'  din  ? 
And  the  swarm  of  lice,  and  gnats,  and  fleas 

what  lips  can  never  sum, 
That  buzz  about  the  tortur'd  head 

with  sleep-dispelling  hum, 
While  "  up  and  work,  or  lie  and  starve" 

they  trumpet  as  they  come  ? 
And  rags  for  robes  thou  givest  us ; 

and  for  the  bed  of  down 
A  lair  of  rushes  stuffed  with — bugs, 

to  lie  and— wake  upon; 
For  carpet  gay,  a  rotten  mat ; 

for  pillow  under  head, 
A  thumping  stone  to  prop  the  crown ; 

and  mallow-shoots  for  bread, 
O  dainty  treat ! — for  barley-brose, 

the  meagre  cabbage  leaves ; 
And  for  a  seat,  a  broken  jar 

our  weary  weight  receives ; 
For  bolting-trough  a  barrel-side, 

with  cracks  to  make  it  fine, 
How  rich  and  rare  these  blessings  are ! — 

and  all  the  merit  thine ! 
Pov.  Thou  gib'st  not  me — 'tis  BEGGARY 

thou  pommellest  with  scorn. 
Chrem.  And  deem'd  we  not  thy  sister  come, 

when  beggary  was  born  1 
Pov.  Yes — ye  that  Dionysius  hold 

of  Thrasybulus  strain : — f 
But  sunder'd  still  our  lots  have  been, 

and  sunder'd  shall  remain. 
The  beggar  he — as  drawn  by  thee— 

that  still  on  nothing  lives ; 
The  poor  man's  share  is  frugal  care, 

and  all  that  labour  gives, 
A  modest  store — nor  less  nor  more, 

than  reason's  choice  allowed. 
Chrem.  O  rest  his  soul — the  happy  dole 

by  Poverty  avow'd  I—- 
To pinch  and  grieve,  and  toil  and  leave 

no  money  for  a  shroud. 
Pov.  With  your  jesting  and  your  jeering, 

and  your  fleering  rail  away— 
Nor  dream  I  boast  a  nobler  host 

than  Plutus  can  array  !— 
Ay !  nobler  far  in  mood  and  make  :— 

the  gouty  go  to  him, 
Huge  tuns  of  men,  with  baggy  guts, 

and  dropsy-swollen  limb ; 
To  me  the  tight,  the  merry  wasps, 

the  terrors  of  the  foe. 


*  A  common  resort  of  the  poor  in  cold  weather.  See 
Defoe's  Memoirs  of  Colonel  Jack  for  a  similar  picture  of 
a  beggar's  life  in  London  in  the  olden  times. 

t  i.  e.  those  who  confound  Dionysius  the  Tyrant  with 
Thrasybulus  the  Patriot. 


Chrem.  That  wasp-like  waist  by  famine  brac'd, 

thy  nursing  cares  bestow ! 
Pov.  And  virtue  meek  and  modesty 

with  me  are  fast  allied, 
While  the  lawless  hand  and  the  ruthless  brand 

are  seen  on  Plutus'  side. 
Chrem.  O  modest  trick ! — a  purse  to  pick, 

or  neighbour's  house  invade. 
Bleps.  Most  modest  sure  !  for  modest  worth 

has  ever  lov'd — the  shade. 
Pov.  Then  mark  your  fiery  orators, 

the  people's  honest  friends, 
When  poor  they  stand  for  their  father-land, 

and  patriotic  ends ; 
But  fatten'd  once  on  civic  jobs, 

they  plead  another  cause, 
'Tis  down  with  tumult-stirring  mobs 

and  up  with  gagging  laws  f 
Chrem.  Thou  hitt'st  'em  fair,  old  beldame  there — 

all  venom  as  thou  art — 
Yet  plume  not  thou  thyself,  nor  hope 

unpunish'd  to  depart : 
Fine  lesson  this  thou  teachest! — 

not  money  makes  the  man — 
But  poverty  thou  preachest — 

Pov.  Confute  it,  if  you  can ! 

In  vain  you  flap  and  flutter — * 

Chrem.  From  you  the  hearer  flees. 

Pov.  Because  the  words  I  utter 

are  virtue's  homilies. 
So  see  the  son  his  father  shun, 

who  counsels  him  to  good ; 
For  late  and  slow  by  man  below 
the  right  is  understood. 
Chrem.  Then  Jove,  it  seems,  unwisely  deems 

and  foolish  things  commends, 
For  wealth  besides  himself  he  keeps — 

Eleps.  And  her  to  ITS  he  sends. 

Pov.  Dull-sighted  pair,  whose  minds  are  blear 

with  film  of  other  times, 
Great  Jove  is  poor — and  proof  full  sure 

shall  fortify  my  rhymes  : 
Behold  when  Greece  together  throngs 

each  fifth  revolving  year, 
And  in  his  own  Olympic  lists 

the  combatants  appear, 
A  herald's  breath — an  olive  wreath— 

is  all  the  victor's  prize  ; 
Gold  were  the  meed,  had  Jove  indeed 

a  treasure  in  the  skies. 
Chrem.  'Tis  thus  he  proves  how  dear  his  cash, 

how  close  he  keeps  his  gains, 
He  binds  the  victor's  brow  with  trash, 

the  money  he  retains. 
Pov.  Thy  ribald  tongue  the  fouler  wrong 

than  want  upon  him  puts — 
That  not  for  need  but  dirty  greed 
his  money-bag  he  shuts. 
Chrem.  Jove  strike  thee  down — but  first  a  crown 

of  olive-twigs  bestow ! 
Pov.  To  dare  disown  from  me  alone 

all  earthly  blessings  flow  ! 
Chrem.  Of  Hecate  ask  the  question — 
let  her  decision  tell, 

•  *  Like  an  unfledged  bird — unable  to  fly. 


ARISTOPHANES. 


185 


If  riches  or  if  hunger 

should  bear  away  the  bell. 
To  her,  she  says,  the  jolly  rich 

a  monthly  feast*  afford, 
But  ere  'tis  set  the  harpy  poor 

have  swept  it  from  the  board. 
But  curse  thee — rot !    No  more  upbraid  us 

With  groan  or  sigh  ; 
Persuasion's  self  shall  not  persuade  us. 
Pov.          "  Town  of  Argos,  hear  his  cry !  f" 
Chrem.  On  PausonJ  call,  thy  messmate  true! 
Pov.  Unhappy-happy  me ! 

Chrem.  Go  feed  the  crows  that  wait  for  you! 
Pov.  Ah  whither,  whither  flee? 

Chrem.  To  whipping-post ;  nor  linger  more ! — 

Thy  steps  are  slack. 

Pov.       Yet  soon  will  ye  my  loss  deplore, 
And  woo  me,  woo  me  back ! 
Chrem.  Return  thou    then ! — now,  ruin    seize 

thee — 

Be  mine  the  riches  that  displease  thee— 
And  thou — go  rave  and  roar  to  ease 
thee !  [Exit  POVERTY. 

Bleps.  Wealth  and  wealthy  joys  for  me  ! 

With  wife  and  babes  to  revel  free — 
And  sleek  returning  from  the  bath, 
On  handicraftsmen  in  my  path 
And  poverty  that  lags  behind 
To  break  my  jest  and  break  my — wind ! 
Chrem.  There — she  is  gone  at  last — the  scurvy 

jade ! 

And  now  let  me  and  thee  at  once  lead  off 
Our  god  to  bed  in  ^Esculapius'  temple. 

Bleps.  Ay,  bustle,  neighbour,  bustle — sharp's 

the  word ! 

Lest  fresh  disturbers  mar  our  opening  plot. 
Chrem.  What,  Carion !  Slave,  I  say, — out  with 

the  blankets ! 

And  Plutus'  self  bring  forth,  with  due  observance, 
And  all  besides  you've  furnish'd  for  the  nonce. 

[Exeunt. 

Before  the  house  of  CHREMTLUS. 
CARIOX,  CHORUS. 

Car.  Hilloa  there ! 

Ye  grey  beards,  oft  on  Theseus'  days,§  spoon- 

cram'd 

With  broth  good  store,  to  bread  in  sparest  scraps, 
How  happy  now,  how  blest  of  favouring  fortune! 
Both  ye,  and  all  that  take  an  honest  turn. 

Ch.  Sweet  sir,   thy  news?     What  have   thy 

friends  to  boast  of? 
Tis    something    rare  tliou  seem'st  to  bring  for 

tidings. 

Car.  The  master,  boys,  has  prosper'd  gloriously, 
Or  rather  Plutus'  self:  instead  of  blind, 
His   eyes   are   clear — clean'd  out,  and  fairly 

whiten'd, 
A  kindly  leech  in  .^Esculapius  finding. 

*  Offered  to  her  statues  at  the  places  where  three  ways 
meet: — but  soon  carried  off  liy  the  poor. 

t  A  line  made  up  of  words  from  Euripides.— Argos  was 
poor.  J  A  very  poor  painter. 

$  On  the  eighth  of  each  month  the  poor  were  enter- 
tained in  honour  of  Theseus,  but  at  small  cost,  and  chiefly 
on  spoon  meat. 

24 


Ch.  O  lucky  day! 

Hurra !  Huzza ! 

Car.  Like  it  or  not,  rejoicing-time  is  come. 
Ch.  Great  .^Esculapius,  sons  never  fail  thee ; 
Star  of  the  human  race,  loud  will  we  hail 
thee! 

Enter  WIFE  OF  CHREMTLUS. 

Wjfe.  What  meant  that  shout  *  Is't  news,  good 

news,  it  tells? 

0  I  have  pin'd  for  it,  and  sat  within, 
Longing  to  greet  this  home-returning  varlet. 

Car.  Quick,  mistress,  quick  ;  some  wine  there, 

that  with  me 

Thou   too  may'st  taste  a  drop  —  thou  lov'st  it 
dearly ;  (Aside) 

For  all  rich  blessings  in  a  lump  I  bring  thee. 

Wife.  And  where — where  are  they? 

Car.  Soon  in  words  thou'lt  know  them. 

Wife.  Thy  words  then — haste,  have  done. 

Car.                                                              Attend. 
The  whole  affair  will  I  from  foot  to  head  * 

Wife.  To  head!  Beware!  To  head  nor  on  head 
neither ! 

Car.  What !  not  this  joyful  business  ? 

Wife.  Business,  quotha  ? 

Affair  ?    No— none  of  your  affairs  for  me ! 

Car.  Soon  as  we  reach'd  the  god, 
Guiding  a  man,  most  miserable  then, 
Most  happy  now,  if  happy  man  there  be; 
First  to  the  salt  sea  sand  we  led  him  down, 
And  there  we — duck'd  him. 

Wife.  Happy  he,  by  Jupiter ! 

A  poor  old  fellow,  duck'd  in  the  cold  brine. 

Car.  Thence  to  the  sanctuary  hied  we ;  and 
When  on  the  altar  cakes  and  corn-oblations 
Were  dedicate — to  Vulcan's  flame  a  wafer — 
We  laid  our  Plutus  down,  as  meet  it  was, 
While  each  of  us  fell  to,  to  patch  a  bed  up. 

Wife.  And  were  there  other  suitors  to  the  god  ? 

Car.  Why,  one  was  Neoclides,  blind  is  he, 
Yet  our  best  eyes  he  will  out-aim  at — thieving ; 
And  many  a  one  besides,  with  all  diseases 
Laden  ; — but  when  the  beadle  gave 
The  word  to  sleep,  the  lamps  extinguishing, 
And  strictly  charged  "  If  any  hear  a  noise, 
Mute  let  him  be"1' — we  squatted  round  in  order. 
Well: 

Sleep  could  I  not,  but  me  a  certain  pot 
Of  porridge  hugely  struck  ;  'twas  lying  there 
Some  small   space  distant  from  an  old  wife's 

head, 
Towards  which  I  felt  a  wondrous  motion  draw 

me; — 

So,  venturing  a  peep,  I  spy  the  priest 
Our  offerings — scones  and  figs — snatching  away 
From  off  the  holy  table  ;  after  this, 
Round  every  altar,  one  by  one,  he  grop'd 
If  anywhere  a  single  cake  were  left; 
Then  these  he  bless  d — into  a  sort  of  satchel. 
So,  thinking  'twas  a  deed  of  vast  devotion, 
Bent  on  the  pot  of  porridge,  up  get  I. 

Wife.  Wretch!  Fear'dst  thou  not  the  god ? 


*  An  ominous  phraseology,  which  alarms  tho  old  lady's 
superstition,  and  is  meant  by  Carion  to  do  so. 


186 


ARISTOPHANES. 


Car.  By  the  gods,  I  did, 

Lest  he  should  get  before  me  to  the  pot, 
Garlands  and  all ; — his  priest  had  tutor'd  me. 
Meanwhile  old  grannum, 

When  once  her  ear  had  caught  the  stir  I  made, 
Was  stealing  out  her  hand — so,  hissing  high, 
With  teeth  I  seized  it,  like  a  puff-cheek  snake ; 
But  she  incontinent  her  hand  pluck'd  back, 
And  lay  all  quiet,  cuddled  in  a  heap, 
Fizzling  for  fear — ugh  !  worse  than  any  pole-cat. 
Then  gobbled  I  my  bellyful  of  porridge, 
And  so — well-stuff  ;d — turn'd  in  to  snooze  a  little. 

Wife.  But  say — the  god — approach'd  he  not1? 

Car.  Not  yet. 

So,  after  this— 0  such  a  merry  trick 
I  play'd ! 

*•""•*"###*:-## 

Wife.  Out  upon  thee ! 

Car.  When  this  was  past,  forthwith  I  muffled 

up, 

Cowering  with  dread  ;  but  he,  most  doctor-like, 
Perform'd  his  rounds,  inspecting  case  by  case. 
Then  placed  a  lad  beside  him  his  stone  mortar, 
Pestle,  and  chest. 

Wife.  Stone,  too  ?  * 

Car.  No,  not  the  chest. 

Wife.  And  thou,  thou  gallows-bird,  how  could'st 

thou  see, 
Who  say'st  thy  head  was  hid  ? 

Car.  Through  this  bald  jerkin  ; 

Windows  it  had,  and  not  a  few,  by  Jupiter. 
For  Neoclides  first  he  took  in  hand 
To  pound  a  cataplasm — throwing  in 
Three  heads  of  Tenian  garlic  ;  these  he  bruised, 
Commixing  in  the  mortar  benjamin 
And  mastic ;  drenching  all  with  Sphettian  vine- 
gar, 

He  plaster  d  o'er  his  eyelids,  inside  out, 
To  give  him  greater  torment ; — squalling,  bawling, 
The  wretch  sprung  up  to  flee ;  then  laugh'd  the 

g°d, 

And  cried,  "Now  sit  ye  down  beplastered  there, 
And  take  thine  oath  I  keep  thee  from  the  ses- 
sions !" 

Wife.  O  what  a  patriot  and  a  prudent  god ! 

Car.  He  next  sat  down  by  Plutus ; 
And  handled  first  his  head  ;  then  with  a  cloth 
Of  linen,  clean  and  napless,  wiped  the  eyelids 
Quite  round  and  round ;  then  Panacea 
Wrapp'd  in  a  purple  petticoat  his  head, 
And  all  his  face ;  then  ^Esculapius  whistled — 
With  that  out  darted  from  the  shrine  two  serpents 
Of  most  prodigious  size. 

Wife.  Merciful  heavens ! 

Car.  And  these,   smooth   gliding  underneath 

the  petticoat, 
Lick'd  with  their  tongues — so  seem'd  to  me — his 

eyelids. 

And,  ere  you'd  toss  me  off  ten  half-pint  bumpers, 
Plutus — 0  mistress! — up  rose  Plutus  SEEING. 
Loud  clapp'd  I  then  both  hands  for  extasy, 
And  fell  to  wakening  master ;  but  the  god 
Vanish'd  into  the  temple,  self  and  serpents. 

*  She  tries  to  catch  him  tripping.    But  Carion  is  too        *  As  a  new  purchased  slave  was  greeted  on  coming  to 
sharp  for  her.  \  his  master's  house. 


Then  those  that  couch'd  beside  him — canst  thou 
guess 

How  they  did  fondle  Plutus,  and  all  night 

Slept  not,  but  watch'd   till   morning  glimmer'd 
through  ? 

While  I  was  lauding  lustily  the  god, 

That  in  a  twinkling  he  gave  sight  to  Plutus, 

And  Neoclides  blinded  worse  than  ever. 

Wife.  What  marvellous  power  is  thine,  0  so- 
vereign lord ! 

But  tell  me  where  is  Plutus? 

Car.  This  way  coming. 

But  there  were  crowds  about  him,  infinite  great. 

For  such  as  heretofore  had  decent  morals, 

And  lean  subsistence — these  were  greeting  him, 

And  locking  hand  in  hand  for  very  transport. 

But    such    as    wealthy  were,  with  means   o'er- 
flowing, 

And  gain'd  by  no  unquestionable  arts — 

O  theirs'  were  knitted  brows  and  clouded  faces ! 

The  rest  were  tripping,  chaplet-crown'd,  behind 
hint, 

With  laugh  and  jubilant  cry ;  the  old  men's  slipper 

Clatter'd,  with  modulated  steps  advancing. 

Halloo  then !  one  and  all,  with  one  accord, 

Dance  ye  and  jump  ye — hands  round — cut  and 
shuffle. 

For  none  henceforth  shall  meet  ye  on  the  thres- 
hold 

With  "harkye,  friend,  there's  nothing  in  the  meal 

tub  r 

Wife.    So   help   me,   Hecate,  I   will    garland 
thee, 

For  these  fair  tidings,  with  a  wreath  of — pan- 
loaves. 

Such  news  thou  bring'st! 

Car.  About  it  instantly ! 

The  company's  already  at  the  door. 

Wife.  Nay,  let  me  hurry  in  and  fetch  some 
sweetmeats, 

To  welcome  these  new-purchased  eyes,*  slave- 
fashion. 
Car.  And  I  to  meet  them  fly.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  PLUTUS  and  CHHEMYLUS. 

Pint.  Thy  beams,  bright  Sol !  prostrate  I  first 

adore, 

Next  great  Minerva's  world-renowned  city, 
And  Cecrops'  total  bounds  that  harbour'd  me. 
O  how  I  blush  for  past  calamities ! 
The  men — the  men — that  I  unconscious  dealt 

with ! 

And  these,  the  worthy  of  my  fellowship, 
All-ignorant  avoided,  luckless  me  ! 
'Twas  foully  done — both    that  and  this — most 

foully. 

But  treading  now  reverted  paths,  I'll  show 
To  all  of  mortal  mould,  in  coming  times, 
Unwilling  with  the  bad  I  held  communion. 
Chrem.  Off  to  the  crows,  I  say.    Why,  what  a 

pest, 
These  friends  that  sprout  so  fast  when  days  are 

sunny ! 


ARISTOPHANES. 


187 


They  rub,  scrub,  crush  one's  shins;*  so  dear  one's 

grown, 

Each  must  needs  find  some  vent  for  his  affection. 
Who  miss'd  God  save  ye  to  me?  What  a  throng 
Of  reverend  seniors  squeezed  me  at  the  market! 

Re-enter  WIFE  OF  CHREMYLUS. 

Wife.  All  hail ! 

Thou  paragon  of  men — and  thou — and  thou  too. 
Come  now — so  custom  rules  it — let  me  scatter 
These  sweetmeat  offerings  on  thee. 

Pint.  Prithee,  no. 

For  entering  thy  house  on  a  first  visit, 
And  with  recovered  eyesight,  it  were  meet 
Not  out  but  in  to  take  an  offering. 

Wife.  What,  not  accept  my  sweetmeats ! 

Pint.  Well;  within  then, 

Beside  your  hearth,  as  best  observance  rules. 
So,  too,  we  'scape  turmoil  and  trickery. 
Our  poets  would  it  misbecome  to  fling 
Dried  figs  and  comfits  to  the  lookers  on, 
Thus  to  extort  a  laugh.f 

Wife.  Right,  right ;  for  see 

There's  Dexinicus  yonder,  up  and  ready 
To  scramble  for  the  figs.  [Exeunt. 

Before  the  house  of  CHREMYLUS. 

CAHIOIT,  CHORUS. 
Car.  0  it  is  sweet,  my  friends,  when  things  go 

merrily, 

To  roll  in  wealth,  cost  free,  with  nit  a  venture. 
Here's  a  whole  heap  of  luxuries  come  bouncing 
Whack !  right  into  the  house — and  all  unsinn'd 

for! 

Full  is  our  bread -bin  now  of  white  wheat  flour, 
Our  casks  of  red  aroma-scented  wine  ; 
There's  not  a  trunk  nor  box,  but  gold  and  silver 
Heave  up  the  coin-burst  lid— you'd  gape  to  see  it. 
The  well  runs  out  with  oil,  the  cruets  teem 
With  nard,  the  loft  with  figs;  pot,  pan,  and  pipkin 
Are  turn'd  to  shining  brass;  the  rotten  trenchers, 
That  stunk  of  fish  they  held,  are  solid  silver ; 
Kitchen  and  kitchen  gear  are  ivory ; 
And  we — the  gentlemen-domestics — there 
At  odds  and  evens  play  with  sterling  staters ; 
So  dainty  grown,  that  not  those  rasping  stones 
But  onion-shaws  we  use  for  our  occasions. 
And  now  high  sacrifice  the  master  holds 
Within;  wreath-crown'd,  swine,  goat,  and  ram  he 

offers. 

But  me — the  smoke  has  driven  me  forth ;  I  could 
Stand  it  no  more ;  my  eyes  so  smarted  with  it. 

Enter  GOOD  MAW  with  his  SLAVE. 
Good  M.  Come  on,  my  lad,  come  on,  that  to 

the  god 
We  may  repair. 

Enter  CHREXYLCS. 

Chreni.  Hoy  day!  whom  have  we  here? 

Good  M.  A  man,  once   wretched,  prosperous 
now. 

*  As  flatterers  were  wont  to  do  to  the  rich  ;  rubbing 
their  shin  bones  as  the  Squire  in  "Count  Fathom"  has 
kis  back  scratched. 

•(•  A  common  trick  of  poets  in  those  days. 


Chrem.  Just  so ; 

Clearly,  methinks,  one  of  the  honest  folk. 

Good  M.  Most  true. 

Chrem.  What  may'st  thou  want  then  ? 

Good  M.  To  the  god 

I  come,  the  source  to  me  of  mighty  blessings. 
For,  mark  my  tale — 
I  from  my  sire  a  fair  inheritance 
Receiving,  hence  my  needy  friends  I  aided. 
Trust  me,  I  thought  it  prudent  policy. 

Chrem.  And  so  thy  money  shortly  fail'd  thee. 

Good  M.  Very. 

Chrem.  And  so  you  wax'd  right  miserable. 

Good  M.  Very. 

And  yet,  methought,  those  in  their  need  so  long 
I  heap'd  with  kindnesses,  were  steadfast  friends, 
Steadfast  and  staunch  when  I  might  need — but 

they 
Turn'd  them  aside,  nor  seem'd  to  see  me  more. 

Chrem.  And  laugh'd  thee  loud  to  scorn,  I  know  it. 

Good  M.  Very. 

For  'twas  a  drought  of— dishes,  that  destroy'd  me. 

Chrem.  But  now  not  so. 

Good  M.  And  therefore  to  the  god 

Here  am  I  fitly  come,  my  vows  to  pay. 

Chrem.  But  this  bald  cloak — what's  this,  pray, 

to  the  god* 
Thy  foot-boy  brings  ? 

Good  M.  To  offer  to  the  god. 

Chrem.  What,  was't  in  this  thou  wert  initiated? 

Good  M.  No  ;  but  in  this  for  thirteen  years  I— 
shiver'd. 

Chrem.  And  these  pantofles? 

Good  M.  Winter'd  with  me  too. 

Chrem.  These,  too,  thou  bring'st  to  offer  ? 

Good  M.  Yes,  by  Jove. 

Chrem.  A  proper  pair  of  offerings  to  the  god! 
Enter  INFORMER  with  his  WITNESS. 

Inf.  Woe's  me  !  woe's  me ! 
Me  miserable !  undone,  undone  for  ever ! 
Thrice    wretched — four    times    wretched — five 

times  wretched — 

Twelve  times — ten  thousand  times — ohon !  ohon! 
With  so  robust  a  devil  my  fate  is  dash'd  !f 

Chrem.  Phoebus  protect  us !  Gracious  deities  ! 
Why,  what  the  mischief  has  this  fellow  met  with? 

Inf.  What  mischief?  Tell  me  is  it  hard  or  no 
To  see  one's  substance  gone — stock,  rock,  and 

block- 
Through  this  confounded  god  ?   But  he  shall  pay 

for't ; 
Blind— blind  again — if  law  be  left  in  Athens. 

Good  M.  Oho !  methinks  I  smell  the  matter  out. 
Here  comes  a  knave,  in  a  bad  way,  no  doubt  on't ; 
And  of  bad  stamp  to  boot,  I  warrant  ye. 

Chrem.  Bad  way  !  fair  way  for  him — the  road 
to  ruin. 

Inf.  Where,  where  is  he  that  promis'd  all  un- 

holpen, 

To  make  us  rich  at  once-— each  mother's  son — 
If  he  but  saw  afresh  ?     Here's  some  of  us 
He  has  beggar'd  past  example. 


*  Chremylus,  a  wag  in  his  way,   plays  on  the  Good 
Man's  repetitions  of  this  phrase, 
t  Like  water  dashed  with  strong  wine. 


188 


ARISTOPHANES. 


Chrem.  Say'st  thou  so  ? 

Whom  has  he  handled  thus  ? 

Inf.  ME  ;  me,  I  tell  thee  ; 

Here  as  I  stand. 

Chrem.  So,  so;  a  rogue — a  burglar? 

Inf.  No,  villain,  no!     'Tis  ye — stark  naught 

ye  are — 
'Tis  ye — none  other — robb'd  me  of  my  money. 

Car.  Now,  Ceres  bless  us,  how  the  Informer 

goes  it, 
So  fierce  and  famine-like — a  wolfish  hunger! 

Inf.  To  court  with  ye — to  court — no  time  to 

dally — 

That  stretch'd  upon  the  wheel  of  torture  there, 
Thou  may'st  confess  thy  villany. 

Car.  You  be  hang'd  ! 

Good  M.  0,  by  preserving  Jove,  a  glorious  god 
To  all  of  Greekish  blood  our  god  will  be, 
That  brings  to  end  as  vile  these  vile  informers, 

Inf.  Confusion ! 

Thou  too  must  laugh — as  their  accomp lice— thou  ! 
Whence  came  this  mantle  else,  so  spruce  and 

trim? 
But  yesterday  thy  thread-bare  cloak  I  noted. 

Good  M.  I  heed  thee  not ;  behold  this  charmed 

ring! 
Mine  own;  bought  from  Eudamus  for  a  drachma. 

Chrem.  Alas,  no  charm  for  an  informer's  bite ! 

Inf.  What  insolence  is  this?  Ye  scoff,  ye  rail, 
And  have  not  answer'd  yet  what  make  ye  here  ? 
'Tis  for  no  good  ye  come. 

Chrem.  No  good  of  thine. 

Inf.  No ;  for  at  cost  of  mine  ye  think  to  revel. 

Chrem.  0  that  to  prove   it  true,  thyself  and 

witness 
Might  both  asunder  burst — but  not  with  eating! 

Inf.  Will  ye  deny  ?    Within,  ye  cursed  scoun- 
drels, 

Such  roasts  there  are,  such  loads  of  fish  in  slices ! 
Uhu.  [Sniffling. 

Chrem.  Wretch,  snuff 'st  thou  aught  ? 

Good  M.  Cold  air,  mayhap, 

In  such  a  rascal  suit  of  rags  attir'd. 

Inf.  Shall  this  be  borne?  Jove,  and  ye  powers 

above, 

That  these  should  scoff  at  ME  !     0  how  it  galls 
Thus  to  endure — the  good — the  patriot. 

Chrem.  You ! 

The  patriot  and  the  good! 

Inf.  Ay,  none  to  match  me. 

Chrem.  Come  now,  an  answer  to  my  question. 

Inf.  What? 

Chrem.  Dost  work  a  farm  ? 

Inf.  Dost  take  me  for  stark  mad? 

Chrem.  A  merchant  then  ? 

Inf.      .  Can  seem  so  on  occasions.* 

Chrem.  What  then,  hast  learnt  a  trade  ? 

Inf.  Not  I,  by  Jupiter. 

Chrem.  Why,  how  didst  live,  or  whence,  with- 
out a  calling? 

Inf.  Live  ?     Of  all  state  affairs  Intendant  I, 
And  private  business. 

Chrem.  You !  For  what  ? 

Inf.  I  choose  it. 

*  Merchants  were  exempted  from  military  service. 


Chrem.  False  thief,  how  art  thou  good  then, 
Mixing  and  meddling  where  it  nought  concerns 

thee? 
Inf.  Concerns  me  nought,  old  gull !    Concerns 

it  not, 
Far  as  I  may,  to  benefit  my  city  ? 

Chrem.  So  so — to  meddle  is  to  benefit? 
Inf.  Yes,  the  establish'd  laws  to  succour — yes, 
If  rogues  offend,  to  hold  them  to  the  forfeit. 
Chrem.  And    does  the   state    not   crowd   her 

bench  with  judges 
Express  for  this  ? 

Inf.  But  who  must  play  the  accuser  ? 

Chrem.  Whoever  will. 

Inf.  Ergo,  that  man  am  I. 

So  that  on  me  devolve  the  state's  affairs. 

Chrem.  Now,  by  the  powers,  she  hath  a  rare 

protector ! 

But  would'st  thou  not  incline,  meddling  no  more, 
To  live  a  life  of  ease  ? 

Inf.  A  sheep's  existence ! 

No  occupation  left  to  stir  the  soul. 

Chrem.  What  then,  thou'lt  not  reform  ? 
Inf.  Not  if  you'd  give  me 

Plutus  himself,  and  the  benzoin  of  Battus.* 
Chrem.  Down  with  thy  cloak. 
Car.  You,  sirrah,  you  he  speaks  to. 

Chrem.  Off  with  thy  shoes. 
Car.  'Tis  you,  still  you  he  means. 

Inf.  Come  on  and  take  them  then :  come  on, 

I  say, 
Whoever  will. 

Car.  Ergo,  that  man  am  I. 

[  Witness  rwns  out. 
Inf.  Help!  robbery!   help!     I'm    stripp'd   in 

open  day. 

Car.  Yes ;  for  thou  claim'st  to  live  on  stran- 
ger's business. 
Inf.  Thou  seest  the  act ;  I  hold  thee  witness 

to  it. 

Chrem.  Witness !  he's  vanish'd :  witness, quotha! 
Inf.  Woe ! 

Caught  and  alone ! 

Car.  Now  thou  wilt  clamour,  wilt  thou? 

Inf.  Woe's  me  again! 
Car.  Hand  me  the  thread-bare  cloak  here, 
To  gird  this  base  informing  rogue  withal. 

Good  M.    Nay    now,    already    'tis    devote    to 

Plutus. 
Car.  And  where,  I  pray  thee,  shall  it  hang 

more  fitly 
Than    round    a    caitiff's    limbs — a    plund'ring 

bandit's  ? 

Plutus  'twere  meet  to  deck  in  costly  garments. 
Good  M.  But  these  pantofles — 
Car.  To  his  forehead  these, 

Wild-olive-like,  incontinent  I'll  nail. 

Inf.  I'm   off;    for   well    I    know    myself  the 

weaker 
'Gainst  odds   like   these ;    yet,   grant  me  but  a 

partner, 

Ay,  though  a  fig-tree  block — your  potent  god 
This  day  I'd  bring  to  justice  and  his  doom ; 
For  that  alone,  unbacked,  democracy 

*  Battus  founded  Cyrene,  famous  for  its  benzoin. 


ARISTOPHANES. 


189 


He  plots  to  end — a  traitor  manifest — 
Council  nor  people  to  his  side  persuading. 

GoodM.  Hark  !  as  in  gorgeous  panoply  of  mine 
Adorn'd  thou  struttest,  to  the  bath  with  thee! 
There  as  head-man  take  station  next  the  fire ; 
That  post  was  mine  of  yore. 

Chrem.  Nay,  but  the  bath-man 

Straight  out  of  doors  will  haul  him  by  the  scrotum ; 
One  glance  will  show  the  stamp  of  scoundrel  on 

him. 
For  us — let's  in ;  the  god  expects  thy  vows. 

[Exeunt. 

Before  the  house  of  CHTIEXYLUS. 
An  OLD  WOMAN,  CHREMYLUS,  CHORUS. 
Old  W.  A  word,  beseech  you,  dear  old  gentle- 
men ; 

Is't  true  we've  reach'd  the  house  of  this  new  god, 
Or  are  we  off  the  road  and  quite  astray  ? 

Chrem,  Believe  me,  now,  you're  at  the  very 

doors, 
My  buxom  lass : — so  prettily  you  ask  it. 

Old  W.  And  must  I  call  for  some  one  from 

within? 
Chrem.  Nay,  here  I  am  myself,  come    forth 

already. 
Let's  hear  thy  purpose  rather. 

Old  W.  Dear  sir,  kind  sir — a  tale  of  grief  and 

wrong ; 

For  from  the  hour  this  god  began  to  see, 
He  has  made  for  me  my  life  unliveable. 

Chrem.  What's  this  ?     Mayhap  thou  wert   In- 

formeress 
Among  the  dames  ? 

Old  W.  Marry  come  up,  not  I. 

Chrem.  Thy  lot,  perchance,  turn'd  out  no  drink- 
ing-ticket.* 
Old  W.  You  jeer :  but  me— I  itch — I  burn — I 

die* 
Chrem.  Thine  itch — thine  itch  ?     Let's  hear — 

as  short  as  may  be. 
Old  W.  Hear,  then : — a  certain  darling  youth 

I  had : 

Grant  he  was  poor — but  0,  a  proper  youth  ! 
Comely  and  shapely — so  obliging  too— 
If  any  little  services  I  wanted, 
He'd  do  them  for  me  orderly  and  featly : 
And  me  in  these  same  things  he  found  com- 
plying. 
Chrem.  And  what  the    suits   he   press'd   the 

warmest,  eh? 
Old  W.  But  few :  for  his  respect  was  quite 

prodigious. 

He'd  ask,  perhaps,  some  twenty  silver  drachms 
For  a  new  coat — some  eight  or  ten  for  slippers: — 
"Buy,"  he  would  say,  "a  little  shift  for  sisters, 
A  cloakey  for  mamma — poor  soul — 'gainst  win- 
ter :" 

Or  bog  of  wheat  some  half-a-dozen  bushels. 
Chrem.  By  my  troth,  not  much — as   thou  hast 

told  the  story — 
'Tis  plain  he  stood  in  mighty  awe  of  thoe. 

Old  W.  And  then  observe,  "  not  out  of  greedi- 
ness 


*  Another  allusion  to  the  distribution  of  dicasta  by  lot. 


I  ask,"  quoth  he ;  "  but  love,  that  wearing  still 
Thy  coat — thy  colours — I  may  think  of  thee." 
Chrem.  Unhappy  man  !  how  desperately  smit- 
ten ! 
Old    W.    But   now — wouldst   credit   it? — the 

rogue  no  more 

Holds  the  same  mind :  he's  quite  another  creature. 
For  when  I  sent  to  him  this  cheesecake  here, 
And  those — the  other  sweetmeats  on  the  platter — 
And  hinted,  too,  he  might  expect  a  visit 

Against  the  afternoon ' 

Chrem.  What  did  he  ?  Say. 

Old  W.  Did?    Send   'em  back — this  tart  into 

the  bargain — 
On   these   plain   terms — that   I    should    call    no 

longer ! 

And  sent  besides  this  messsge  by  the  bearer, 
"  Once  the  Milesians  were  a  potent  people.''  * 

Chrem.  I'faith  no  blockhead  was  the  boy ; — 
When  rich,  pease-porridge  charms  no  more  his 

palate : 

Till  then  he  took  whatever  came,  and  thankful. 
Old  W.  Yes,  and  till  then,  each  blessed  day — 

O  Gemini ! — 

Still  was  he  come — come — coming  to  my  gate. 
Chrem.  To  carry  thee  out  ?  | 
Old  W.  To  carry !  No — to  listen 

An'  he  might  hear  my  voice 

Chrem.  Say  "  Sweet,  here's  for  thee.''' 

Old  W.  And  if  he  saw  me  vex'd  at  aught— 

my  stars ! — 

My  duckling  and  my  doveling,  would  he  whisper. 
Chrem.  Then,   too,    mayhap,    would   beg    for 

slipper-money. 

Old  W.  And  once,  as  at  the  greater  mysteries 
I  rode  my  car — because  one  gaz'd  upon  me — 
Bless  you !  the  livelong  day  my  bones  paid  for 

it. — 
So  mortal  jealous  was  the  stripling  of  me. 

Chrem.  Just  so  : — he  lik'd  I  guess,  to— eat  alone. 
Old  W.  And  then  my  hands,  he  vow'd,  were 

matchless  fair. — 
Chrem.  Oft  as  they  told  him  down  some  twenty 

drachms. 
Old  W.  And  sweet,  he'd  say,  the  fragrance  of 

my  skin. — 
Chrem.  Right,  right,  by  Jove — when  Thasian 

wine  you  pour'd — 

Old  W.  And  eyes  I  had,  so  soft  and  beautiful. — 
Chrem.  No  clumsy  rogue  was  this :  full  well 

he  knew 
To  sweat  a  rutting  beldame's  ready  cash. 

Old  W.  Here,  then,  dear  sir,  the  god   unfairly 

deals — 
Your  god,  that  boasts  himself  the  wrong'd  one's 

Tighter. 
Chrem.  How  shall  he  serve  thee !   Speak,  and 

it  is  done. 

Old  W.  Sure  'tis  but  fair  to  force 
Him  whom  I  help'd  to  lend  me  help  in  turn  : 
Or  not  one  glimpse  of  good  the  wretch  should  see. 
Chrem.  Nay — clear'd   he    not  each  night  his 
scores  with  thee? 


•  A  proverbial  expression  to  denote  reverses  of  fortune; 
drawn  from  the  fate  of  Miletus, 
f  For  burial,  to  wit. 


190 


ARISTOPHANES, 


Old  W.  Ah !  but  he  swore  he'd  never,  never 

leave  me, 
Long  as  I  liv'd. 

Chrem.  True — as  you  liv'd :  but  now 

You  live,  he  thinks,  no  more. 

Old  W.  'Tis  sorrow's  doing — 

I  own  I've  pin'd  away. 

Chrem.  Or  rotted  rather. 

Old  W.  See,  you  might  draw  me  through  a 
ring. 

Chrem.  A  ring ! 

An  'twere  a  barley-boulter's. 

Old  W.  Well,  as  I  live  here  comes  the  very 

youth 

I've  been  a-telling  thee  the  tantrums  of: 
He  seems  on  revel  bound. 

Chrem.  No  question : — lo, 

Fillets  and  flambeau  bearing,  on  he  trips  it. 

Enter  YOUTH. 
Youth.  I  kiss  your  hands. 

Old  W.  Kiss,  says  he?  Kiss? 

Youth.  Old  sweetheart, 

How  gray  thou'rt  grown,  and  all  at  once,  by  Jingo. 

Old  W.  Wretch  that  I  am !  The  buffets  I  must 

bear! 

Chrem.  'Tis  long,  belike,  since  last  he  saw  thee. 
Old  W.  Long! 

When  'twas  but  yesterday,  thou  monster,  thou ! 
Chrem.  Then  trust  me,  friend,  his  is  no  common 

case : — 

Fuddled,  it  seems,  he  sees  the  sharper  for  it. 
Old  W.  No  :  but  'tis  always  such  a  saucy  rogue ! 
Youth.  0  thou   Sea-Neptune,*   and  ye   senior 

gods, 
How   seam'd  with   ruts  and  wrinkles   are  her 

chops ! 

Old  W.  Hold  not  your  torch  to  me. 
Chrem.  Well  thought  of,  old  'un : 

For  should  one  single  spark  but  catch  her, 
Off,  like  a  wool-clad  olive-branch,  she  blazes !  t 
Youth.  What  say  you  now  ? — We  have  not  met 

for  ages — 
A  little  sport  ? 

Old  W.  O  you  audacious  !— Where ! 

Youth.  Here — nuts  in  hand. 
Old  W.  What  sport  's  he  driving  at  ? 

Youth.  How  many — teeth  J  hast  thou  ? 
Chrem.  A  guess — a  guess — 

A  guess  for  me ! — Some  three,  mayhap,  or  four. 
Youth.  Pay  down :  —  she  has  but   one,    and 

that's  a  grinder. 
Old  W.  Vilest  of  men,  thy  wits  have  left  thee : 

what ! 

Before  such  crowds  to  make  a  wash  pot  of  me : 
Youth.  'Faith,  no  bad  turn — to  wash  thee  out, 
pot-fashion. 


*  Reverential  swearing : — Neptune  was  an  ancient  deity. 
("To  swear  with  propriety,"  says  my  little  major,  "the 
oath  should  be  an  echo  to  the  sense."— BOB  ACRES  in  The 
Rivals.) 

f  The  Athenians  used  to  hang  a  branch  of  this  kind 
above  their  doors,  to  keep  off  famine  and  pestilence.  It 
hung  a  year  before  it  was  renewed,  and  was,  therefore, 
sufficiently  dry  and  combustible  by  the  end  of  the  twelve- 
month. 

t  Instead  of— "  How  many  nuts  have  /? — odd  or  even  ?" 


Chrem.  Fy  on't,  not  so :  she's  now  made  up  for 

sale, 
Right  huckster's  trim — but  only  wash  the  paint 

off- 
Lord,  how  the  tatters  of  her  face  would  show ! 
Old  W.  Old  as  you  are,  your  sense  is  wondrous 

scanty. 
Youth.  He  tempts  thee,  sure — the  rogue ! — and 

thinks  the  while 
Those  daring  hands  escape  my  jealous  eye. 

Old  W.  So  help  me,  Venus,  not  a  hand  on  me 
He  lays,  you  brute. 

Chrem.  So  help  me,  Hecate,  no : 

Else  were  I  mad.     But  come,  my  boy,  this  lass 
Thou  must  not  loathe. 

Youth.  What  me  ?  I  love  to  frenzy. 

Chrem.  And  yet  she  'plains  of  thee. 
Youth.  She  'plains !  As  how  ? 

Chrem.  O,  a  proud  peat  you  are,  she  says,  and 

tell  her 
Once  the  Milesians  were  a  potent  people. 

Youth.  Well,  I'll  not  fight  with  thee  about  her. — 
Chrem.  No ! 

Your  why  and  wherefore? 

Youth.  Reverence  for  thine  years  : — 

There  breathes  no  other  wight  I'd  yield  her  to. 
And  now,  take  off  the  lass,  and  joy  be  with  thee ! 
Chrem.  I  see,  I  see  your  drift:  you  mean  no 

more 
To  herd  with  her. 

Old  W.  And  who  will  brook  the  traitor  ? 

Youth.  I've  not  a  word  for  one  so  rak'd  and 

riddled 

By  full  ten  thousand,  plus  three  thousand — years. 
Chrem.  Yet,    since  you  deign'd  to  quaff  the 

wine — you  take  me  ? — 
'Twere  fair  to  suck  the  dregs. 

Youth.  Ugh !  but  these  dregs — they  are  so  stale 

and  rancid. 

Chrem.  A  strainer  cures  all  that— 
Youth.  In,  in,  I  say : 

These  garlands  to  the  god  I  fain  would  offer. 
Old  W.  And  I — I  do  remember  me — I  too 
Have  a  word  to  say  to  him. 

Youth.  Then  go  not  I. 

Chrem.  Tut,  man,  cheer  up!     She   shall  not 

ravish  thee. 
Youth.  A    gracious   promise: — for   enough  in 

conscience 

I've  pitch'd  that  weather-beaten  hulk  already. 
Old  W.  Ay,  march  away : — I'll  not  be  far  be- 
hind thee. 
Chrem.  O,  sov'reign  Jove !  how  fast  and  firm 

the  beldame 
Cleaves  like  a  limpet  to  her  stripling  flame  ! 

[Exeunt. 

Before  the  house  of  CHREMTLUS. 

HERMES,  CARION,  CHREMYLUS,  OLD  WOMAIT, 
CHORUS. 

(HERMES  knocks  at  the  door,  and  hides.*) 
Car.  (coming  out.)  Who  knocks  the  door  there, 
ho  ?     Why  what  could  this  be  ? 

*  To  make  it  appear  that  the  door  had  rattled  of  itself,  ,it 
the  approach  of  his  godship. 


ARISTOPHANES. 


191 


No  one,  it  seems :  and  so  the  little  wicket 
Makes  all  this  hullabaloo,  forsooth,  for  nothing. 

Herm.  (showing  himself.)    You  there,  I  say, 
You,  Carion,  stop ! 

Car.          *  What,  fellow,  was  it  thee 

That  bang'd  so  lustily  against  the  door"? 

Herm.  No:  —  I   but  thought  on't — thou  hast 

sav'd  the  trouble. 

But  presto,  post  away  and  call  thy  master, 
And  furthermore,  the  mistress  and  her  brats ; 
And  furthermore,  the  slaves,  and  eke  the  mastiff; 
And  furthermore,  thyself — the  pig — 

Car.  Nay,  tell  me, 

What  w  all  this  ? 

Herm.  'Tis  Jove,  you  rogue,  is  minded 

Hashing  you  up  into  one  hotch-potch  mess, 
To  send  you,  great  and  small,  to  pot  together. 
Car.  Heralds  like  this  shall  get  the  tongue*— 

cut  out. 

But  why,  an'  please  you,  does  he  plan  such  fare 
For  us  ? 

Herm.  Because  you've  done — a  deed  without 

a  name : 

Since  first  this  Plums'  eyes  were  op'd  again, 
Nor  frankincense,  nor  laurel  bough,  nor  cake, 
Nor  victim,  nor  one  other  thing  one  mortal 
Offers  to  us — the  gods. 

Car.  Nor  will  for  ever : 

Such  wretched  care  ye  took  of  us  heretofore. 
Herm.  Well :  for  the  rest  I'm  somewhat  less 

concern'd, 

But  I  myself  am  perishing — am  pounded. 
Car.  Shrewd  fel'ow  !  f 

Herm.          Up  till  now,  among  the  tapstresses, 
1  far'd  not  ill  o'  mornings ;  winecake — honey — 
Dried  figs — and  all  that's  meet  for  Hermes'  palate : 
But  now,  cross-legg'd,  I  mope  for  grief  and  hun- 
ger. 
Car.  And  serves  ye  right,  too — many  a  time 

and  oft, 
For  all  their  gifts — you  left  them  in  the  lurch. 

Herm.  O  me !  the  cake — 

The  monthly  J  cheesecake  kneaded  once  for  me! 
Car.   Thou  crav'st  the  lost,  and  callest  out  in  vain.$ 
Herm.  And  O  the  ham — that  I  was  wont  de- 
vour ! 
Car.  Ham !    Ply  your  ham  in  dancing  on  a 

bottle.  || 
Herm.  The  tripes — the  trolly-bags — I  guzzled 

hot! 
Car.  The   tripes  —  the  gripes!  —  I  guess  the 

tripes  torment  thee. 

Herm.  And  O  the  jolly  jorum — half  and  half! 
Car.  Come,  take  a  swig  of  this,  and  off  with 

thee. 

Herm.  Ah !  wouldst  thou  do  thy  friend  a  little 
favour  ? 


*  The  victim's  tongue  was  devoted  to  Hermes.  But 
Carion  uses  an  ambiguous  phrase,  by  way  of  threat. 

t  To  care  only  for  himself 

t  On  the  fourth  day  of  each  month. 

$  The  announcement  from  heaven  to  Hercules,  when 
be  called  for  his  lost  Hylas. 

||  A  well-oiled  skin-bottle.  It  was  one  of  their  baccha- 
nal games  to  jump,  barefooted,  on  such  a  bottle  ;  and  he 
vho  kept  his  footing,  won  the  prize. 


Car.  Well:  if  it  lie  within  my  power — com- 
mand me. 
Herm.  Wouldst  thou  but  fetch  a  well-fir'd  loaf 

or  two—- 
And add  a  whacking  lump  of  that  same  meat 
You're  offering  up  within ! 

Car.  Impossible ! 

No  fetching  forth  aliow'd. 

Herm.  Yet  when  your  lord's  stray  articles  you 

pilfer'd, 

I  always  help'd  to  hide,  and  sav'd  your  bacon. 
Car.  Just  on  condition  you  should  share — you 

thief! 

You  never  miss'd  your  cake  on  such  occasions. 
Herm.  Nor  you   to  gobble  it  down  before  I 

touch'd  it. 

Car.  So :  for  no  equal  share  of  stripes  had  you, 
When  master  caught  me  in  a  peccadillo. 

Herm.   Think  not  of  past  offence,  now  Phyle's 

taken :* 

But  O — by  all  the  gods — for  an  inmate  take  me. 
Car.  Why,  wilt  thou  leave  the  gods  and  quar- 
ter here  ? 

Herm.  You're  better  off,  I  trow. 
Car.  What  then  ? 

Desert !  Is  that  a  handsome  trick  to  play  them  ? 
Herm.  'Tis  still  one's  country,  where  one  prospers 

well] 
Car.  And  say  we  took  thee  in — how  couldst 

thou  serve  us  ? 

Herm.  Beside  your  door  establish  me  as  TURN- 
KEY.* 
Car.  Turnkey !  we  want  no  turns  of  thine,  I 

promise  thee. 
Herm.  As  TRADER,  then. 

Car.  Nay,  we  are  rich,  and  so 

What  need  have  we  to  keep  a  pedlar-Hermes. 
Herm.  DECEIVER,  then. 

Car.  Deceiver  ?    Cheat  ?    Ne'er  dream  on't — 
No  room  for  cheating  now,  but  honest  practice. 
Herm.  Well,  then,  as  GUIDE. 
Car.  Our  god's  regain 'd  his  twinklers, 

So  we  have  business  for  a  guide  no  longer. 
Herm.  I  have  it — REVEL-MASTER  let  me  be 

then — 

What  canst  thou  say  to  that  ? 
For  sure  with  Plutus'  pomp  it  best  agrees 
To  hold  high  games  of  music  and  gymnastics. 

Car.  What  luck  to  have  good  store  of  aliases  ! 
See  now — this  knave  will  earn  his  bite  and  sup. 
Ay,  ay — 'tis  not  for  nought  our  judging  varlets 
Would  fain  be  written  down  with  many  letters.  § 
Herm.  On  these  terms,  then,  I've  leave  to  en- 
ter? 

Car.  Yes : 

And  hark  ye,  sirrah,  find  the  cistern  out, 
And  wash  me,  with  thy  proper  hands,  these  guts; 
So  shalt  thou  straightway  figure  off  as  SCULLION. 

[Exit  HERMES. 

*  As  Thrasybulus  proclaimed  an  amnesty  after  the  re- 
establishment  of  the  republic,  which  followed  his  seizure 
of  Phyle.  Hence  the  proverb. 

t  Quoted  probably  from  Euripides. 

t  The  poet  plays  upon  the  various  attributes  of  Her- 
mes. 

(  Another  hit  at  the  allotment  of  dicasts. 


192 


ARISTOTLE. 


Enter  PRIEST  OF  JOTE. 

Priest.  Who'll  tell  me  where  is  Chremylus? 

Chrem.  (entering.)  Good  fellow, 

What  is  the  matter  ? 

Priest.  What,  but  ruination  ? 

For  since  your  Plutus  'gan  to  see,  I  die 
Of  downright  famine — not  a  crumb  to  eat — 
/ — the  arch-priest  of  GUARDIAN  JOVE. 

Chrem.  Ye  Powers! 

What  can  the  cause  be  ? 

Priest.  Not  a  sacrifice 

Comes  our  way  any  longer. 

Chrem.  Wherefore  so  ? 

Priest.  'Cause  they're  all  rich.     And  yet,  in 

good  old  times, 
When  they  had   nought — some  home-returning 

merchant 

Would  bring  thanks-offering  for  safety ;  or 
Some  one  had  bilk'd  the  law — or  splendid  rites 
Were  held  by  some  magnifico,  and  I 
The  priest  was  sure  to  be  invited :  but 
No  victims  now — not  one — no  visitors — 
Except  the  thousands  that  come  there  to — ease 
them. 

Chrem.  And  hast  not  lawful  share  of  their — 
oblations  ? 

Priest.  So  to  this  Jove — this  Guardian — this 

Preserver — 
I  think  to  bid  good  by,  and  mess  with  you. 

Chrem.  Cheer  up,  man ;  all  shall  yet  go  well 

with  thee. 

Preserving  Jove  is  here* — alive  and  kicking — 
Come  of  his  own  accord. 

*  In  the  person  of  Plutus. 


Priest.  O  glorious  news ! 

Chrem.  Ay!  And  we  soon  shall  set — stop  but 

an  instant — 

Our  Plutus,  where  of  yore  he  sate  in  state, 
On  sleepless  watch  behind  Minerva's  temple.* — 
Lights   from  within   there ! — Take  the   torches, 

friend, 
And  marshal  on  the  god. 

Priest.  No  question  of  it: — 

Thus  must  I  do. 

Chrem.  And  some  one  call  for  Plutus. 

The  Procession  comes  out  from  the  house. 
Old  W.  And  what  of  me  ? 
Chrem.        Look  here,  these  pots,t  with  which 
We  consecrate  the  god,  mount  on  thy  noddle, 
And  bear  them  gravely :  flower'd  petticoat 
Thou  of  thyself  hast  donn'd. 

Old  W.  But— what  came  I  for  ? 

Chrem.  Nay,  thou  shalt  have  thy  will — 
This  evening  the  young  fellow  shall  be  with  thee. 
Old   W.    Well,  then — 0  Lud!— if  you  will 

pledge  his  coming — 
I'll  bear  your  pots. 

Car.  Were  never  pots  before 

In  such  a  case  : — in  those  the  scum's  a-top, 
In  these  a  scum — a  very  scum's  at  bottom ! 
Ch.  Delay,  delay  no  longer,  then: 

the  jolly  pomp's  before  us — 
Make  way,  make  way — and  form  again, 
to  follow  them  in  Chorus ! 

[Exeunt  Omnes. 


*  Where  the  public  treasury  was. 
f  Pots  of  pulse,  &c. 


ARISTOTLE. 


[Born  381-Died  322,  B.  C.] 


at  Stagira  in  Macedon,  and  educated  in 
the  school  of  Plato  at  Athens.  As  a  philosopher 
he  is  known  to  all  mankind,  and  would  perhaps 
have  been  equally  renowned  in  poetry,  had  he 


seriously  applied  his  high  faculties  to  that  divine 
art.  The  following  hymn  or  paean  was  composed 
in  honour  of  his  patron,  Hermias,  tyrant  of  Atar- 
nse,  an  eunuch,  and  originally  a  slave. 


HYMN   TO   VIRTUE. 


O  SOUGHT  with  toil  and  mortal  strife 

By  those  of  human  birth, 
Virtue,  thou  noblest  end  of  life, 

Thou  goodliest  gain  on  earth ! 
Thee,  Maid,  to  win,  our  youth  would  bear 
Unwearied,  fiery  pains ;  and  dare 

Death  for  thy  beauty's  worth ; 
So  bright  thy  proffered  honours  shine, 
Like  clusters  of  a  fruit  divine. 


Sweeter  than  slumber's  boasted  joys, 

And  more  desired  than  gold, 
Dearer  than  nature's  dearest  ties: — 

For  thee  those  heroes  old ; 
Herculean  son  of  highest  Jove, 
And  the  twin-birth  of  Leda,  strove 

By  perils  manifold : 
Great  Peleus'  son,  with  like  desire, 
And  Ajax  sought  the  Stygian  fire. 


HYBRIAS   OF   CRETE.— PERSES. 


193 


The  bard  shall  crown  with  lasting  lay, 

And  age  immortal  make 
Atarna's  sovereign,  'reft  of  day 

For  thy  dear  beauty's  sake : 
Him,  therefore,  the  recording  Nine 
In  songs  extol  to  heights  divine, 

And  every  chord  awake  ; 
Promoting  still,  with  reverence  due, 
The  meed  of  friendship  tried  and  true. 


ON  THE  TOMB  OF  AJAX. 

BY  Ajax'  tomb,  in  solemn  state, 

I,  Virtue,  as  a  mourner  wait, 

With  hair  dishevell'd,  sable  vest, 

Fast  streaming  eyes  and  heaving  breast; 

Since  in  the  Graecian  tents  I  see 

Fraud,  hateful  Fraud,  preferr'd  to  me.* 


See  page  194. 


HYBRIAS  OF  CRETE. 


OF  this  poet,  the  age  and  country,  with  the  fol- 
lowing short  scholium,  are  all  that  remain  to  us. 
"  Many  (observes  Sir  Daniel  Sandford,)  as  they 
read  these  stanzas  will  have  their  thoughts  re- 
called, with  melancholy  pleasure,  to  the  '  Allan-a- 


dale'  of  our  great  departed  minstrel,  whose  strains 
— free  as  they  are  of  all  conscious  imitation — so 
often,  through  the  force  of  kindred  genius,  seem  to 
echo  the  bold  and  vigorous  expression  of  finest 
Graecian  poetry." 


THE   WARRIOR'S   RICHES. 


Mr  wealth's  a  burly  spear  and  brand, 
And  a  right  good  shield  of  hides  untann'd, 

Which  on  mine  arm  I  buckle  : 
Wilh  these  I  plough,  I  reap,  I  sow, 
With  these  I  make  the  vintage  flow, 

And  all  around  me  truckle. 


But  your  wights,  that  take  no  pride  to  wield 
A  massy  spear  and  a  well-made  shield, 

Nor  joy  to  draw  the  sword  : 
Oh !  I  bring  those  heartless,  hapless  drones 
Down,  in  a  trice,  on  their  marrow-bones, 

To  call  me  king  and  lord. 


PERSES. 


OF  this  poet  there  are  eight  epigrams  remain- 
ing, but  none  of  them  affording  any  trace  of  the 
country  or  age  in  which  he  flourished.  The  fol- 
lowing has  been  selected  by  way  of  specimen, 
from  the  resemblance  which  (as  Mr.  Merivale 
truly  observes,)  it  bears,  both  in  the  subject  and 


in  the  manner  of  treating  it,  to  that  exquisite 
work  of  sculpture,  the  group  executed  by  Chan- 
trey,  for  the  monument  of  Miss  Johnes  of  Hafod. 
Had  the  epigram  been  modern,  instead  of  ancient, 
one  would  say  that  it  had  been  expressly  written 
for  it. 


ON  THE  MONUMENT  OF  A  DAUGHTER.    Just  as  the  death-mists  o'er  her  eye-lids  fell, 


UNBLEST  Mnasilla! — On  this  speaking  tomb 
What  means  the  type  of  emblematic  gloom? 
Thy  lost  Callirhoe  we  here  survey, 
Just  as  she  moaned  her  ebbing  soul  away, 


In  those  maternal  arms  she  loved  so  well. 
There,  too,  the  speechless  father  sculptured  stands, 
That  cherished  head  supporting  with  his  hands. 
Alas !  alas ! — thus  grief  is  made  to  flow 
A  ceaseless  stream— eternity  of  woe. 


23 


NICOSTRATUS. 


[About  3^0  B.  C.I 


of  the  sons  of  Aristophanes—  known  also  by  the  name  of  Pnileteeras, 
See  Clinton's  F.  E.  xxxii.,  note  p, 


LOQUACITY. 

IF  in  prattling  from  morning  till  night 
A  sign  of  our  wisdom  there  be, 

The  swallows  are  wiser  by  right, 

For  they  prattle  much  faster  than  we. 


MNASALCUS  OF  SICYON 


The  age  of  this  author  is  unknown. 


ON  A  VINE, 

SWEET  vine !  when  howls  the  wintry  hour, 
Not  now,  thy  leafy  honours  shower ; 
Nor  strew  them  on  the  thankless  plain- 
Soon  Autumn  will  come  round  again. 
Then,  when  with  heat  and  wine  opprest, 
Beneath  the  grateful  bower,  to  rest 
Antileon  lays  his  drooping  head, 
Oh  then  thy  shadowy  foliage  shed, 
In  heaps  around  the  sleeping  boy ! 
Thus  Beauty  should  be  crown'd  by  Joy. 


ON  THE  SHIELD  OF  ALEXANDER. 

A  HOLT  offering  at  Diana's  shrine, 
See  Alexander's  glorious  shield  recline ; 
Whose  golden  orb,  through  many  a  bloody  day, 
Triumphant,  ne'er  in  dust  dishonour'd.  lay. 


ON  A  TEMPLE  OF  VENUS 

NEAR  THE   SEA  SHORE. 

HEIIE  let  us  from  the  wave-washed  beach  behold 
Sea-born  Cythera's  venerable  fane, 

And  fountains  fringed  with  shady  poplars  old 
Where   dip  their  wings  the   golden  halcyon 


ON  A  PIPE  IN  THE  TEMPLE  OF  VENUS. 

SAT,  rustic  pipe !  in  Cythera's  dome 
Why  sounds  this  echo  of  a  shepherd's  home  ? 
Nor  rocks,  nor  valleys,  here  invite  the  strain ; 
But  all  is  Love— go,  seek  thy  hills  again. 


ON  A  LOCUST. 

OB,  never  more,  sweet  Locust, 

shalt  thou  with  shrilly  wing, 
Along  the  fertile  furrows  sit, 

and  thy  gladsome  carols  sing : 
Oh,  never  more  thy  nimble  wings 

shall  cheer  this  heart  of  mine 
With  sweetest  melody,  while  I 

beneath  the  trees  recline. 


PARODY 

OUT  AN  INSCRIPTION  OF  ARISTOTLE^.* 

IN  woeful  guise,  at  Pleasure's  gate, 
I,  Virtue,  as  a  mourner  wait, 
With  hair  in  loose  disorder  flowing, 
And  breast  with  fierce  resentment  glowin  |, 
Since,  all  the  country  round,  I  see 
Base  sensual  joys  preferred  to  me. 
*  See  page  193. 


194 


SPEUSIPPUS. 

[About  347  B.  C.] 

A  disciple  of  Plato,  and  his  successor  in  the  Academy. 


EPITAPH  ON  PLATO. 

PLATO'S  dead  form  this  earthly  shroud  invests ; 
His  soul  among  the  godlike  heroes  rests. 


ANTIPHANES. 

[Born  407— Died  333  B.  £] 

A  NATIVE  of  Rhodes,  and  author  of  nearly  three  hundred  comedies,  of  which  the  titles  of  one 
hundred  and  thirty  have  come  down  to  us. 


THE  PARASITE. 

WHAT  art,  vocation,  trade,  or  mystery, 
Can  match  with  your  fine  parasite  ? — The  pain- 
ter ? 

He  !  a  mere  dauber  ;  a  vile  drudge  the  farmer: — 
Their  business  is  to  labour,  our's  to  laugh, 
To  jeer,  to  quibble,  faith  sirs !  and  to  drink, 
Aye,  and  drink  lustily.     Is  not  this  rare  ? 
'Tis  life, — my  life  at  least :  The  first  of  pleasures 
Were  to  be  rich  myself,  but  next  to  this 
I  hold  it  best  to  be  a  parasite, 
And  feed  upon  the  rich.     Now  mark  me  right! 
Set  down  my  virtues  one  by  one:    Imprimis, 
Good-will  to  all  men — would  they  all  were  rich 
So  might  I  gull  them  nil: — Malice  to  none; 
I  envy  no  man's  fortune,  all  I  wish 
Is  but  to  share  it : — Would  you  have  a  friend, 
A  gallant,  steady  friend  ?     I  am  your  man  : 
No  striker  I,  no  swaggerer,  no  drfumrr, 
But  one  to  bear  all  these  and  still  forbear : — 
If  you  insult,  I  laugh,  unrutiled,  merry, 
Invincibly  good-humour'd,  still  I  laugh  : — 
A  stout  good  soldier  I,  valorous  to  a  fault, 
When  once  my  stomach's  up  and  supper  served : 
You  know  my  humour,  not  one  spark  of  pride, 
Such  and  the  same  for  ever  to  my  friends  : — 
If  cudgelled,  molten  iron  to  the  hammer 
Is  not  so  malleable ;  but  if  I  cudgel, 
Bold  as  the  thunder  : — Is  one  to  be  blinded  ? 


I  am  the  lightning's  flash  : — to  be  puff'd  up? 
I  am  the  wind  to  blow  him  till  he  burst: 
Choak'd,    strangled? — I   can    do't   and    save    a 

halter : — 
Would  you  break  down  his  doors  ?     Behold  an 

earthquake. 

Open  and  enter  them  ?— a  battering-ram : 
Will  you  sit  down  to  supper  ?— I  am  your  guest, 
Your  very  fly  to  enter  without  bidding: 
Would  you  move  off  ?>— -You'll  move  a  well  as 

soon:— 
I  am  for  all  work;  and,  though  the  job  were 

stabbing, 

Betraying,  false-accusing, — only  say 
Do  this,  and  it  is  done !     I  stick  at  nothing. 
They  call  me  Thunder-bolt  for  my  despatch ; 
Friend  of  my  friends  am  I: — Let  actions  speak  me; 
I  am  much  too  modest  to  commend  myself. 


LITTLE  TRUST  TO  BE  PUT  IN  WOMAN. 

FOR  this,  and  only  this,  I'll  trust  a  woman, 
That  if  you  take  life  from  her  she  will  die, 
And,  being  dead,  will  come  to  life  no  more ; 
In  all  things  else  I  am  an  infidel. 
Oh !  might  I  never  more  behold  a  woman! 
Rather  than  I  should  meet  that  object,  gods! 
Strike  out  mine  eyes — I'll   thank  you  for  your 
mercy. 

195 


196 


ANTIPHANES. 


CONSCIENCE  THE  BEST  LAW. 

AN  honest  man  to  law  makes  no  resort ; 
His  conscience  is  the  better  rule  of  court. 


NO  LIFE  WITHOUT  LOVE. 

THE  man,  who  first  laid  down  the  pedant  rule, 
That  love  is  folly,  was  himself  a  fool ; 
For,  if  to  life  that  transport  you  deny, 
What  privilege  is  left  us — but  to  die: 

NOT  LOST,  BUT  GONE  BEFORE. 

CEASE,  mourners,  cease  complaint,  and  weep  no 

more: 

Your  dead  friends  are  not  lost  but  gone  before, 
Advanc'd  a  stage  or  two  upon  that  road, 
Which  you  must  travel  in  the  steps  they've  trode. 
In  the  same  inn  we  all  shall  meet  at  last, 
There  take  new  life,  and  laugh  at  sorrows  past. 

The  Same  paraphrased. 

WHEW  those,  whom  love  and  blood  endear, 
Lie  cold  upon  the  funeral  bier, 
How  fruitless  are  our  tears  of  woe, 
How  vain  the  grief  that  bids  them  flow  ! 
Those  friends  lamented  are  not  dead, 
Though  dark  to  us  the  road  they  tread ; 
All  soon  must  follow  to  the  shore, 
Where  they  have  only  gone  before. 
Shine  but  to-morrow's  sun,  and  we, 
Compeli'd  by  equal  destiny, 
Shall  in  one  common  home  embrace, 
Where  they  have  first  prepar'd  our  place. 


DEATH. 

YES, — 'tis  the  greatest  evil  man  can  know, 
The  keenest  sorrow  in  this  world  of  woe, 
The  heaviest  impost  laid  on  human  breath, 
Which  all  must  pay,  or  yield  the  forfeit— death. 
For  Death  all  wretches   pray;    but  when  the 

prayer 

Is  heard,  and  he  steps  forth  to  ease  their  care, 
Gods !  how  they  tremble  at  his  aspect  rude, 
And,  loathing,  turn  !     Such  man's  ingratitude  ! 
And  none  so  fondly  cling  to  life,  as  he 
Who  hath  outlived  all  life's  felicity. 


ON  A  FOUNTAIN, 

NEAR  WHICH  A  MURDER  HAD   BEEN  COMMITTED. 

EREWHILE  my  gentle  streams  were  wont  to  pour 
Along  their  banks  a  pure  translucent  tide; 
But  now  the  waves  are  shrunk  and  channel 

dried, 
And  Naiads  know  their  once-loved   haunt   no    To  tug  you  to  his  wherry,  and  dislodge  you 

more ;  |  From  your  rich  tables,  when  your  hour  is  come. 


Since    that    sad    moment   when    my    verdant 
shore 

Was  with  the  crimson  hue  of  murder  dyed. 

To  cool  the  sparkling  heat  of  wine  we  glide, 
But  shrink  abhorrent  from  the  stain  of  gore. 


CONTRIVANCE 

FOR  COOLING  THE  BANQUET-CHAMBER  OF  THE 
KING  OF  CYPRUS. 

A.  You  say  you've  passed  much  of  your  time 

in  Cyprus. 

B.  All ;  for  the  war  prevented  my  departure. 
Jl.  In  what  place  chiefly,  may  I  ask  ? 

B.  In  Paphos ; 

Where  I  saw  elegance  in  such  perfection, 
As  almost  mocks  belief. 

A.  Of  what  kind,  pray  you? 

B.  Take  this  for  one — The  monarch,  when  he 

sups, 
Is  fanned  by  living  doves. 

Jl.  You  make  me  curious 

How  this  is  to  be  done ;  all  other  questions 
I  will  put  by  to  be  resolved  in  this. 

B.  There  is  a  juice  drawn  from  the  carpin- 

tree, 

To  which  your  dove  instinctively  is  wedded 
With  a  most  loving  appetite ;  with  this 
The  king  anoints  his  temples,  and  the  odour 
No  sooner  captivates  the  silly  birds, 
Than    straight    they    flutter    round    him, — nay, 

would  fly 
A  bolder  pitch,  so  strong  a  love-charm  draws 

them, 

And  perch,  O  horror!  on  his  sacred  crown, 
If  that  such  profanation  were  permitted 
Of  the  by-standers,  who  with  reverent  care 
Fright  them  away,  till  thus,  retreating  now 
And  now  advancing,  they  keep  such  a  coil 
With  their  broad  vans,  and  beat  the  lazy  air 
Into  so  quick  a  stir,  that  in  the  conflict 
His  royal  lungs  are  comfortably  cool'd, 
And  thus  he  sups  as  Paphian  monarchs  should. 


OLD  AGE 

COMPARED   WITH   OLD  WINE. 

OLD  age  and  old  wine  well  may  be  compared : 
Let  either  of  them  once  exceed  their  date, — 
Be  it  ne'er  so  little, — and  the  whole  turns  sour. 


RELUCTANCE  TO  DIE. 

AH  !  good  my  master,  you  may  sigh  for  Death, 
And  call  amain  upon  him  to  release  you; 
But  will  you  bid  him  '  Welcome'  when  he  comes  ? 
Not  you.     Old  Charon  has  a  stubborn  task 


ANAXANDRIDES. 


[About  376  B.  C.] 


A  NATIVE  of  Camirus  in  Rhodes,  and  author 
of  sixty-five  comedies,  of  which  the  titles  of 
twenty-eight  only  have  come  down  to  us.  He  is 
said  to  have  been  a  man  of  ungovernable  tem- 
per, and,  whenever  disappointed  of  the  prize  for 


which  he  had  contended,  to  have  vented  his 
rage  on  every  person  and  thing  that  fell  in  his 
way,  not  excepting  even  his  own  unfortunate 
dramas.  Hence  the  early  loss  of  the  greater  part 
of  them. 


OLD  AGE. 

YE  gods !  how  easily  the  good  man  bears 

His  cumbrous  honours  of  increasing  years. 

Age,  Oh  my  father,  is  not,  as  they  say, 

A  load  of  evils  heap'd  on  mortal  clay, 

Unless  impatient  folly  aids  the  curse 

And  weak  lamenting  makes  our  sorrows  worse. 


He  whose  soft  soul,  whose  temper  ever  even, 
Whose  habits  placid  as  a  cloudless  heaven, 
Approve  the  partial  blessings  of  the  sky, 
Smooths  the  rough  road  and  walks  untroubled 

by; 

Untimely  wrinkles  furrow  not  his  brow, 
And  graceful  wave  his  locks  of  reverend  snow. 


EUBULUS 


[About  375  B.  C.] 


A  WATIVE  of  Atarna  in  Lesbos,  but  of  Athe- 
nian ancestry.  He  stood  on  the  debatable  ground 
between  the  old  and  middle  comedy,  and  proba- 


bly wrote  plays  of  both  sorts.  Out  of  one  hun- 
dred and  four  comedies  which  he  is  said  to  have 
written,  the  names  of  about  fifty  remain. 


INTEMPERANCE. 

THREE  cups  of  wine  a  prudent  man  may  take; 
The  first  of  these,  for  constitution's  sake ; 
The  second  to  the  girl  he  loves  the  best 
The  third  and  last  to  lull  him  to  his  rest; 
Then  home  to  bed  ! — But  if  a  fourth  he  pours, 
That  is  the  cup  of  folly  and  not  ours ; 
Loud  noisy  talking  on  the  fifth  attrmls  ; 
The  sixth  breeds  feuds  and  falling-out  of  friends; 
Seven  beget  blows  and  fares  stained  with  gore; 
Eight, — and  the  watch-patrole  breaks  ope  the  door; 


Mad  with  the  ninth,  another  cup  goes  round, 
And   the    swill'd    sot    drops    senseless    on   the 
ground. 


ON  A  WINGED  CUPID. 

WHY,  foolish  painter,  give  those  wings  to  Love  ? 
Love  is  not  light,  as  my  sad  heart  can  prove : 
Love  hath  no  wings,  or  none  that  I  can  see ; 
If  he  can  fly,— oh!  bid  him  fly  from  me! 
R2  197 


ALEXIS. 


[About  356  B.  C.] 


A  NATIVE  of  Thurium,  and  author  of  two  hun- 
dred and  forty-five  comedies,  of  which  the  titles 
of  one  hundred  and  thirteen  remain.  We  know 


THE  BON  VIVANT. 

MY  wealthy  master  now  resolved  to  seek 
Instruction  late  in  life,  and  learn  to  speak ; 
And,  that  in  logic  rules  he  might  excel, 
He  feed  a  learned  doctor,  who  lived  well. 
Here,  at  a  vast  expense,  as  suits  his  rank, 
He  ate  and  drank,  and  spoke,  and  ate  and 

drank ; 

And,  after  years  of  study,  boasts  to  know 
The  best  receipt  to  make  a  fricandeau. 


LOVE. 

THE  man,  who  holds  true  pleasure  to  consist 
In  pampering  his  vile  body,  and  defies 
Love's  great  divinity,  rashly  maintains 
Weak  impious  war  with  an  immortal  God. 
The  gravest  master  that  the  schools  can  boast 
Ne'er  trained  his  pupils  to  such  discipline 
As  Love  his  votaries — And  where  is  he 
So  stubborn  and  determinedly  stiff 
But  shall,  at  some  time,  bend  his  knee  to  Love, 
And  make  obeisance  at  his  mighty  shrine. 

One  day,  as  slowly  sauntering  from  the  port, 
A  thousand  cares  conflicting  in  my  breast, 
Thus  I  began  to  commune  with  myself — 
Me  thinks  these  painters  misapply  their  art, 
And  never  knew  the  being  which  they  draw ; 
For  mark!  their  many  false  conceits  of  Love. 
Love  is  nor  male  nor  female,  man  nor  god, 
Nor  with  intelligence,  nor  yet.  without  it, 
But  a  strange  compound  of  all  these,  uniting 
In  one  mixed  essence  many  opposites ; 
A  manly  courage  with  a  woman's  fear, 
The  madman's  frenzy  in  a  reasoning  mind, 
The  strength  of  steel,  the  fury  of  a  beast, 
The  ambition  of  a  hero. — Something  'tis  : 
But,  by  Minerva  and  the  gods  I  swear, 
I  know  not  what  this  nameless  something  is. 


WICKEDNESS  OF  WOMEN, 

AND  FOLLY  OF  THOSE  WHO  WED  THEM. 

NOR  house,  nor  coffers,  nor  whatever  else 
Is  dear  and  precious,  should  be  watched  so  closely, 
As  she  whom  you  call  wife.     Sad  lot  is  ours, 
Who  barter  life  and  all  its  free  delights, 
198 


nothing  of  him  except  that  he  was  an  epicure,  a 
woman-hater,  and  the  uncle  and  instructor  of 
Menander. 


To  be  the  slaves  of  woman,  and  are  paid 

Her  bridal  portion  in  the  luckless  coin 

Of  sorrow  and  vexation.     A  man's  wrath 

Is  milk  and  honey  to  a  woman's  rage  ; 

He  can  be  much  offended  and  forgive  ; 

She  never  pardons  those  she  most  offends : 

What  she  should  do  she  slights,  what  she  should 

not 

Hotly  pursues ;  false  to  each  virtuous  point, 
And  only  in  her  wickedness  sincere. 

Who,  but  a  lunatic,  would  wed  and  be 
Wilfully  wretched  ?     Better  to  endure 
The  shame  of  poverty  and  all  its  taunts, 
Rather  than  this.     The  reprobate,  on  whom 
The  censor  sets  his  brand,  is  justly  doomed 
Unfit  to  govern  others :  but  the  wretch 
Who  weds,  no  longer  can  command  himself; 
Nor  hath  his  woe  a  period  but  in  death.* 


GLUTTONS  AND  DRUNKARDS. 

You,  sir,  a  Cyrenean,  as  I  take  you, 
Look  at  your  sect  of  desperate  voluptuaries! 
There's  Diodorus — beggary  is  too  good  for  him — 
A  vast  inheritance  in  two  short  years, 
Where    is  it?     Squander'd,   vanish'd  gone   for- 
ever; 

So  rapid  was  his  dissipation. — Stop  ! 
Stop,  my  good  friend,  you  cry;  not  quite  so  fast; 
This  man  went  fair  and  softly  to  his  ruin  ; 
What  talk  you  of  two  years  ?     As  many  days, 
Two  little  days,  were  long  enough  to  finish 
Young  Epicharides  ;  he  had  a  soul, 
And  drove  a  merry  pace  to  his  undoing —  | 
Marry!  if  a  kind  of  surfeit  would  surprise  us, 
Ere  we  sit  down  to  earn  it,  such  prevention 
Would  come  most  opportune  to  save  the  trouble 
Of  a  sick  stomach  and  an  aching  head : 
But  whilst  the  punishment  is  out  of  sight, 
And  the  full  chalice  at  our  lips,  we  drink, 
Drink  all  to-day,  to-morrow  fast  and  mourn, 
Sick,  and  all-o'er  opprest  with  nauseous  fumes :, 
Such  is  the  drunkard's  curse,  and  hell  itself 
Cannot  devise  a  greater—Oh,  that  Nature 


»  How  different  the  language  of  our  Otway! — 

O  woman,  lovely  woman!    Nature  made  thee 
To  temper  man  ;  wejiad  been  brutes  without  thee. 

Venice  Preserver. 


ARISTOPHON. 


199 


Might  quit  us  of  this  overbearing  burden, 
This  tyrant-god,  the  belly !     Take  that  from 
With  all  its  bestial  appetites,  and  man, 
Exonerated  man,  shall  be  all  soul.* 


THE  PROCURESS. 

WITH  fresh  recruits  she  still  augments  her  stock, 
Moulding  the  young  novitiate  to  her  trade ; 
Form,  feature,  manners,  every  thing  so  changed, 
That  not  a  trace  of  former  self  is  left. — 

Is  the  wench  short?     A  triple  sole  of  cork 
Exalts  the  pigmy  to  a  proper  size. 

Is  she  too  tall  of  stature  ?     A  low  chair 
Softens  the  fault,  and  a  fine  easy  stoop 
Lowers  her  to  standard-pitch ; — if  narrow-hipt, 
A  handsome  wadding  readily  supplies 
What  Nature  stints,  and  all  beholders  cry, 
"  See,  what  plump  haunches !"  Hath  the  nymph, 

perchance, 
A  high  round  paunch,  stuft  like  our  comic  drolls, 


*  It  seems  strange  that  these  lines  should  have  been 
written  by  a  glutton,  such  as  Athenseus  describes  the 
author  to  have  been. 


And  strutting  out  foreright?     A  good  stout  busk, 
Pushing  athwart,  shall  force  the  intruder  back. 

Hath  she  red  brows  ?     A  little  soot  will  cure 

them . 

Is  she  too  black  ?     The  ceruse  makes  her  fair : 
Too  pale  of  hue  ?     The  opal  comes  in  aid. 
Hath  she  a  beauty  out  of  sight  ?     Disclose  it 
Strip  nature  bare,  without  a  blush. — Fine  teeth? 
Let  her  affect  one  everlasting  grin, 
Laugh  without  stint — But  ah !  if  laugh  she  cannot, 
And  her  lips  won't  obey,  take  a  fine  twig 
Of  myrtle,  shape  it  like  a  butcher's  skewer, 
And  prop  them  open,  set  her  on  the  bitt, 
Day  after  day,  when  out  of  sight,  'till  use 
Grows  second  nature,  and  the  pearly  row, 
Will  she  or  will  she  not,  perforce  appears. 

PARENTS  AND  CHILDREN. 

WHEREAS  all  other  states  of  Greece  compel 
The  children  of  poor  parents  to  support 
Those  who  begot  them,  we  of  Athens  make 
The  law  imperative  on  such  children  only 
As  are  beholden  to  their  parents  for 
The  blessing  of  a  liberal  education. 


ARISTOPHON. 


[About  350  B.  C.] 
A  "WRITER  of  the  middle  comedy,  of  whom  nothing  but  a  few  fragments  remain  to  us. 


LOVE. 

LOVE,  the  disturber  of  the  peace  of  heaven, 
And  grand  fomenter  of  Olympian  feuds, 
Was  banished  from  the  synod  of  the  gods. 
They  drove  him  down  to  earth  at  the  expense 
Of  us  poor  mortals,  and  curtailed  his  wings 
To  spoil  his  soaring,  and  secure  themselves 
From  his  annoyance.— Selfish,  hard  decree! 
For  ever  since  he  roams  the  unquiet  world, 
The  tyrant  and  despoiler  of  mankind. 

MARRIAGE. 

A  MAIC  may  marry  once  without  a  crime, 
But  curst  is  he  who  weds  a  second  time. 


PYTHAGORAS'  VISIT  TO  HELL. 

I'VE  heard  this  arrogant  impostor  tell 
Amongst  the  wonders  which  he  saw  in  hell, 
That  Pluto  with  his  scholars  sate  and  fed, 
Singling  them  out  from  the  inferior  dead : 


Good  faith !  The  monarch  was  not  over  nice, 
Thus  to  take  up  with  beggary  and  lice. 

ON  THE  DISCIPLES  OF  PYTHAGORAS. 

So  gaunt  they  seem,  that  famine  never  made 

Of  lank  Philippides  so  mere  a  shade  : 

Of  salted  tunny-fish  their  scanty  dole, 

Their  beverage,  like  the  frogs,  a  standing  pool, 

With  now  and  then  a  cabbage,  at  the  best 

The  leavings  of  the  caterpillar's  feast : 

No  comb  approaches  their  dishevelled  hair 

To  rout  the  long  established  myriads  there  j 

On    the    bare    ground    their   bed;   nor  do  they 

know 

A  warmer  coverlid  than  serves  the  crow : 
Flames  the  meridian  sun  without  a  cloud? 
They  bask  like  grasshoppers,  and  chirp  as  loud. 
With  oil  they  never  even  feast  their  eyes ; 
The  luxury  of  stockings  they  despise  ; 
But,  barefoot  as  the  crane  they  march  along, 
All  night  in  chorus  with  the  screech-owl's  song. 


DIODORUS    OF    SINOPE. 


[About  350  B.  C.] 


CHOICE  OF  A  WIFE, 
THIS  is  my  rule,  and  to  this  rule  I'll  hold, 
To  choose  my  wife  by  merit,  not  by  gold ; 
For  on  that  one  election  must  depend 
Whether  I  wed  a  fury  or  a  friend. 


FORGIVENESS  OF  THE  DEAD. 
WHEN  your  foe  dies,  let  all  resentment  cease ; 
Make  peace  with  death,  and  death  shall  give 
you  peace. 


HERMESIANAX  OF  COLOPHON. 


[About  350  B.  C.] 


HERMESIAWAX  is  said  to  have  been  a  native 
of  Colophon,  and  was  the  author  of  three  books 
of  Elegies  entitled  Leontium  (Asovr'tov)  in  honour 


of  the  celebrated  Athenian  courtezan  of  that 
name.  The  following  fragment,  preserved  by 
Athenseus,  is  all  that  remains  of  this  poet. 


THE  LOVES  OF  THE  GREEK  POETS. 

######:## 

Such  was  the  nymph  whom  ORPHEUS  led 
From  the  dark  mansions  of  the  dead, 
Where  Charon  with  his  lazy  boat 
Ferries  o'er  Lethe's  sedgy  moat ; 
The  undaunted  minstrel  smites  the  strings, 
His  strain  through  hell's  vast  concave  rings  5 
Cocytus  hears  the  plaintive  theme, 
And  refluent  turns  his  pitying  stream  ; 
Three-headed  Cerberus,  by  fate 
Posted  at  Pluto's  iron  gate, 
Low-crouching  rolls  his  haggard  eyes 
Extatic,  and  foregoes  the  prize  ; 
With  ears  erect  at  hell's  wide  doors, 
Lies  listening  as  the  songster  soars: 
Thus  music  charm'd  the  realm  beneath, 
And  beauty  triumph'd  over  death. 
The  bard,  whom  night's  pale  regent  bore 
In  secret  on  the  Athenian  shore, 
MUSJEUS,  felt  the  sacred  flame, 
And  burnt  for  the  fair  Theban  dame, 
Antiope,  whom  mighty  Love 
Made  pregnant  by  imperial  Jove  ; 
The  poet  plied  his  amorous  strain, 
Press'd  the  fond  fair,  nor  press'd  in  vain; 
For  Ceres,  who  the  veil  undrew, 
That  screen'd  her  mysteries  from  view, 
Propitious  this  kind  truth  reveal'd, 
That  woman  close-besieged  will  yield. 
HOMER,  of  all  past  bards  the  prime, 
And  wonder  of  all  future  time, 
Whom  Jove  with  wit  sublimely  blest, 
And  touched  with  purest  fire  his  breast, 
200 


From  gods  and  heroes  turned  away 

To  warble  the  domestic  lay, 

And,  wandering  to  the  desert  isle, 

On  whose  parch'd  rocks  no  seasons  smile, 

In  distant  Ithaca  was  seen 

Chaunting  the  suit-repelling  queen. 

Old  HESIOD,  too,  his  native  shade 

Made  vocal  to  the  Ascraean  maid; 

The  bard  his  heaven-directed  lore 

Forsook,  and  hymn'd  the  gods  no  more ; 

Soft,  love-sick  ditties  now  he  sung, 

Love  touch'd  his  harp,  love  tuned  his  tongue, 

Silenced  his  Heliconian  lyre, 

And  quite  put  out  religion's  fire. 

MIMNERMUS  tuned  his  amorous  lay, 
When  time  had  turned  his  temples  gray ; 
Love  revelled  in  his  aged  veins, 
Soft  was  his  lyre,  and  sweet  his  strains; 
Frequenter  of  the  wanton  feast, 
Nanno  his  theme,  and  youth  his  guest. 

AWTIMACHTJS  with  tender  art 
Poured  forth  the  sorrows  of  his  heart ; 
In  her  Dardanian  grave  he  laid 
Chryseis,  his  beloved  maid  ; 
And  thence  returning,  sad  beside 
Pactolus'  melancholy  tide, 
To  Colophon  the  minstrel  came, 
Still  sighing  forth  the  mournful  name, 
Till  lenient  time  his  grief  appeas'd, 
And  tears  by  long  indulgence  ceas'd. 

ALCJETJS  strung  his  sounding  lyre, 
And  smote  it  with  a  hand  of  fire, 


PHILEMON. 


201 


To  Sappho,  fondest  of  the  fair, 
Chanting  the  loud  and  lofty  air. 
****** 
E'en  SOPHOCLES,  whose  honey' d  lore 
Rivals  the  bee's  delicious  store, 
Chorus'd  the  praise  of  wine  and  love, 
Choicest  of  all  the  gifts  of  Jove. 
****** 
PUILOXENUS,  by  wood-nymphs  bred, 
On  famed  Cithseron's  sacred  head, 
And  trained  to  music,  wine,  and  song, 
Midst  orgies  of  the  frantic  throng, 
When  beauteous  Galatea  died, 
His  flute  and  thyrsus  cast  aside ; 
And,  wandering  to  thy  pensive  coast, 
Sad  Melos,  where  his  love  was  lost ; 
Each  night,  through  the  responsive  air, 

echoes  witress'd  his  despair; 
Still,  still  his  plaintive  harp  was  heard, 
Soft  as  the  nightly  singing  bird. 
PHILOTAS,  too,  in  Battis'  praise, 
Sung  his  long-winded  roundelays ; 
His  statue  in  the  Coan  grove, 
Now  breathes  in  brass  perpetual  love. 


The  mortified,  abstemious  Sage, 

Deep-read  in  learning's  crabbed  page, 

PYTHAGORAS,  whose  boundless  soul 

Scaled  the  wide  globe  from  pole  to  pole, 

Earth,  planets,  seas,  and  heavens  above, 

Yet  found  no  spot  secure  from  love ; 

With  love  declines  unequal  war, 

And,  trembling,  drags  his  conqueror's  car  ;- 

Theano  clasp'd  him  in  her  arms, 

And  Wisdom  stooped  to  Beauty's  charms. 

E'en  SOCRATES,  whose  moral  mind 
With  truth  enlighten'd  all  mankind, 
When  at  Aspasia's  side  he  sate, 
Still  found  no  end  to  love's  debate ; 
For  strong  indeed  must  be  the  heart 
Where  love  finds  no  unguarded  part. 

Sage  ABISTIPPUS,  by  right  rule 
Of  logic,  purged  the  Sophist's  school, 
Check'd  folly  in  its  headlong  course, 
And  swept  it  down  by  reason's  force ; 
'Till  Venus  aimed  the  heartfelt  blow, 
And  laid  the  mighty  victor  low. 


PHILEMON. 


[About  339  B.  C.] 


A  KATIVE  of  Soli,  and  author  of  ninety-seven 
comedies,  of  which  only  fragments  have  come 
down  to  us.  He  was  a  man  of  temperate  and 
peaceful  habits,  and  lived  to  the  age  of  ninety- 
nine,  when  he  died,  (according  to  Lucian,)  in  a 


paroxysm  of  laughter,  at  seeing  an  ass  devour 
some  figs  intended  for  his  own  eating.  Philemon 
was  considered  by  some  as  superior  to  Menander, 
and  even  carried  off  the  prize  from  him  on  seve- 
ral occasions. 


THE  JUST  MAN. 

An  are  not  just,  because  they  do  no  wrong, 
But  he,  who  will  not  wrong  me  when  he  may, 
He  is  the  truly  just.     I  praise  not  them, 
Who,  in  their  petty  dealings  pilfer  not ; 
But  him,  whose  conscience  spurns  a  secret  fraud, 
When  he  might  plunder  and  defy  surprise : 
His  be  the  praise,  who,  looking  down  with  scorn 
On  the  false  judgment  of  the  partial  herd, 
Consults  his  own  clear  heart,  and  boldly  dares 
To  be,  not  to  be  thought,  an  honest  man. 

THE  SOVEREIGN  GOOD. 
PHILOSOPHERS  consume  much  time  and  pains 
To  seek  the  sovereign  good ;  nor  is  there  one, 
Who  yet  hath  struck  upon  it :  Virtue  some, 
And  Prudence  some  contend  for,  whilst  the  knot 
Grows  harder  by  their  struggles  to  untie  it. 
I,  a  mere  clown,  in  turning  up  the  soil, 
Have  dug  the  secret  forth — All-gracious  Jove ! 
26 


'Tis  Peace,  most  lovely,  and  of  all  beloved ; 
Peace  is  the  bounteous  goddess  who  bestows 
Weddings,  and  holidays,  and  joyous  feasts,    • 
Relations,  friends,  health,  plenty,  social  comforts, 
And  pleasures,  which  alone  make  life  a  blessing.* 


TRUTH. 

Now,  by  the  gods,  it  is  not  in  the  power 
Of  Painting  or  of  Sculpture  to  express 
Aught  so  divine  as  the  fair  form  of  TRUTH  ! 
The  creatures  of  their  art  may  catch  the  eye, 
But  her  sweet  nature  captivates  the  soul. 


ON  TEARS. 

IF  tears  could  medicine  human  ills,  and  give 
The  o  ercharged  heart  a  sweet  restorative, 


*  We  are  told  by  Dr.  Parr,  that  the  above  passage  was 
a  very  favourite  one  with  Mr.  Fox. 


202 


MENANDER. 


Gold,  jewels,  splendour,  all  we  reckon  dear, 
Were  mean  and  worthless  to  a  single  tear. 
But  ah !  nor  treasures  bribe,  nor  raining  eyes, 
Our  firm  inexorable  destinies  : — 
Weep  we  or  not,  as  sun  succeeds  to  sun, 
In  the  same  course  our  fates  unpitying  run. 
Tears  yet  are  ours,  whene'er  misfortunes  press, 
And  though  our  weeping  fails  to  give  redress, 
Long  as  their  fruits  the  changing  seasons  bring, 
Those   bitter    drops    will   flow    from    Sorrow's 
spring. 


Two 


SENSE  AND  NONSENSE. 

words   of  nonsense  are    two  words  too 

much: 

Whole  volumes  of  good  sense  will  never  tire. 
What  multitudes  of  lines  did  Homer  write ! 
Who  ever  thought  he  wrote  one  line  too  much. 


A  WORD 

TO  THE  IDLE  AND  THOUGHTLESS. 

0  CLEON,  cease  to  trifle  thus  with  life : 

A  mind,  so  barren  of  experience, 

Can  hoard  up  naught  but  misery,  believe  me. 

The  shipwreck'd  mariner  must  sink  outright, 

Who  makes  no  effort  to  regain  the  shore ; 

The  needy  wretch,  who  never  learn'd  a  trade, 

And  will  not  work,  must  starve — "  What  then,' 

you  cry? 

"  My  riches" — Frail  security — "  My  farms, 
My  houses,  my  estate" — Alas,  my  friend, 
Fortune  makes  quick  despatch,  and  in  a  day 
Can  strip  you  bare  as  beggary  itself. 
Grant  that  you  now  had  piloted  your  bark 
Into  good  fortune's  haven,  anchor'd  there 
And  moor'd  her  safe  as  caution  could  devise; 
Yet,  if  the  headstrong  passions  seize  the  helm 
And  turn  her  out  to  sea,  the  stormy  gusts 
May  rise  and  blow  you  out  of  sight  of  port, 


Never  to  reach  prosperity  again — 
"  What  tell  you  me :  Have  I  not  friends  to  fly  to  ? 
I  have ;  and  will  not  those  kind  friends  protect  me  ?" 
Better  it  were,  you  should  not  need  their  service, 
And  so  not  make  the  trial.     Much  I  fear 
Your  sinking  hand  would  only  grasp  a  shade. 


HOPELESS  ANGUISH. 
'Tis  not  on  them  alone,  who  tempt  the  sea, 
That  the  storm  breaks ;  it  whelms  e'en  us, 

Laches, 

Whether  we  pace  the  open  colonnade, 
Or  to  the  inmost  shelter  of  our  house 
Shrink  from  its  rage.     The  sailor  for  a  day, 
A  night  perhaps,  is  bandied  up  and  down, 
And  then  anon  reposes,  when  the  wind 
Veers    to  the  wish'd-for  point,  and  wafts  him 

home. 

But  I. know  no  repose ;  not  one  day  only, 
But  every  day,  to  the  last  hour  of  life, 
Deeper  and  deeper  am  I  plunged  in  woe. 


THE  TEST  OF  WISDOM. 
EXTREMES  of  fortune  are  true  wisdom's  test, 
And  he's  of  men  most  wise,  who  bears  them 

best. 


RICHES. 

STILL  to  be  rich  is  still  to  be  unhappy; 
Still  to  be  envied,  hated,  and  abused ; 
Still  to  collect  new  law-suits,  new  vexations, 
Still  to  be  carking,  still  to  be  collecting, 
Only  to  make  your  funeral  a  feast, 
And  hoard  up  riches  for  a  thriftless  heir : 
— Let  me  be  light  in  purse  and  light  in  heart ; 
Give  me  small  m^ans,  but  give  content  withal; 
Only  preserve  me  from  the  law,  kind  gods, 
And  I  will  thank  you  for  my  poverty. 


MENANDER. 


[Born  342,  Died  291,  B.  C.] 


MENANDER,  son  of  the  Athenian  general  Dio-  Of  their  excellence,  however,  if  we  may  judge 
peithes,  and  nephew  of  the  comedian  Alexis,  ,  from  the  loudness  and  unanimity  of  his  country- 
was  born  at  Athens,  and  educated  in  the  school 
of  Theophrastus.  He  himself,  however,  in  later 


life,  rather  leaned  to  the  opinions  of  Epicurus, 
whom  he  described  as  rescuing  Greece  "from 
unreason,  just  as  Themistocles  had  rescued  her 
from  slavery."  He  wrote  upwards  of  one  hun- 
dred comedies,  of  which  only  fragments  remain. 


men  in  their  praise,  there  can  be  but  little 
doubt.  Terence,  whom  Julius  Caesar  used  to  call 
the  demi-Menander,  is  supposed  to  have  been 
indebted  to  him  for  many  of  his  plots.  He  died 
at  Athens  in  the  fifty-second  year  of  his  age,  being 
drowned,  according  to  one  account,  while  bathing 
in  the  harbour  of  the  Peirseus. 


MENANDER. 


203 


MISANTHROPY  AND  DISCONTENT. 
SUPPOSE  some  god  should  say — "  Die  when  thou 

wilt, 

Mortal,  expect  another  life  on  earth  ; 
And,  for  that  life,  make  choice  of  all  creation 
What  thou  wilt  be ;  dog,  sheep,  goat,  man,  or 

horse ; 

For  live  again  thou  must;  it  is  thy  fate  ; 
Choose  only  in  what  form  ;  there  thou  art  free."— 
So  help  me,  Crato,  I  would  fairly  answer, — 
Let  me  be  all  things,  any  thing  but  man ! 
He  only  of  all  creatures  feels  affliction. 
The  generous  horse  is  valuf.d  for  his  worth, 
And  dog  by  merit  is  preferred  to  dog; 
The  warrior  cock  is  pampered  for  his  courage, 
And  awes  the  baser  brood — But  what  is  man? 
Truth,  virtue,  valour,  how  do  they  avail  him  ? 
Of  this  world's  good  the  first  and  greatest  share 
Is  flattery's  prize ;  the  informer  takes  the  next, 
And  barefaced  knavery  garbles  what  is  left.— 
I'd  rather  be  an  ass  than  what  I  am, 
And  see  these  villains  lord  it  o'er  their  betters. 


EVERY  CREATURE  MORE  BLEST  THAN 

MAN. 

ALL  creatures  are  more  blest  in  their  condition, 
And  in  their  natures  worthier,  than  man. 
Look  at  yon  ass ! — A  sorry  beast  you'll  say, 
And  such,  in  truth  he  is— poor,  hapless  thing! 
Yet  these  his  sufferings  spring  not  from  himself, 
For  all  that  Nature  gave  him  he  enjoys ; 
Whilst  we,  beside  our  necessary  ills ; 
Make  ourselves  sorrows  of  our  own  begetting. 
If  a  man  sneeze,  we're  sad — for  that's  ill-luck ; 
If  he  traduce  us,  we  run  mad  with  rage ; 
A  dream,  a  vapour,  throws  us  into  terrors, 
And  let  the  night-owl  hoot,  we  melt  with  fear : 
Anxieties,  opinions,  laws,  ambition, 
All  these  are  torments  we  may  thank  ourselves  for. 

LUSTRATION. 

IF  your  complaints  were  serious,  'twould  be  well 
You  sought  a  serious  cure ;  but  for  weak  minds 
Weak  medicines  suffice. — Go,  call  around  you 
The  women  with  their  purifying  water ; 
Drug  it  with  salt  and  lentils,  and  then  take 
A  treble  sprinkling  from  the  holy  mess : 
Now  search  your  heart;  if  that  reproach  you  not, 
Then,  and  then  only,  you  are  truly  pure. 


THE  USE  OF  RICHES. 

ABUNDANCE  is  a  blessing  to  the  wise; 

The  use  of  riches  in  discretion  lies. 

Learn  this,  ye  men  of  wealth — A  heavy  purse 

In  a  fool's  pocket  is  a  heavy  curse. 


WOMAN  AND  WEDLOCK. 

IF  such  the  sex,  was  not  the  sentence  just, 
That  riveted  Prometheus  to  his  rock? — 
—Why? — For  what  crime? — A  spark,  a  little 
spark ; 


But,  oh  ye  gods !  how  infinite  the  mischief — 
That  little  spark  gave  being  to  a  woman, 
And  let  in  a  new  race  of  plagues  to  curse  us. 
Where  is  the  man  that  weds?     Show  me  the 

wretch ; 

— Woe  to  his  lot! — Insatiable  desires, 
His  nuptial  bed  defiled,  poisonings  and  plots, 
And  maladies  untold — these  are  the  fruits 
Of  marriage — these  the  blessings  of  a  wife. 

LIFE. 

THE  lot  of  all  most  fortunate  is  his, 
Who,  having  staid  just  long  enough  on  earth 
To  feast  his  sight  with  the  fair  face  of  Nature, 
Sun,  sea,  and  clouds,  and  heaven's  bright  starry 

fires, 

Drops  without  pain  into  an  early  grave. 
For  what  is  life,  the  longest  life  of  man, 
But  the  same  scene  repeated  o'er  and  o'er  ? 
A  few  more  lingering  days  to  be  consumed 
In  throngs  and  crowds,  with  sharpers,  knaves, 

and  thieves ; — 
From  such  the  speediest  riddance  is  the  best. 

ENVY. 

THOU  seem'st  to  me,  young  man,  not  to  perceive 
That  every  thing  contains  within  itself 
The  seeds  and  sources  of  its  own  corruption : 
The  cankering  rust  corrodes  the  brightest  steel ; 
The  moth  frets  out  your  garment,  and  the  worm 
Eats  its  slow  way  into  the  solid  oak ; 
But  Envy,  of  all  evil  things  the  worst, 
The  same  to-day,  to-morrow,  and  for  ever, 
Saps  and  consumes  the  heart  in  which  it  works. 


ADVICE  TO  THE  COVETOUS. 
WEAK  is  the  vanity,  that  boasts  of  riches, 
For  they  are  fleeting  things  ; — were  they  not  such, 
Could  they  be  yours  to  all  succeeding  time, 
'Twere  wise  to  let  none  share  in  the  possession ; 
But,  if  whate'er  you  have  is  held  of  Fortune, 
And  not  of  right  inherent,  why,  my  father, 
Why  with  such  niggardly  jealousy  engross 
What  the  next  hour  may  ravish  from  your  grasp, 
And  cast  into  some  worthless  favourite's  lap  ? 
Snatch  then  the  swift  occasion  while  'tis  yours ; 
Put  this  unstable  boon  to  noble  uses ; 
Foster  the  wants  of  men,  impart  your  wealth, 
And  purchase    friends;  'twill  be  more  lasting 

treasure, 
And,  when  misfortune  comes,  your  best  resource. 

THE  RICH 

NOT  HAPPIER  THAN  THEIR  NEIGHBOURS. 

NE'ER  trust  me,  Phanias,  but  I  thought  'till  now, 
That  you  rich  fellows  had  the  knack  of  sleeping 
A  good  sound  nap,  that  held  you  for  the  night ; 
And  not  like  us  poor  rogues,  who  toss  and  turn, 
Sighing  "dh  me!"  and  grumbling  at  our  duns: 
But  now  I  find,  in  spite  of  all  your  money, 
You  rest  no  better  than  your  needy  neighbours, 
And  sorrow  is  the  common  lot  of  all. 


204 


TIMOCLES. 


CONSOLATION  IN  MISFORTUNE. 
IF  you,  O  Trophimus,  and  you  alone 
Of  all  your  mother's  sons,  have  Nature's  charter 
For  privilege  of  pleasures  uncontrolled, 
With  full  exemption  from  the  strokes  of  Fortune, 
And  that  some  god  hath  ratified  the  grant, 
You  then  with  cause  may  vent  your  loud  re- 
proach, 

For  he  hath  broke  your  charter  and  betrayed  you: 
But,  if  you  live  and  breathe  the  common  air 
On  the  same  terms  that  we  do,  then  I  tell  you, 
And  tell  it  in  the  tragic  poet's  words — 
"  Of  your  philosophy  you  make  no  use, 
If  you  give  place  to  accidental  evils" — * 
The  sum  of  which  philosophy  is  this — 
You  are  a  man,  and  therefore  Fortune's  sport, 
This  hour  exalted,  and  the  next  abased : 
You  are  a  man,  and,  though  by  nature  weak, 
By  nature  arrogant,  climbing  to  heights 
That  mock  your  reach,  and  crush  you  in  the  fall. 
Nor  was  the  blessing,  you  have  lost,  the  best 
Of  all  life's  blessings;  nor  is  your  misfortune 
The  worst  of  its  afflictions ;  therefore,  Trophimus, 
Make  it  not  such  by  overstrained  complaints, 
But  to  your  disappointment  suit  your  sorrow. 


WHAT  DUST  WE  ARE  MADE  OF. 

IF  you  would  know  of  what  frail  stuff  you're 

made, 
Go  to  the  tombs  of  the  illustrious  dead ; 

*  The  lines  in  italics,  taken  from  Shakspeare's  Julius 
Caesar,  correspond  with  the  exact  meaning  of  the  origi- 
nal, which  was  a  quotation  from  some  one  of  the  tragic 
poets,  probably  Euripides. 


There  rest  the  bones  of  kings,  there  tyrants  rot ; 
There  sleep  the  rich,  the  noble,  and  the  wise ; 
There  pride,  ambition,  beauty's  fairest  form, 
All  dust  alike,  compound  one  common  mass : 
Reflect  on  these,  and  in  them  see  yourself. 


BAD  TEMPER. 

OF  all  bad  things,  by  which  mankind  are  curst, 
Their  own  bad  tempers  surely  are  the  worst. 


KNOW  THYSELF. 

You  say,  not  always  wisely, — "  Know  THYSELF  ! ! 
Know  others,  oftentimes,  is  the  better  maxim. 


UNKIND  FORTUNE. 

WHAT  pity  'tis  when  happy  Nature  rears 

A  noble  pile,  that  Fortune  should  o'erthrow  it. 

HOW  TO  PLEASE  GOD. 

THINK  not  that  God  is  pleased  with  blood  of 

bulls 

And  goats, — that  He  delights  in  images 
Of  gold  and  ivory ; — deceive  not  thus 
Thyself,  0  man,  with  vain  imaginations  j 
But  study  rather  to  conciliate 
His  grace  by  doing  good  to  all  around  thee. 
Abstain  from  hate,  and  violence ;  from  adultery, 
Theft,  fraud,  and  avarice ;  covet  not  so  much  as 
The  thread  of  another's  needle ;  for  know  thou 
That  God  is  ever  present,  ever  has 
His  eye  upon  thee ! 


TIMOCLES. 


[About  330  B.  C.] 


OF  this  name  there  are  two  comic  poets  on 
record  ;  one  of  uncertain  date  and  country, — the 
other,  a  native  of  Athens,  and  flourishing  there 


towards  the  latter  part  of  the  fourth  century  before 
Christ.  To  which  of  them  we  are  indebted  for  the 
following  fragment  it  is  impossible  to  determine. 


A  BALM  FOR  OUR  CARES. 

NAT,  my  good  friend,  but  hear  me!     I  confess 

Man  is  a  child  of  sorrow,  and  this  world, 

In  which  we  breathe,  hath  cares  enough  to  plague 

us; 

But  it  hath  means  withal  to  soothe  these  cares 
And  he,  who  meditates  on  other's  woes 
Shall  in  that  meditation  lose  his  own : 
Call  then  the  tragic-poet  to  your  aid, 
Hear  him,  and  take  instruction  from  the  stage. 


Let  Telephus  appear ;  behold  a  prince 

A  spectacle  of  poverty  and  pain, 

Wretched  in  both. — And  what  if  you  are  poor  ? 

Are  you  a  demi-god  ?     Are  you  the  son 

Of  Hercules  ?     Begone !     Complain  no  more. — 

Doth  your  mind  struggle  with  distracting  thoughts? 

Do  your  wits  wander  ?    Are  you  mad  ?    Alas ! 

So  was  Alcmseon,  whilst  the  world  adored 

His  father  as  a  god. — Your  eyes  are  dim  ; 

What  then  ?     The  eyes  of  CEdipus  were  dark, 

Totally  dark.— You  mourn  a  son  ?     He's  dead  ? 


DIPHILUS. -.APOLLODORUS    OF    GELA. 


205 


Turn  to  the  tale  of  Niobe  for  comiiirt, 

And  match  your  loss  with  hers. — You're  larne 

of  foot  ? 

Compare  it  with  the  foot  of  Philoctetes 
And  make  no  more  complaint. — But  you  are  old, 


Old  and  unfortunate  ; — consult  Oeneus  ; 
Hear  what  a  king  endured  and  learn  content. 
Sum  up  your  miseries,  number  up  your  sighs, 
The  tragic  stage  shall  give  you  tear  for  tear, 
And  wash  out  all  afflictions  but  its  own. 


DIPHILUS. 


[About  330  B.  C.] 


DIPHILUS  was  born  at  Sinope,  and  died  at 
Smyrna.  Of  one  hundred  comedies  which  he  is 
:$aid  to  have  written,  a  few  fragments  only  have 


been  preserved.  The  "Casina"  of  Plautus  and 
a  considerable  portion  of  Terence's  "Adelphi" 
are  said  to  have  been  borrowed  from  this  poet. 


LAW  OF  CORINTH  AGAINST  SPEND- 
THRIFTS. 

WE  have  a  notable  good  law  at  Corinth, 

Where,  if  an  idle  fellow  outruns  reason, 

Feasting  and  junketing  at  furious  cost, 

The  sumptuary  proctor  calls  upon  -him, 

And  thus  begins  to  sift  him:  "You  live  well, 

But  have  you  well  to  live?  You  squander  freely, 

Have  you  the  wherewithal  ?  Have  you  the  fund 

For  these  outgoings  ? — If  you  have,  go  on ! 

If  you  have  not,  we'll  stop  you  in  good  time, 

Before  you  outrun  honesty ;  for  he 

Who  lives,   we  know   not  how,  must  live  by 

plunder ; 

Either  he  picks  a  purse  or  robs  a  house, 
Or  is  accomplice  with  some  knavish  gang, 
Or  thrusts  himself  in  crowds  to  play  the  informer, 


And  put  his  perjured  evidence  to  sale : 
This  a  well-ordered  city  will  not  suffer; 
Such  vermin  we  expel." — And  you  do  wisely : 
But  what  is  this  to  me  ? — "  Why  this  it  is : 
Here  we  behold  you  every  day  at  work, 
Living,  forsooth,  not  as  your  neighbours  live, 
But  richly,  royally,  ye  gods ! — Why,  man, 
We  cannot  get  a  fish  for  love  or  money ; 
You  swallow  the  whole  produce  of  the  sea: 
You've  driven  our  citizens  to  browse  on  cabbage  j 
A  sprig  of  parsley  sets  them  all  a-fighting, 
As  at  the  Isthmian  games ;  if  hare,  or  partridge, 
Or  but  a  simple  thrush  comes  into  market, 
Quick,  at  a  word,  you  snap  him — by  the  gods ! 
Hunt  Athens  through,  you  shall  not  find  a  feather, 
But  in  your  kitchen ;  and  for  wine,  'tis  gold — 
Not  to  be  purchased — we  may  drink  the  ditches." 


APOLLODORUS  OF  GELA. 


[About  330  B.  C.] 


A  WRITER  high  in  fame,  and  author  of  several 
comedies,  of  which  the  titles  of  eight  only,  and 
some  few  fragments  now  remain.  The  Phormio 


and  Hecyra  of  Terence  are  generally  understood 
to  have  been  borrowed  from  him.  He  was  a 
rival  and  contemporary  of  Menander. 


FRAGMENTS. 


How  sweet  were  life,  how  placid  and  serene, 
Were  others  but  as  gentle  as  ourselves ; 
But,  if  we  must  consort  with  apes  and  monkeys, 
We  must  be  brutes  like  them — 0  life  of  sorrow ! 


WHAT  do  you  trust  to,  father? — To  your  money? 
Fortune  indeed  to  those  who  have  it  not 
Will  sometimes  give  it;  but  'tis  done  in  malice, 
Merely  that  she  may  take  it  back  again. 


206 


CLEARCHUS.— THEOPHILUS,— NOSSIS. 


Go  to !  Make  fast  your  gates  with  bars  and  bolts ; 

Yet  never  chamber-door  was  shut  so  close, 

But  cats  and  cuckold-makers  would  creep  through 


YOUTH  and  old  age  have  their  respective  hu- 
mours ; 

And  son,  by  privilege,  can  say  to  father, 
"Were  you  not  once  as  young  as  I  am  now?" 


Not  so  the  father ;  he  cannot  demand, 

"  Were  you  not  once  as  old  as  I  am  now  ?" 

v. 

THERE  is  a  certain  hospitable  air 

In  a  friend's  house,  that  tells  me  I  am  welcome : 

The  porter  opens  to  me  with  a  smile ; 

The  yard-dog  wags  his  tail,  the  servant  runs, 

Beats  up   the  cushion,  spreads  the  couch  and 

says, — 
"Sit  down,  good  sir!" — ere  I  can  say  I'm  weary. 


CLEARCHUS. 


ON  DRUNKENNESS. 


COULD  every  drunkard,  ere  he  sits  to  dine, 
Feel  in  his  head  the  dizzy  fumes  of  wine, 
No  more  would  Bacchus  chain  the  willing  soul, 


But  loathing  horror,  shun  the  poison'd  bowl. 
But  frantic  joy  foreruns  the  pains  of  fate, 
And  real  good  we  cannot  calculate. 


THEOPHILUS. 


[About  320  B.  C.J 


ON  LOVE. 


IF  Love  be  folly  as  the  schools  would  prove, 
The  man  must  lose  his  wits  who  falls  in  love : 
Deny  him  love,  you  doom  the  wretch  to  death, 
And  then  it  follows  he  must  lose  his  breath. 
Good  sooth!  there  is  a  young  and  dainty  maid 
I  dearly  love ;  a  minstrel  she  by  trade : 


What  then?   Must  I  defer  to  pedant  rule, 
And  own  that  Love  transforms  me  to  a  fool? 
Not  I,  so  help  me !  By  the  gods  I  swear, 
The  nymph  I  love  is  fairest  of  the  fair ; 
Wise,  witty,  dearer  to  her  poet's  sight 
Than  piles  of  money  on  an  author's  night : 
Must  I  not  love  her  then?  Let  the  dull  sot, 
Who  made  the  law,  obey  it!  I  will  not. 


NOSSIS 


[About  280  B.  C.] 


All  that  we  know  of  this  lady  is  that  she  was  a  native  of  Locri,  in  Italy.    Twelve  of  her  epigrams 

remain. 


IN  PRAISE  OF   LOVE. 


WHAT  in  life  is  half  so  sweet 
As  the  hour  when  lovers  meet? 
Not  the  joys  that  Fortune  pours, 
Not  Hymettus'  fragrant  stores. 


Thus  says  Nossis — Whosoe'er 
Venus  takes  not  to  her  care, 
Never  shall  the  roses  know 
In  her  blooming  bowers  that  grow. 


ANYTE. 


207 


ON  AN  IMAGE  OF  HER  DAUGHTER. 

Ix  this  loved  stone  Melinna's  self  I  trace. 
Tis  hers  that  form,  'tis  hers  that  speaking  face, 
How  like  her  mother's !  Oh,  what  joy  to  see 
Ourselves  reflected  in  our  progeny ! 


ON  RHINTHON. 

THE  INVENTOR  OF  TRAGI-COMEDY. 

WITH  hearty  laughter  pass  this  column  by- 
Just  meed  of  praise  to  him,  who  slumbers  nigh. 
Hhinthon  my  name — my  home-place  Syracuse, — 
And,  though  no  tuneful  darling  of  the  muse, 


I  first  made  Tragedy  divert  the  town, 

And  wove— nay  doubt  not — my  own  ivy-crown. 


ON  THE  PICTURE  OF  THYMARETE. 
Os  yonder  tablet  graved  I  see 
The  form  of  my  Thymarete,— 
Her  gracious  smile,  her  lofty  air. 
Warm  as  in  life,  all  blended  there. 
Her  little  fondled  dog,  that  keeps 
Still  watch  around  her  while  she  sleeps, 
Would  in  that  shape  his  mistress  trace, 
And,  fawning,  lick  her  honoured  face. 


ANYTE. 

[About  280  B.  C.] 

A  POETESS  of  Tegea,  in  Arcadia,  of  whose  productions  only  a  few  epigrams — all  remarkable  for 
their  simplicity— have  descended  to  us. 


ON  THE  MAID  ANTIBIA. 
THE  maid  Antibia  I  lament;  for  whom 

Full  many  a  suitor  sought  her  father's  hall ; 
For  beauty,  prudence,  famed  was  she  ;  but  doom 

Destructive  overwhelmed  the  hopes  of  all. 


ON  THE  YOUNG  VIRGIN  PHILLIDA. 

ITU  this  sad  tomb  where  Phillida  is  laid, 
Her  mother  oft  invokes  the  gentle  shade, 
And  calls,  in  hopeless  grief,  on  her  who  died, 
In  the  full  bloom  of  youth  and  beauty's  pride; 
Who  left,  a  virgin,  the  bright  realms  of  day, 
On  gloomy  Acheron's  pale  coasts  to  stray. 


ON  A  STATUE  OF  VENUS, 

NEAR  THE   SEA  COAST. 

CTTHERA  from  this  cr;iLrLry  steep 
Looks  downward  on  the  glassy  deep, 
And  hither  calls  the  breathing  gale, 
Propitious  to  the  venturous  sail ; 
While  ocean  llmvs  beneath,  serene, 
Awed  by  the  smile  of  beauty's  queen. 


ON  A  DOLPHIN  CAST  ASHORE. 
No  more  exulting  o'er  the  buoyant  sea, 
High  shall  I  raise  my  head  in  gambols  free ; 
Nor  by  some  gallant  ship  breathe  out  the  air, 
Pleased  with  my  own  bright  image  figured  there. 
The  storm's  black  mist  has  forced  me  to  the  land, 
And  laid  me  lifeless  on  this  couch  of  sand. 


ON  THREE  VIRGINS  OF  MILETUS, 

WHO    DIED    TO    ESCAPE     DISHONOUR    FROM    THE 
GAULS. 

THEN"  let  us  hence,  Miletus  dear !— - 

sweet  native  land,  farewell ! 
The  insulting  wrongs  of  lawless  Gauls 

we  dread  whilst  here  we  dwell. 
Three  virgins  of  Milesian  race, 

to  this  dire  fate  compel  I'd 
By  Celtic  Mars — yet  glad  we  die, 

that  we  have  ne'er  beheld 
Spousal  s  of  blood,  nor  sunk  to  be 

vile  handmaids  of  our  foes, 
But  rather  owe  our  thanks  to  Death, 

kind  healer  of  our  woes. 


ON  A  GROVE  OF  LAUREL. 

WHOE'ER  thou  art,  recline  beneath  the  shade, 


ON  THE  ENTRANCE  TO  A  CAVERN. 

STRANGER,  beneath  this  rock  thy  limbs  bestow— • 

Sweet,  'mid  the  green  leaves,  breezes  whisper    By  never  fading  leaves  of  laurel  made ; 

here.  ;  And  here  awhile  thy  thirst  securely  slake 

Drink   the    cool  wave,  while  noontide  fervours    With  the  pure  beverage  of  the  crystal  lake: 
glow;  So  shall  your  languid  limbs,  by  toil  opprest, 

For  such  the  rest  to  wearied  pilgrim  dear.         j  And  summer's  burning  heat,  find  needful  rest, 


208 


DIOTIMUS. .-ASCLEPIADES  OF  SAMOS. 


And  renovation  from  the  balmy  power 
That   stirs   and   breathes   within    this   verdant 
bower. 


EPITAPH. 

POOR  Erato,  when  the  cold  hand  of  Death 
Choked  the  faint  struggles  of  her  labouring  breath, 
And  parting  life  scarce  glimmered  in  her  face, 
Strained  her  fond  father  in  a  last  embrace : 


"  O  father,  it  is  o'er — dark  clouds  arise, — 
And  mists  of  death  hang  heavy  on  my  eyes." 


ON  A  LAUREL  BY  A  FOUNTAIN'S  SIDE. 

REST  thee  beneath  yon  laurel's  ample  shade, 
And  quaff  the  limpid  stream  that  issues  there ; 

So  thy  worn  frame,  for  summer's  toil  repaid, 
May  feel  the  freshness  of  the  western  air. 


DIOTIMUS. 


[About  280  B.  C.] 


A  NATIVE  of  Adramytus,  and  a  schoolmaster 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  Mount  Gargarus,  of 
whom  about  a  dozen  epigrams  have  come  down 
to  us.  His  melancholy  office  is  thus  recorded 


in  the  epitaph  written  on   him  by  his  brother 

poet  Aratus : 

"  I  mourn  for  Diotimus,  who  sits  among  the  rocks, 
Hammering,  all  day,  their  A  B  C,  ort  Gargara's  infant 
blocks." 


EPITAPH  ON  TWO  AGED  PRIESTESSES. 

Two  aged  matrons,  daughters  of  one  sire, 

Lie  in  one  tomb — twin-buried  and  twin-born, — 

Clio,  the  priestess  of  the  Graces  'quire, 
Anaxo,  unto  Ceres'  service  sworn. 

Nine  suns  were  wanting  to  our  ninetieth  year : 
We  died  together — who  would  covet  more  ? 

We  held  our  husbands  and  our  children  dear, 
Nor  death  unkind,  to  which  we  sped  before. 


TO  A  DUENNA. 
GUAHDIAN  of  yon  blushing  fair ! 

Reverend  matron !  tell  me  why 
You  affect  that  churlish  air, 

Snarling  as  I  pass  you  by. 
I  deserve  not  such  rebuke  :— 
All  I  ask  is  but  to  look. 

True,  I  on  her  steps  attend — 
True,  I  cannot  choose  but  gaze  ; 


But  I  meant  not  to  offend— 

Common  are  the  public  ways : 
And  I  need  not  your  rebuke, 
When  I  follow  but  to  look. 

Are  my  eyes  so  much  in  fault 
That  they  cannot  choose  but  see  ? 

By  the  gods  we're  homage  taught, 
Homage  is  idolatry. 

Spare  that  undeserv'd  rebuke  ; — 

E'en  the  gods  permit  to  look. 


EPITAPH  ON  A  FLUTE-PLAYER. 

MAN'S    hopes    are    spirits    with    fast    fleeting 
wings. 

See  where  in  death  our  hopeful  Lesbus  lies ! 
Lesbus  is  dead,  the  favourite  of  kings ! 

Hail  light-wing'd  Hopes,  ye  swiftest  deities ! 
On  his  cold  tomb  we  carve  a  voiceless  flute, 
For  Pluto  hears  not,  and  the  grave  is  mute. 


ASCLEPIADES    OF    SAMOS. 

[About  280  B.  C.] 

The  friend  and  preceptor  of  Theocritus. 


ON  THE  PICTURE  OF  BERENICE. 
THIS  form  is  Cytherea's — Nay 

'Tis  Berenice's  I  protest ; 
So  like  to  both,  you  safely  may 

Give  it  to  either  you  like  best. 


THE  ENJOYMENT  OF  LOVE. 
SWEET  is  the  goblet  cooled  with  winter-snows 

To  him  who  pants  in  summer's  scorching  heat; 
And  sweet  to  weary  mariners  repose 

From  ocean's  tempests  in  some  green  retreai : 


SIMMIAS  OF  RHODES.— SOTADES. 


209 


But  far  more  sweet  than  these,  the    conscious 

bower 
Where  lovers  meet  at  Love's  delighted  hour. 


THE  VIRGIN'S  TRIUMPH. 
STILL  glorying  in  thy  virgin  flower? 

Yet,  in  those  gloomy  shades  below, 
No  lovers  will  adorn  thy  bower : 

Youth's  pleasures  with  the  living  glow. — 
Virgin,  we  shall  be  dust  alone, 
On  the  sad  shore  of  Acheron ! 


THE  POWER  OF  WINE. 

Sxow  on!  hail  on!  cast  darkness  all  around  me! 
Let   loose    thy  thunders!     With    thy  lightnings 
wound  me ! 


— I  care  not,  Jove,  but  thy  worst  rage  defy ; 
Nor  will  I  cease  to  revel  'till  I  die. 
Spare  but  my  life — and  let  thy  thunders  roar 
And  lightnings  flash — I'll  only  revel  more. 
Thunderer !  a  god  more  potent  far  than  thee — 
To  whom  thou  too  hast  yielded — maddens  me. 

ON  HESIOD. 

SWEET  bard  of  Ascra !  on  thy  youthful  head 
The  Muses  erst  their  laurel-branches  spread, 
When  on  the  rugged  summits  of  the  rocks 
They  saw  thee  laid  amidst  thy  sultry  flocks. 
E'en  then  to  thee,  o'er  fair  Castalia's  wave, 
Their  sacred  powers  unbounded  empire  gave. 
By  this  inspired,  thy  genius  soared  on  high, 
And  ranged  the  vaulted  azure  of  the  sky ; 
With  joy  transported,  viewed  the  blest  abodes, 
And  sang  th'  extatic  raptures  of  the  gods. 


SIMMIAS  OF  RHODES. 


[About  280  B.  C.] 


Though  distinguished  as  a  grammarian,  and  remain  of  him  five  "dull  epigrams,"  (as  Mr. 
mentioned  by  Strabo  among  the  eminent  men  Merivale  justly  calls  them.)  and  the  following 
of  Rhodes,  he  is  little  known  as  a  poet.  There  j  fragment  of  a  poem  in  praise  of  Apollo. 


A  FRAGMENT. 

APOLLO. 

I  REACHED  the  distant  Hyperborean  state, 

The    wealthy   race, — at    whose    high    banquet 

sate 

Perseus  the  hero.    On  those  wide-stretch'd  plains 
Ride  the  Massagetae,  (giving  the  reins 
To  their  fleet  coursers.)  skilful  with  the  bow.— 
And  then  I  came  to  the  stupendous  flow 


Of  Campasus,  who  pours  his  mighty  tide 

To  tli'  ocean-sea,  eternally  supplied. 

Thence  to  isles  clad  with  olives  green  and  young, 

With  many  a  tufted  bulrush  overhung. 

A  giant  race,  half  man,  half  dog,  live  there : 

Beneath  their  shoulders  grow  the   heads  they 

wear; 

Jaws  long  and  lank,  and  grizzly  tusks  they  bear: 
Much  foreign  tongues  they  learn,  and  can  indite ; 
But  when  they  strive  to  speak,  they  bark  outright. 


SOTADES. 


[About  280  B.  C.] 


A  KATIVE  of  Athens,  and  a  writer  of  comedy;  of  whom,  however,  nothing  remains  but  the 

following  fragment 


MAN'S  FATE  ON  EARTH. 
Is  there  a  man,  just,  honest,  nobly  born? 


Malice  shall  hunt  him  down, 
tend  him  ? 

27 


Does  wealth  at- 


Trouble  is  hard  behind. — Conscience  direct? 
Beggary  is  at  his  heels. — Is  he  an  artist? 
Farewell,  repose! — An  equal,  upright  judge? 
Report  shall  blast  his  virtues. — Is  he  strong  ? 

82 


210 


PH^EDIMUS.— THEOCRITUS. 


Sickness  shall  sap  his  strength. — Account  that 

clay 

Which  brings  no  new  mischance,  a  day  of  rest. 
For  what  is  man  ?    What  matter  is  he  made  of? 
How  born?  What  is  he,  and  what  shall  he  be? 
What  an  unnatural  parent  is  the  world, 
To  foster  none  but  villains,  and  destroy 
All  who  are  benefactors  to  mankind ! 
What  was  the  fate  of  Socrates  ?  A  prison, 
A  dose  of  poison;  tried,  condemn'd,  and  killed. 


How  died  Diogenes?  As  a  dog  dies, 
With  a  raw  morsel  in  his  hungry  throat. 
Alas  for  jEschylus !  Musing  he  walked — 
The  soaring  eagle  dropp'd  a  tortoise  down, 
And    crushed    that   brain,   where    tragedy  had 

birth. 

A  paltry  grape-stone  choak'd  the  Athenian  Bee. 
Mastiffs  of  Thrace  devour'd  Euripides—- 
And godlike  Homer,  woe  the  while!  was  starved. 
Thus  life,  blind  life,  teems  with  perpetual  woes. 


PH^DIMUS. 


A  WRITER  of  elegies,  of  whom  nothing  is  known  but  that  he  was  a  citizen  of  Bisanthe  in 

Macedonia 


HEROIC  LOVE. 

THIS  bow  that  erst  the  earth-born  dragon  slew, 

X)  mighty  God  of  Day,  restrain ! 
.Not  now  those  deadly  shafts  are  due 

That  stretch  the  woodland  tyrants  on  the  plain. 
Rather,  0  Phoebus,  bring  thy  nobler  darts, 
With  which  thou  piercest  gentle  hearts — 


Bid  them  Themistio's  breast  inspire 

With  Love's  bright  flame  and  Valour's  holy  fire 

Pure  Valour — firm,  heroic  Love — 

Twin  deities,  supreme  o'er  gods  above, 

United  in  the  sacred  cause 

Of  his  dear  native  land  and  freedom's  laws. 

So  let  him  win  the  glorious  crown 

His  fathers  wore — bright  meed  of  fair  renown. 


THEOCRITUS. 


[About  272  B.  C.] 


THEOCRITUS  was  a  native  of  Syracuse,  and 
flourished  in  the  reigns  of  Hiero,  king  of  Sicily, 
and  Ptolemy  Philadelphia,  king  of  ./Egypt.     He 
resided,  however,  for  the  most  part  at  the  court 
of  the  latter,  whose  praises  he  has  gratefully  re- 
corded in  his  xvth  and  xviith  Idyls.     Theocritus 
wrote  in  the  Doric  dialect,  the  softness  of  which 
he  is  said  to  have  improved  beyond  any  who 
went  before  him.     That  it  was  not,  however,  to  j 
dialect  or  language  alone  he  owed  his  honours,  i 
is  evident  from  the  Eclogues  of  Virgil,  whose 
most  delightful  images  are  nothing  more  than  j 
translations  from  his  great  Sicilian  master.    "  That 
which  distinguishes  Theocritus,  (says  Dryden,)  | 
from  all  other  poets,  both  Greek  and  Latin,  and  ; 
which   raises  him    even  above  Virgil  in  his  Ec- 
logues, is  the  inimitable  tenderness  of  his  pas- 
sions, and    the    natural    expression   of  them   in 
words   so  becoming   a    pastoral.     A   simplicity 
shines  throughout  all  he  writes. — He  is  softer  than 
Ovid,  touches  the  passions  more  delicately,  and 


performs  all  this  out  of  his  own  fund,  without 
diving  into  the  arts  and  sciences  for  a  supply. 
Even  his  Doric  dialect  has  an  incomparable 
sweetness  in  its  clownishness,  like  a  fair  shep- 
herdess, in  her  country  russet,  and  with  her  York- 
shire tone.  This  was  impossible  for  Virgil  to 
imitate,  because  the  severity  of  the  Roman  lan- 
guage had  denied  him  that  advantage.  Spenser 
has  endeavoured  it  in  his  Shepherd's  Calendar, 
but  it  can  never  succeed  in  English."  Thus  far 
Mr.  Dryden  in  the  preface  to  his  Translations; 
in  another  place  he  says,  "Theocritus  may  justly 
be  preferred  as  the  original,  without  injury  to 
Virgil,  who  modestly  contents  himself  with  the 
second  place,  and  glories  only  in  being  the  first 
who  transplanted  pastoral  to  his  own  country." 

"Theocritus  (according  to  Pope)  excels  all 
others  in  nature  and  simplicity;  his  dialect  alone 
has  a  secret  charm  in  it,  which  no  writer  besides 
could  ever  attain."  And  Mr.  Warton,in  his  dedi- 
cation of  Virgil  to  Lord  Lyttleton,  observes: 


THEOCRITUS. 


211 


"There  are  few  images  and  sentiments  in  the 
^!<es  of  Virgil  but  what  are  drawn  from  the 
Idyls  of  Theocritus  ;  in  whom  there  is  a  rural, 
"iiur.intiV  wildness  of  thought,  heightened  by  the 
Doric    diah-ct.    with   such    lively    pictures  of  the 
•is,  and  of  simple  unadorned  nature,  as  are 
infinitely  pleasing  to  such  judges  and  lovers  of 
poetry  as  yourself.     He  is  indeed  the  great  store- 
house of  pastoral  description." — And  again,  in  his 
•nation  on  Pastoral  Poetry.  "If  I  might  ven- 
ture to  speak  of  the  merits  of  the  several  pastoral 


FROM  IDYL  I. 

THIRSTS  A\D  THE  GOATHERD. 

THTRSIS  at  the  request  of  his  friend  the  goat- 
herd, sings  the  late  of  Daphnis,  who  died  for 
love;  -and  is  rewarded  for  his  sonir  with  a  milch 
goat  and  a  pastoral  cup  of  most  excellent  sculpture. 

Thyr.    Sweet  are  the  whispers  of  yon  vocal 

pine, 

Whose  boughs,  projecting  o'er  the  springs,  recline; 
Sweet  is  thy  warbled  reed's  melodious  lay; 
Thou,  next  to  Pan.  shall  bear  the  prize  away: 
If  to  the  god  a  honied  he-goat  belong, 
The  gentler  female  shall  reward  thy  song; 
If  he  the  female  claim,  a  kid's  thy  share, 
And.  till  you  milk  them,  kids  are  dainty  fare. 
Goat.  Sweeter  thy  song,  0  shepherd,  than  the 

rill 

That  rolls  its  music  down  the  rocky  hill : 
It' one  white  ewe  content  the  tuneful  Nine, 
A  stall-fed  lamb,  meet  recompense,  is  thine; 
And,  if  the  Muses  claim  the  lamb  their  due, 
.My  Lr"i;t|e  Thyrsis  shall  obtain  the  ewe. 

Thyr.  Wilt  thou  on  this  declivity  repose, 
Where  the  rough  tamarisk  luxuriant  grows, 
And  charm  the  nymphs  with  thy  melodious 

lay? 
I'll  feed  the  goats,  if  thou  consent  to  play. 

Goat.  I  dare  not,  shepherd,  dare  not  grant  your 

boon, 

Pan's  ritire  I  fear.*  who  always  re-ts  at  noon: 
J>ut  well  yn  know  love's  pains,  which  Daphnis 

rues — 

Yon,  the  great  nia-ter  of  the  rural  muse. 
I, ft  us  at  ease,  beneath  yon  elm  rcdiip'. 
Where  sculptnr  "•  -  o'er  their  fountains 

shine, 

Whilst  gay  Priapus  guards  the  sweet  retreat, 
And   oaks,    wide-branching,    shade   our   pastoral 

There,  Thyr-i-.  if  thou  siui:  us  sweet  a  strain, 
A-  er^t  contending  with  the  Libyan  swain. 
This  goat  with  twins  I'll  give,  that  never  fails 
Two  kids  to  Mi"kle.  and  to  (ill  two  pails: 
To  these  I'll  add.  with  scented  wax  o'erlaid, 
Of  curious  workmanship,  arid  newly-made. 

p  two-handled  cup.  whose  brim  is  crown'd 
With  ivy  and  with  helichryse  around. 

*  Goats  and  their  kcrpi-r*  lirini;  under  the  protection 
of  Pan,  the  goatherd  was  afraid  of  oflendini:  that  deity. 


writers,  I  would  say  that  in  Theocritus  we  are 
charmed  with  a  certain  sweetness,  a  romantic 
rusticity  and  wildness,  heightened  by  the  Doric 
dialect,  that  are  almost  inimitable. — Several  of 
liis  pieces,  too,  indicate  a  genius  of  a  higher  class, 
far  superior  to  pastoral,  and  equal  to  the  sublimest 
species  of  poetry:  such  are  particularly  his  pane- 
gyric on  Ptolemy,  the  fight  between  Amycus  and 
Pollux,  the  epithalamium  of  Helen,  the  young  Her- 
cules, the  grief  of  Hercules  for  Hylas,  the  death 
of  Pantheus,  and  the  killing  of  the  Nemsean  lion." 


Within,  a  woman's  well-wrought  image  shines; 
A  vest  her  limbs,  her  locks  a  caul  confines; 
And  near  two  youths  (bright  ringlets  grace  their 

brows) 

Breathe,  in  alternate  strife,  their  amorous  vows: 
Smiling,  by  turns,  she  views  the  rival  pair, 
Grief  swells  their  eyes,  their  heavy  hearts  despair. 
Hard  by  a  fisherman,  advanc'd  in  years, 
On  the  rough  margin  of  a  rock  appears ; 
Intent  he  stands  t'  enclose  the  fish  below, 
Lifts  a  large  net,  and  labours  at  the  throw ; 
Such  strong  expression  rises  on  the  sight, 
You'd  swear  the  man  exerted  all  his  might; 
For  his  round  neck  with  turgid  veins  appears.— 
In  years  he  seems,  but  not  impair'd  with  years. 
A  vineyard  next,  with  intersected  lines, 
And  red  ripe  clusters  load  the  bending  vines. 
To  guard  the  fruit  a  boy  sits  idly  by; 
In  ambush  near,  two  skulking  foxes  lie : 
This  plots  the  branches  of  ripe  grapes  to  strip, 
But  that,  more  daring,  meditates  the  scrip ; 
Resolv'd,  ere  long,  to  seixe  the  savoury  prey, 
And  send  the  youngster  dinnerless  away: 
Meanwhile  on  rushes  all  his  art  he  plies, 
In  framing  traps  for  grasshoppers  and  flies; 
And,  earnest  only  on  his  own  designs, 
Forgets  his  satchel  and  neglects  his  vines.* 
All  round  the  soft  acanthus  spreads  its  train—- 
This cup,  admir'd  by  each  ^Eolian  swain, 
Brought  by  a  Calydonian  o'er  the  seas, 
I  purchased  for  a  groat  and  new-made  cheese. 
No  lip  has  touch'd  it,  still  unused  it  stood; — 
To  you  I  give  this  master-piece  of  wood, 
If  you  those  Hi  men  an  strains  rehearse 
('t  Daphnis'  woes — I  envy  not  your  verse- 
Dread  fate  alas !  may  soon  demand  your  breath, 
And  close  your  music  in  oblivious  death. 

THTRSIS. 

Begin,  sweet  Muses,  the  bucolic  strain, 
'Tis  Thyrsis  sings,  'tis  Thyi>i-.  .-Ktna's  swain! 
Where  were  ye,  Nymphs,  in  what  sequester'd 
grove  ?| 


*  This  is  a  picture. 

t  Hoth  Virgil  and  Milton,  (more  especially  the  latter,) 
have  beautifully  imitai.  .1  this  passage — 
"Un;p  neinora,  anl  qui  vos  saltus  habue're,  Puellae 
N":ii. !•••:.  indiiMio  ruin  (iallns  runorp  pcriref? 
Nam  neque  Parna.-si  vuliis  juiia,  nam  neque  Pindi 
Ulla  moram  fecere,  neque  Aonia  Agannippe. — Eel.  x.  9. 


212 


THEOCRITUS. 


Where  were  ye,  Nymphs,  when  Daphnis  pined 

with  love  ? 

Did  ye  on  Pindus'  sleepy  top  reside, 
Or  where  through  Tempe  Peneus  rolls  his  tide  1 
For  neither  were  ye  playing  on  the  steeps 
Of  JEtna,  nor  by  famed  Anapus'  deeps, 
Nor  yet  where  Acis  laves  Sicilian  plains — 
(Begin,  ye  Nine,  your  sweet  bucolic  strains.) 
Him  savage  panthers  in  wild  woods  deplord, 
For  him  fierce  wolves  and  fiercer  lions  roard, 
Bulls,  steers,  and  heifers  wail'd  their  shepherd- 
swain — 

(Begin,  ye  Nine,  your  sweet  bucolic  strain.) 
First  from  the  mountain  winged  Hermes  came ; 
"Ah!  whence,"  he  cried    "proceeds   this   fatal 

flame? 
What    Nymph,    0    Daphnis,    steals    thy    heart 

away  ?" 

(Begin,  ye  Nine,  the  sweet  bucolic  lay.) 
The  goatherds,  hinds,  and  shepherds,  all  inquir'd 
What  sorrow  ail'd  him,  and  what  fever  fir'd? 
Priapus  came,  soft  pity  in  his  eye, 
"And  why  this  grief,"   he  said,  "ah,  Daphnis, 

why  ?" — 

Silent  he  sate,  consuming  in  his  pain. 
(Begin  ye  Nine,  the  sweet  bucolic  strain.) 
Next  Venus  self  the  hapless  youth  addrest, 
With  faint  forc'd  smiles,  but  anger  at  her  breast : 
"  Daphnis,  you  boasted  you  could  Love  subdue, 
But  tell  me,  has  not  Love  defeated  you  ? 
Alas,  you  sunk  beneath  his  mighty  sway." 
(Begin,  ye  Nine,  the  sweet  bucolic  lay.) 
"Ah,  cruel  Venus!"  Daphnis  thus  began, 
"Venus  abhorrd!  Venus,  thou  curse  to  man! 
Too  true,  alas !  thou  say'st  that  Love  has  won ; 
Too  sure  thy  triumphs  mark  my  setting  sun. 
Hence  to  thy  swain,  to  Ida,  queen  away!" 
(Begin,  ye  Nine,  the  sweet  bucolic  lay.) 
"  There  bowering  oaks  will  compass  you  around, 
Here  low  cyperus  scarcely  shades  the  ground  : 
Here  bees  with  hollow  hums  disturb  the  day.'"* 
(Begin,  ye  Nine,  the  sweet  bucolic  lay.) 
"  Adonis  feeds  his  flocks,  though  passing  fair  ; 
With  his  keen  darts  he  wounds  the  flying  hare, 
And  hunts  the  beasts  of  prey  through  wood  and 

plain. 

(Begin,  ye  Nine,  the  sweet  bucolic  strain.) 
"  Say — if  again  arm'd  Diomed  thou  see—  « 

I've  conquer'd  Daphnis,  and  now  challenge  thee; 
Dar'st  thou,  bold  chief,  with  me  renew  the  fray?" 
(Begin,  ye  Nine,  the  sweet  bucolic  lay.) 
"  Farewell,  ye  wolves  and  bears,  and  lynxes  dire, 
My  steps  no  more  the  tedious  chace  shall  tire : 
The  herdsman  Daphnis,  now  no  longer  roves, 
Through  flowery  shrubs,  thick  woods,  or  shady 

groves. 


Where  were  ye,  Nymphs,  when  the  remorseless  deep 

Closed  o'er  the  head  of  your  loved  Lycidas  ? 

For  neither  were  ye  playing  on  the  steep, 

Where  your  old  bards,  the  famous  Druids,  He, 

Nor  on  the  shaggy  top  of  Mona  high, 

Nor  yet  where  Deva  spreads  her  wizard  stream. 

Lycidas. 

*  The  Greek  verse  is  most  expressive  of  the  sense : 
we  hear  the  very  humming  and  buzzing  of  the  bees. 

JVTl  TTOTi  fff4(ivt(r<rl  (JAKHTIT&l. 


Fair  Arethusa,  and,  ye  streams,  that  swell 

In  gentle  tides  near  Thyrnbrian  towers,  farewell, 

Your  cooling  waves  slow-winding  o'er  the  plains." 

(Begin,  ye  Nine,  your  sweet  bucolic  strains.) 

"  I — I  am  he,  who  lowing  oxen  fed, 

Who  to  their  well-known  brook  my  heifers  led : 

But  now  with  bulls  and  steers  no  more  I  stray." 

(Begin,  ye  Nine,  the  sweet  bucolic  lay.) 

"  Pan — whether  now  on  Muenalus  you  rove, 

Or  loiter,  careless,  in  Lycaeus'  grove, — 

Leave  yon  aerial  promontory's  height 

Of  Helice,  projecting  to  the  sight, 

Where  famed  Lycaon's  stately  tomb  is  rear'd, 

Lost  in  the  skies  and  by  the  gods  rever'd  ; 

Haste  and  revisit  fair  Sicilia's  plains." 

(Cease,  Muses,  cease  the  sweet  bucolic  strains.) 

"  Pan,  take  this  pipe,  to  me  for  ever  mute, 

Sweet-toned,  and  bent  your  rosy  lip  to  suit, 

Compacted  close  with  wax  and  joined  with  art; 

For  Love  alas!  commands  me  to  depart; 

Dread    Love    and   Death   have   summon'd   me 

away— 

(Cease,  Muses,  cease  the  sweet  bucolic  lay.) 
"  Let  violets  deck  the  bramble  bush  and  thorn, 
And  fair  narcissus  junipers  adorn, 
Let  all  things  Nature's  contradiction  wear, 
And  lofty  pines  produce  the  luscious  pear; 
Since  Daphnis  dies  let  all  things  change  around, 
Let  timorous  deer  pursue  the  flying  hound, 
Let  screech-owls  soft  as  nightingales  complain." — 
(Cease,  cease,  ye  Nine,  the  sweet  bucolic  strain.) 
He  died — and  Venus  strove  to  raise  his  head, 
But  Fate  had  cut  its  last  remaining  thread — 
The  lake  he  past,  the  whelming  wave  he  prov'd, 
Friend  to  the  Muses,  by  the  Nymphs  belov'd. 
(Cease,  Muses,  cease  the  sad  bucolic  strain.) — 
Now  give  me  cup  and  goat,  that  I  may  drain 
Her  milk,  a  sweet  libation  to  the  Nine — 
Another  day  a  loftier  song  be  mine  ! 

Goat.  0  be  thy  mouth  with  figs  ^Egilean  fill'd, 
And  drops  of  honey  on  thy  lips  distill'd ! 
Thine  is  the  cup  (for  sweeter  far  thy  voice, 
Than  when  in  spring  the  grasshoppers  rejoice.) 
Sweet  is  its  srnell,  as  though  the  blissful  Hours 
Had  newly  dipp'd  it  in  their  fragrant  showers. 
Come,  Ciss !  let  Thyrsis  milk  thee — kids,  forbear 
Your  gambols — lo !  the  wanton  goat  is  there. 

FROM  IDYL  II. 

PHARMACEUTHIA. 

Simfptha,  a  young  woman  of  Syracuse,  is  here 
introduced  as  complaining  of  Delphis,  and  en- 
deavouring to  recall  him  by  her  incantations. 
This  Idyl  is  interesting  from  the  minute  descrip- 
tion which  it  gives  of  the  rites  resorted  to  on 
such  occasions.  The  scene  is  by  moonlight. 

WHEHE  are  rny  laurels?  and  my  philtres  where;? 
Quick,  bring  thern,Thestylis — the  charm  prepare; ; 
This  purple  fillet  round  the  cauldron  strain, 
That  I  with  spells  may  prove  my  perjurd  swain : 
For  since  he  rapt  my  door  twelve  days  are  fled, 
Nor  knows  he  whether  I'm  alive  or  dead : 
Perhaps  to  some  new  face  his  heart's  inclin'd, 
For  Love  has  wings,  and  he  a  changeful  mind. 


THEOCRITUS. 


213 


To  the  Palaestra*  with  the  morn  I'll  go, 
And  see  and  ask  him,  why  he  shuns  me  so  ? 
Meanwhile  my  charms  shall  work :  0  Queen  of 

Night  :f 

Pale  Moon,  assist  me  with  refulgent  light  • 
My  imprecations  I  address  to  thee, 
(rreat  Goddess,  and  infernal  Hecate, 
Stain'd  with  black  gore,  whom  e'en  gaunt  mas- 
tiffs dread, 

Whene'er  she  haunts  the  mansions  of  the  dead  ; 
Hail,  horrid  Hecate,  and  aid  me  still 
With  Circe's  power,  or  Perimeda's  skill, 
Or  mad  Medea's  art — Restore,  mycharms,* 
My  lingering  Delphis  to  these  longing  arms. 
The  cake's   consumed  —  burn,  Thestyhs,  the 

rest 

In  flames  ;  what  frenzy  has  your  mind  possessed  ? 
Am  I  your  scorn,  that  thus  you  disobey, 
Base  maid,  my  strict  commands? — Strew  salt, 

and  say, 
"Thus  Delphis'   bones  I  strew" — Restore,  my 

charms, 
The  perjur'd  Delphis  to  my  longing  arms. 

Delphis  inflames  my  bosom  with  desire; 
For  him  I  burn  this  laurel  in  the  fire :  § 
And  as  it  fumes  and  crackles  in  the  blaze, 
And  without  ashes  instantly  decays, 
So  may  the  flesh  of  Delphis  burn — My  charms, 
Restore  the  perjur'd  Delphis  to  my  arms. 

As  melts  this  waxen  form,  by  fire  defac'd,|| 
So  in  Love's  flames  may  Myndian  Delphis  waste : 
And  as  this  brazen  wheel,  though  quick  roll'd 

round,  ^f 
Returns,  and  in  its  orbit  still  is  found, 

*  The  Palestra.— The  place  for  wrestling,  and  other 
exercises. 

t  0  Q«ern  of  Wight.— Sorcerers  addressed  their  prayers 
to  the  Moon  and  to  Night,  the  witnesses  of  their  abomi- 
nations.—Thus  Medea  in  Ovid,  Met.  B.  vii,  and  Cani- 
dia  in  Hor.  Epode  v.  49. 

\My  Charms.— The  Greek  is  I''>£,  a  bird  which  ma- 
gicians made  use  of  in  their  incantations,  supposed  to  be 
the  wry-neck. — Virgil  has  Ducite  ab  urbe  domuin,  mea 
Cannina,  ducite  Daphmm.— A>/.  viii.  68. 
$  Fragile*  incende  hitiimine  lauros. 
Daphnis  me  malus  urit,  ego  hanc  in  Daphnide  laurum. 

Eel.  viii.  t">. 

The  laurel  was  burnt  in  order  to  consume  the  flesh  of 
tin-  pentm, Of)  whOM  account  the  magical  rites  were  per- 
formed ;  it  was  thought,  according  to  Pliny,  B.  16.  chap, 
the  last,  by  its  crackling  noise,  to  express  a  detestation  of 
fire.  Mr.  Gay  has  imitated  this  passage,  in  his  Fourth 
Pastoral. 

Two  hazel-nuts  I  threw  into  the  flame, 
And  lo  each  nut  I  cave  a  sweetheart's  name  : 
This  with  the  loudest  bounce  me  sore  ama/.'d, 
That  in  a  flame  of  brightest  colour  blaz'd  : 
As  blaz'd  in-  nut,  so  may  thy  passion  prow, 
For  'twas  thy  nut  that  diii  so  brightly  clow. 
||  It  was  customary  to  melt  wax,  thereby  to  mollify  the 
In-art  of  the  person  beloved  ;  the  sorceress  in  Virgil  F.cl. 
viii.  makes  use  of  two  images,  one  of  mud,  and  the  other 
of  wax. 

Minus  ut  hie  dur.'scit.  et  ho>c  ut  cera  liijuesrit 
Uno  eodemque  igni  :  sir  nostro  Daplmis  amore. 
TT  It  was  also  usual  to  imitate  all  the  actions  they  wish- 
ed the   loved  person  to  perform;  thus   SimaMha  rolls  a 
bra/en  wheel,  believing  that    the   motion  of  ihis  magic 
machine  hnd  the  virtue  to  inspire  her  lover  with  those 
passions  which  she  wished. 


So  may  his  love  return — Restore,  my  charms, 
The  lingering  Delphis  to  my  longing  arms. 

I'll  strew  the  bran  :  Diana's  power  can  bow 
Rough  Rhadamanth,  and  all  that's  stern  below. 
Hark!  hark!  the  village-dogs!  the  goddess  soon 
Will  come — the  dogs  terrific  bay  the  moon — 
Strike,  strike  the  sounding  brass — Restore,  my 

charms, 
Restore  false  Delphis  to  my  longing  arms. 

Calm  is  the  ocean,  silent  is  the  wind, 
But  grief's  black  tempest  rages  in  my  mind.* 
I  burn  for  him  whose  perfidy  betray "d 
My  innocence;  and  me,  ah,  thoughtless  maid! 
Robb'd  of  my  richest  gem — Restore,  my  charms, 
False  Delphis  to  my  long-deluded  arms. 

I  pour  libations  thrice,  and  thrice  I  pray : 
O  shine,  great  goddess,  with  auspicious  ray! 
Whoe'er  she  be,  blest  nymph !  that  now  detains 
My  fugitive  in  Love's  delightful  chains ; 
Be  she  for  ever  in  oblivion  lost, 
Like  Ariadne,  'lorn  on  Dia's  coast, 
Abandon'd  by  false  Theseus — O,  my  charms, 
Restore  the  lovely  Delphis  to  my  arms. 

Hippomenes,  a  plant  Arcadia  bears, 
Makes  the  colts  mad,  and  stimulates  the  mares, 
O'er  hills,  through  streams,  they  rage:  0,  could  I 

see 

Young  Delphis  thus  run  madding  after  me, 
And  quit  the  fam'd  Palaestra ! — O,  my  charms ! 
Restore  false  Delphis  to  my  longing  arms. 

This  garment's  fringe,  which  Delphis  wont  to 

wear,f 

To  burn  in  flames  I  into  tatters  tear. 
Ah,  cruel  Love !  that  my  best  life-blood  drains 
From  my  pale  limbs,  and  empties  all  my  veins, 


*  This  affecting  contrast  recalled  to  the  recollection  of 
Warton  the  noble  passage  in  Apollonius  Rhodius,  where 
the  enchantress  is  introduced  with  so  powerful  an  effect : 
"  Night  on  the  earth  potir'd  darkness  ;  on  the  sea 
The  wakesome  sailor  to  Orion's  star 
And  Helice,  turn'd  heedful.     Sunk  to  rest, 
The  traveller  forgot  his  toil ;  his  charge, 
The  sentinel ;  her  death-devoted  babe, 
The  mother's  painless  breast.    The  village-dog 
Had  ceased  his  troublous  bay  ;  each  busy  tumult 
Was  hush'd  at  this  dread  hour,  and  Darkness  slept, 
I.ock'd  in  the  arms  of  Silence.    She  alone, 
Medea,  slept  not." 

These  are  very  striking  lines.  But  in  a  poem,  suppos- 
ed by  the  historian  of  Enplish  poetry  to  be  the  oldest 
existing  example  in  our  language  of  the  pure  unmixed 
pastoral,  we  find  two  stanzas  scarcely  to  be  equalled  for 
affecting  simplicity  of  thought  and  easy  harmony  of  ex- 
pression : 

"The  owle  with  feeble  sight 

Lyes  lurking  in  the  leaves  ; 
The  sparrow  in  the  frosty  night 
May  shroud  her  in  the  eaves ; 
But  wo  to  me,  alas! 

Insunne.  nor  yet  in  shade, 
I  cannot  find  a  resting-place, 

My  burden  to  unlade." 

f  Pimaetha  burns  the  border  of  Delphis'  garment,  that 
the  owner  may  be  tortured  with  the  like  flame;  Virgil's 
enchantress  deposit)  s  her  lover's  pledges  in  the  ground, 
tinder  her  threshold,  in  order  to  retain  his  love,  and  se- 
cure his  affections  from  wandering. 

Has  olim  extivias  mihi  perfidus  ille  reliquit, 
Pignora  cara  sni  ;  qu«e  nunc  ego  limine  in  ipso, 
Terra,  tibi  mando Eel.  viii.  91. 


214 


THEOCRITUS. 


As  -leeches    suck  young    steeds  —  Restore,   my 

charms, 
My  lingering  Delphis  to  these  longing  arms. 

A  lizard  bruis'd  shall  make  a  potent  bowl, 
And  charm,  to-morrow,  his  obdurate  soul ; 
Meanwhile  this  potion  on  his  threshold  spill 
Where,  though  despis'd,  my  soul  inhabits  still ; 
No  kindness  he  nor  pity  will  repay; 
Spit  on  the  threshold,  Thestylis,  and  say, 
"Thus  Delphis'  bones  I  strew"  —  Restore,  my 

charms, 
The  dear,  deluding  Delphis  to  my  arms. 

She's  gone,  and  now,  alas  !  I'm  left  alone ! 
But  how  shall  I  my  sorrow's  cause  bemoan? 
My  ill-requited  passion,  how  bewail  ? 
And  where  begin  the  melancholy  tale  1 

When  fair  Anaxa  at  Diana's  fane* 
Her  offering  paid,  and  left  the  virgin  train, 
Me  warmly  she  requested,  breathing  love, 
At  Dian's  feast  to  meet  her  in  the  grove : 
Where  savage  beasts,  in  howling  deserts  bred, 
(And  with  them  a  gaunt  lioness)  were  led 
To  grace  the  solemn  honours  of  the  day — 

Whence  rose  my  passion,  sacred  Phoebe,  say  ? 
Theucarila's  kind  nurse,  who  lately  died, 
Begg'd  I  would  go,  and  she  would  be  my  guide. 
Alas!  their  importunity  prevail'd, 
And  my  kind  stars,  and  better  genius  fail'd. 
I  went  adorn'd  in  Clearista's  clothes — 

Say,  sacred  Phcebe,  whence  my  flame  arose  ? 
Soon  as  where  Lyco's  mansion  stands  I  came, 
Delphis  the  lovely  author  of  my  flame 
I  saw  with  Eudamippus,  from  the  crowd 
Distinguished,  for  like  helichrysus  glow'd 
The  gold  down  on  their  chins,  their  bosoms  far 
Outshone  the  moon,  and  every  splendid  star  j 
For  lately  had  they  left  the  field  of  fame — 

Say,  sacred  Phoebe,  whence  arose  my  flame  ? 
O,  how  I  gaz'd !  what  ecstasies  begun 
To  fire  my  soul.     I  sigh'd,  and  was  undone :  f 
The  pompous  show  no  longer  could  surprise, 
No  longer  beauty  sparkled  in  my  eyes: 
Home  I  return'd,  but  knew  not  how  I  came ; 
My  head  disorder'd,  and  my  heart  on  flame : 
Ten  tedious  days  and  nights  sore  sick  I  lay — 

Whence  rose  my  passion,  sacred  Phoebe,  say  ? 
Soon  from  my  cheeks  the  crimson  colour  fled, 
And  my  fair  tresses  perish'd  on  my  head  : 
Forlorn  I  liv'd,  of  body  quite  bereft, 
For  bones  and  skin  were  all  that  I  had  left: 
All  charms  I  tried,  to  each  enchantress  round 
I  sought;  alas!  no  remedy  I  found: 
Time  wing'd  his  way,  but  not  to  soothe  my  woes — 

Say,  sacred  Phoebe,  whence  my  flame  arose  ? 
Till  to  my  maid,  opprest  with  fear  and  shame, 
I  told  the  secret  of  my  growing  flame  : 


*  The  Athenian  virgins  were  presented  to  Diana  be- 
fore it  was  lawful  for  them  to  marry,  on  which  occasion 
they  offered  baskets  full  of  little  curiosities  to  that  god- 
dess, to  gain  leave  to  depart  out  of  her  train,  and  change 
their  state  of  Jife.— Potter. 

I  The  Greek  is  X»?  tfcv,  at  tuttvuv  it.  T.  x.  There  is  a 
similar  line  in  the  Third  Idyl.  ver.  42.  Hc/fTov,  a>;  tuAVH,  w; 
«c  SnQuv  «AMT'  f£UT&.  Virgil  has — 

Ut  vidi,  ut  perii,  ut  me  mains  abftulit  error.-£cZ.  viii.  41. 
which  is  confessedly  inferior  to  the  Greek. 


"  Dear  Thestylis,  thy  healing  aid  impart — 
The  love  of  Delphis  has  engross'd  my  heart. 
He  in  the  school  of  exercise  delights, 
Athletic  labours,  and  heroic  fights ; 
And  oft  he  enters  on  the  lists  of  fame'' — 

Say,  sacred  Phoebe,  whence  arose  my  flame  ? 
"  Haste  thither,  and  the  hint  in  private  give — 
Say  that  I  sent  you — tell  him  where  I  live." 
She  heard,  she  flew,  she  found  the  youth  I  sought, 
And  all  in  secret  to  my  arms  she  brought. 
Soon  at  my  gate  his  nimble  foot  I  heard. 
Soon  to  my  eyes  his  lovely  form  appeard ; 
Ye  gods!  how  blest  my  Delphis  to  survey! 

Whence  rose  my  passion,  sacred  Phoebe,  say  ? 
Cold  as  the  snow  my  freezing  lirnbs  were  chill'd, 
Like  southern  vapours  from  my  brow  distill'd 
The    dewy    damps ;    faint   tremors    seiz'd    my 

tongue, 

And  on  my  lips  the  faultering  accents  hong; 
As  when  from  babes  imperfect  accents  fall, 
When  murmuring  in  their  dreams  they  on  their 

mothers  call. 
Senseless  I  stood,  nor  couid  my  mind  disclose — 

Say,  sacred  Phcebe,  whence  my  flame  arose  ? 
My  strange  surprise  he  saw,  then  prest  the  bed, 
Fix'd  on  the  ground  his  eyes,  and  thus  he  said  : 
"  Me,  dear  Simretha,  you  have  much  surpast, 
As  when  I  ran  with  young  Philinus  last, 
I  far  out-stript  him,  though  he  bravely  strove; 
But  you  have  all  prevented  me  with  love  • 
Welcome  as  day  your  kind  appointment  came"— 

Say,  sacred  Phcebe,  whence  arose  my  flame  ? 
"  Yes,  I  had  come,  by  all  the  powers  above, 
Or,  rather,  let  me  swear  by  mighty  Love, 
Unsent  for  I  had  come,  to  Venus  true, 
This  night  attended  by  a  chosen  few, 
With  apples  to  present  you,  and  my  brows 
Adorn'd  like  Hercules,  with  poplar  boughs,* 
Wove  in  a  wreath  with  purple  ribands  gay'' — 

Whence  rose  my  passion,  sacred  Phoebe,  say? 
"  Had  you  recciv'd  me,  all  had  then  been  well, 
For  I  in  swiftness  and  in  form  excel ; 
And  should  have  deem'd  it  no  ignoble  bliss 
The  roses  of  your  balmy  lips  to  kiss  : 
Had  you  refus'd  me,  and  your  doors  been  barr'd, 
With  axe  and  torch  I   should  have  come  pre- 

par'd,f 
Resolv'd  with  force  resistance  to  oppose'' — 

Say,  sacred  Phoebe,  whence  my  flame  arose  ? 
"And  first  to  beauty's  queen  my  thanks  are  due, 
Next,  dear  Simretha,  I'm  in  debt  to  you, 
Who  by  your  maid,  Love's  gentle  herald,  prove 
My  fair  deliverer  from  the  fires  of  Love  : 
More  raging  fires  than  Etna's  waste  my  frame — 

Say,  sacred  Phoebe,  when  arose  my  ilaine  ? 

*  With  poplar. — The  poplar  was  sacred  to  Hercules. 
Virgil  has, 

Populeis  adsunt  evincti  tempora  ramis. 

JEn.  viii.  286. 

f  With  axe  and  torch,  &c. — If  after  rapping  at  the  door, 
the  lover  was  refused  admittance,  ^of  r»v  «ytfJW<y,  to 
place  the  flowery  crown  on  the  head  of  his  mistress,  he 
then  threatened  axes  and  torches,  to  break  or  burn  the 
door. — Thus  Horace 

Hie  hie  ponite  lucida 
Funalia,  et  vectes,  et  arcus 
Oppositis  foribus  ininaces— B.  iii.  Od.  26. 


THEOCRITUS. 


215 


"  Love  from  their  beds  enraptur'd  virgins  charms, 
And  wives  new-married  from  their   husband's 

arms." 

He  said,  (alas,  what  frenzy  seiz'd  my  mind !) 
Soft  prest  my  hand,  and  on  the  couch  reclin'd  : 
Love  kindled  warmth  as  close  embrac  d  we  lay, 
And  sweetly  whisper 'd  precious  hours  away. 
At  length,  O  Moon,  with  mutual  raptures  fir'd, 
We  both  accomplish'd — what  we  both  desir'd. 
E'er  since  no  pause  of  love  or  bliss  we  knew, 
But  wing'd  with  joy  the  feather'd  minutes  flew ; 
Till  yester  morning,  as  the  radiant  sun 
His  steeds  had  harness'd,  and  his  course  begun, 
Restoring  fair  Aurora  from  the  main, 
I  heard,  alas  !  the  cause  of  all  my  pain — 
Philista's  mother  told  me,  "  she  knew  well 
That  Delphis  lov'd,  but  whom  she  could  not  tell: 
The   marks   are  plain,  he  drinks  his   favourite 

toast, 

Then  hies  him  to  the  maid  he  values  most. 
Besides,  with  garlands  gay  his  house  is  crown'd  :"* 
All  this  she  told  me,  which  too  true  I  found. 
He  oft  would  see  me  twice  or  thrice  a  day, 
rhen  left  some  token  that  he  would  not  stay 
Long  from  my  arms  ;  and  now  twelve  days  are 

past 

Since  my  fond  eyes  beheld  the  wanderer  last — 
It  must  be  so— 'tis  my  unhappy  lot 
Thus  to  be  scorn'd,  neglected,  and  forgot. 
He    woos,    no    doubt,    he   woos    some    happier 

maid — 

Meanwhile  I'll  call  enchantment  to  my  aid  : 
And  should  he  scorn  me  still,  a  charm  I  know- 
Shall  soon  dispatch  him  to  the  shades  below ; 
So  strong  the  bowl,  so  deadly  is  the  draught; 
To  me  the  secret  an  Assyrian  taught. 
Nou-,  Cynthia,  drive  your  coursers  to  the  main; 
Those  ills  1  can't  redress  I  must  sustain. 
Farewell,  dread  Moon,  for  I  have  ceas'd  my  spell, 
And  all  ye  Stars,  that  rule  by  night,  farewell. 


FROM  IDYL  III. 

AMARYLLIS. 

I'o  Amaryllis  Love  compels  my  way, 

its  upon  the  mountains  stray: 
0  Tityrus,  tend  them  well,  and  see  them  fed 
In  pastures  fresh,  and  to  their  watering  led; 
And  'ware  the  riddling  with  his  budding  head. 
Ah,  beauteous  Nymph!  can  you  forget  your  love, 
The  conscious  grottos,  and  the  >ha  !y  grove 
Where,  stretch'd  at  ease  your  tender  limbs  were 

laid, 

Your  nameless  beauties  carelessly  displayed? 
Then  I  was  eall'd  your  darlin-j.  your  de>ire, 
With  kisses  such  ;\s  set  my  .-oul  on  fire: 
But  you  are  chanir'd.  yet  I  am  still  the  same; 
My  heart  maintains  for  both  a  double  flame; 

*  That  it  was  usual  for  lovers  to  adorn  their  houses 
with  flowers  and  irarlnnds  in  honour  of  their  mistresses, 
is  evident  from  a  passage  in  Catullus,  de  jfty,  ver.  66. 
Mihi  floridis  corollis  redimita  domus  .  r.it, 
I.inquendum  ubi  esset  orto  mihi  sole  cubiculum. 
Fair  llovvery  wreaths  around  my  house  are  spread, 
When  with  the  rising  sun  I  leave  my  bed. 


Griev'd,  but  unmov'd,  and  patient  of  your  scorn; 
So  faithful  I,  and  you  so  much  forsworn! 
I  die,  and  death  will  finish  all  my  pain; 
Yet,  ere  I  die,  behold  me  once  again; 
Am  I  then  so  defornrd,  so  chang'd  of  late? 
What  partial  judges  are  our  love  and  hate! 
Ten  wildings  have  I  gather'd  for  my  dear , 
How  ruddy  like  your  lips  their  streaks  appear ! 
Far  off  you  view'd  them  with  a  longing  eye 
Upon  the  topmost  branch  (the  tree  was  high  :) 
Yet  nimbly  up,  from  bough  to  bough  I  swerv'd ; 
And  for  to-morrow  have  ten  more  reserv'd. 
Look  on  me  kindly,  and  some  pity  show, 
Or  give  me  leave  at  least  to  look  on  you. 
Some  god  transform  me  by  his  heavenly  power 
E'en  to  a  bee  to  buzz  within  your  bower — 
The  winding  ivy-chaplet  to  invade, 
And  folded  fern,  that  your  fair  forehead  shade. 
Now  to  my  cost  the  force  of  Love  I  find  ; 
The  heavy  hand  it  bears  on  human-kind. 
The  milk  of  tigers  was  his  infant  food — 
Taught  from,  his  tender  years  the  taste  of  blood; 
His  brother  whelps  and  he,  ran  wild  about  the 

wood. 

Ah,  Nymph,  train'd  up  in  his  tyrannic  court, 
To  make  the  sufferings  of  your  slaves  your  sport! 
Unheeded  ruin!  treacherous  delight! 

0  polish'd  hardness,  soften'd  to  the  sight ! 
Whose  radiant  eyes  your  ebon  brows  adorn, 
Like   midnight  those,  and    these  like   break  of 

morn. 

Smile  once  again,  revive  me  with  your  charms : 
And  let  me  die  contented  in  your  arms. 

1  would  not  ask  to  live  another  day, 
Might  I  but  sweetly  kiss  my  soul  away. 
I  rave,  and  in  my  raging  fit  shall  tear 

The  garland  which  I  wove  for  you  to  wear, 
Of  parsley,  with  a  wreath  of  ivy  bound, 
And  border'd  with  a  rosy  edging  round. 
What  pangs  I  feel,  unpitied  and  unheard  1 
Since  I  must  die,  why  is  my  fate  deferr'd ! 
I  strip  my  body  of  my  shepherd's  frock ; 
Behold  that  dreadful  downfall  of  a  rock, 
Where  yon  old  fisher  views  the  waves  from  high! 
Tis  that  convenient  leap  I  mean  to  try. 
You  would  be  pleas'd  to  see  me  plunge  to  shore, 
But  better  pleas'd  if  I  should  rise  no  more. 
I  might  have  read  my  fortune  long  ago, 
When,  seeking  my  success  in  love  to  know, 
I  tried  the  infallible  prophetic  way, 
A  poppy-leaf  upon  my  palm  to  lay: 
I  struck,  and  yet  no  lucky  crack  did  follow; 
Vet  I  .struck  hard,  and  yet  the  leaf  lay  hollow: 
And.  which  was  worse,  if  any  worse  could  prove, 
The  withering  leaf  foreshow'd  your  withering 

love. 

Yet,  farther,  (ah,  how  far  a  lover  dares!) 
My  last  recourse  I  had  to  sieve  and  shears ; 
And  told  the  witch  Agreo  my  disease; 
(Agreo,  that  in  harvest  used  to  lease: 
Dot  harvest  done,  to  char-work  did  aspire; 
Meat,  drink,  and  two-pence  was  her  daily  hire,) 
To  work  she  went,  her   charms   she   mutter'd 

o'er, 

And  yet  the  resty  sieve  wagg'd  ne'er  the  more ; 
I  wept  for  woe,  the  testy  beldame  swore, 


216 


THEOCRITUS. 


And,  foaming  with  her  god,  foretold  my  fate — 
That  I  was  doom'd  to  love,  and  you  to  hate. 
A  milk-white  goat  for  you  I  did  provide ; 
Two  milk-white  kids  run  frisking  by  her  side, 
For  which  the  nut-brown  lass  Erithacis, 
Full  often  offer'd  many  a  savoury  kiss. 
Hers  they  shall  be,  since  you  refuse  the  price : 
What  madman  would  o'erstand  his  market  twice ! 
My  right  eye  itches,  some  good  luck  is  near, 
Perhaps  my  Amaryllis  may  appear  5 
I'll  set  up  such  a  note  as  she  shall  hear. 
What  nymph  but  my  melodious  voice  would 

move  ? 

She  must  be  flint,  if  she  refuse  my  love. 
Hippomenes,  who  ran  with  noble  strife 
To  win  his  lady,  or  to  lose  his  life, 
(What  shift  some  men  will  make  to  get  a  wife!) 
Threw  down  a  golden  apple  in  her  way — 
For  all  her  haste  she  could  not  choose  but  stay. 
Renown  said,  Run;  the  glittering  bribe  cried, 

Hold; 
The  man  might  have  been  hang'd,  but  for  his 

gold. 

Yet  some  suppose  t'was  love  (some  few  indeed) 
That  stopp'd  the  fatal  fury  of  her  speed : 
She  saw,  she  sigh'd ;  her  nimble  feet  refuse 
Their  wonted  speed,  and  she  took  pains  to  lose. 
A  prophet  some,  and  some  a  poet  cry, 
(No  matter  which,  so  neither  of  them  lie,) 
From  steepy  Othrys'  top  to  Pylus  drove 
His  herd ;  and  for  his  pains  enjoy'd  his  love : 
If  such  another  wager  should  be  laid, 
I'll  find  the  man,  if  you  can  find  the  maid. 
Why  name  I  men,  when  Love  extended  finds 
His  power  on  high,  and  in  celestial  minds? 
Venus  the  shepherd's  homely  habit  took, 
And  managed  something  else  besides  the  crook ; 
Nay,  when  Adonis  died,  was  heard  to  roar, 
And  never  from  her  heart  forgave  the  boar. 
How  blest  was  fair  Endymion  with  his  Moon, 
Who  sleeps  on  Latmos'  top  from  night  to  noon ! 
What  Jason  from  Medea's  love  possessed, 
You  shall  not  hear,  but  know  'tis  like  the  rest. 
My  aching  head  can  scarce  support  the  pain ; 
This  cursed  Love  will  surely  turn  my  brain. 
Feel  how  it  shoots,  and  yet  you  take  no  pity ; 
Nay,  then  'tis  time  to  end  my  doleful  ditty. 
My  head  grows  giddy ;  Love  affects  me  sore — 
Yet  you  regard  not ; — so  I'll  sing  no  more  : 
Here  will  I  lie;  my  flesh  the  wolves  shall  eat; — 
That  to  your  taste  will  be  as  honey  sweet. 


FROM  IDYL  XL 

THE  CYCLOPS. 

THE  poet,  addressing  himself  to  his  friend  Ni- 
cias,  the  physician,  asserts  that  there  is  no  remedy 
for  Love  but  the  Muses.  He  then  gives  an  ac- 
count of  Polypherne's  passion  for  the  Sea-nymph 
Galatea,  and  describes  him  as  sitting  upon  a  rock 
that  overlooked  the  ocean,  and  beguiling  his 
cares  with  a  song. 

No  remedy  the  power  of  Love  subdues. 
No  medicine,  dearest  Nicias,  but  the  Muse ; 


Lenient  her  balmy  hand  and  ever  sure, 

But  few  are  they  for  whom  she  works  the  cure. 

This  truth  my  gentle  Nicias  holds  divine, 

Favour'd  alike  by  Paean  and  the  Nine. 

This  truth,  long  since,  within  his  rugged  breast, 

Torn  with  fierce  passion,  Polypheme  confest. 

— 'Twas  when    advancing   manhood  first  had 

shed 

The  early  pride  of  summer  o'er  his  head, 
His  Galatea  on  these  plains  he  wooed, 
But  not,  like  other  swains,  the  Nymph  pursued 
With  fragrant  flowers,  or  fruits  or  garlands  fair, 
But  with  hot  madness  and  abrupt  despair. 
And,  while  his  bleating  flocks,  neglected,  sought 
Without  a  shepherd's  care  their  fold,  self-taught, 
He,  wandering  on  the  sea-beat  shore  all  day, 
Sang  of  his  hopeless  love,  and  pined  away. 
From  morning's  dawn  he    sang,  till  evening's 

close — 

Fierce  were  the  pangs  that  robb'd  him  of  repose ; 
The  mighty  Queen  of  Love  had  barb'd  the  dart, 
And  deeply  fix'd  it  rankling  in  his  heart: 
Then  song  assuaged  the  tortures  of  his  mind, 
While,  on  a  rock's  commanding  height  reclined, 
His  eye  wide  stretching  o'er  the  level  main, 
Thus  would  he  cheat  the  lingering  hours  of  pain. 
"  Fair  Galatea,  why  my  passion  slight  1 
0  Nymph,  than  lambs  more  soft,  than  curds  more 

white ! 

Wanton  as  calves  before  the  uddered  kine, 
Yet  harsh  as  unripe  fruitage  of  the  vine. 
You  come,  when  pleasing  sleep  has  clos'd  mine 

eye, 

And,  like  a  vision,  with  my  slumbers  fly, 
Swift  as  before  the  wolf  the  lambkin  bounds, 
Panting  and  trembling,  o'er  the  furrow 'd  grounds. 
Then  first  I  lov'd,  and  thence  I  date  my  flame, 
When  here  to  gather  hyacinths  you  came  : 
My  mother  brought  you — 'twas  a  fatal  day ; 
And  I,  alas !  unwary  led  the  way : 
E'er  since  my  torturd  mind  has  known  no  rest ; 
Peace  is  become  a  stranger  to  my  breast : 
Yet  you  nor  pity,  nor  relieve  my  pain — 
Yes,  yes,  I  know  the  cause  of  your  disdain  ; 
For,  stretched  from  ear  to  ear  with  shagged  grace, 
My  single  brow  adds  horror  to  my  face ; 
My  single  eye  enormous  lids  enclose, 
And  o'er  my  blubber'd  Jips  projects  my  nose. 
Yet,  homely  as  I  am,  large  flocks  I  keep, 
And  drain  the  udders  of  a  thousand  sheep  ; 
My  pails  with   milk,  my  shelves   with   cheese 

they  fill, 

In  summer  scorching,  and  in  winter  chill. 
The  vocal  pipe  I  tune  with  pleasing  glee, 
No  other  Cyclops  can  compare  with  me : 
Your  charms  I  sing,  sweet  apple  of  delight! 
Myself  and  you  I  sing  the  live-long  night. 
For  you  ten  fawns,  with  collars  deck'd,  I  feed, 
And  four  young  bears  for  your  diversion  breed  :* 
Come,  live  with  me ;   all   these   you  may  com- 
mand, 

And  change  your  azure  ocean  for  the  land : 
More  pleasing  slumbers  will  my  cave  bestow, 
There  spiry  cypress  and  green  laurels  grow ; 

*  These  bears  are  highly  in  character,  and  well  adapted 
presents  from  Polyphemus  to  his  mistress. 


THEOCRITUS. 


217 


There  round  my  trees  the  sable  ivy  twines, 
And  grapes,  as  sweet  as  honey,  load  my  vines : 
From  grove-crown'd  JEtna,  rob'd  in  purest  snow, 
Cool  springs  roll  nectar  to  the  swains  below. 
Say,  who  would  quit  such  peaceful  scenes  as 

these 

For  blustering  billows, and  tempestuous  seas? 
Though  my  rough  form's  no  object  of  desire, 
My  oaks  supply  me  with  abundant  fire ; 
My  hearth  unceasing  blazes — though  I  swear 
By  this  one  eye,  to  me  for  ever  dear, 
\Vell  might  that  fire  to  warm  my  breast  suffice, 
That  kindled  at  the  lightning  of  your  eyes. 
Had  I,  like  fish,  with  fins  and  gills  been  made, 
Then  might  I  in  your  element  have  play'd — 
With  ease  have  div'd  beneath  your  azure  tide, 
And    kiss'd   your    hand,   though    you   your   lips 

denied ! 

Brought  lilies  fair,  or  poppies  red  that  grow 
In  summer's  solstice,  or  in  winter's  snow ; 
These  flowers  I  could  not  both  together  bear 
That  bloom  in  different  seasons  of  the  year. 
Well,  I'm  resolv'd,  fair  Nymph,  I'll  learn  to  dive, 
If  e'er  a  sailor  at  this  port  arrive; 
Then  shall  I  surely  by  experience  know 
What  pleasures  charm  you  in  the  deeps  below. 
Emerge,  0  Galatea!  from  the  sea, 
And  here  forget  your  native  home  like  me. 
O  would  you  feed  my  flock,  and  milk  my  ewes, 
And  ere  you  press  my  cheese  the  runnet  sharp 

infuse ! 

My  mother  is  the  only  foe  I  fear  ; 
She  never  whispers  soft  things  in  your  ear, 
Although  she  knows  my  grief,  and  every  day 
Sees  how  I  languish,  pine,  and  waste  away. 
I,  to  alarm  her,  will  aloud  complain, 
And  more  disorders  than  I  suffer  feign, 
Sad  my  head  aches,  sharp   pains  my  limbs  op- 
press, 

That  she  may  feel,  and  pity  my  distress. 
Ah,  Cyclops,  Cyclops,  where's  your  reason  fled  !— 
If  with  the  leafy  spray  your  lambs  you  fed, 
Or,  e'en  wove  baskets,  you  would    seem  more 

wise ; 

Milk  the  first  cwr,  pursue  not  her  that  flies: 
You'll  soon,  since  Galatea  proves  unkind, 
A  sweeter,  fairer  Galatea  find." 

Thus  Cyclops  learn'd  Love's  torments  to  en- 
dure, 
And  calm'd  that  passion  which  he  could  not 

cure. 

More  sweetly  far  with  song  he  sooth'd  his  heart, 
Than  if  his  gold  had  brib'd  the  doctor's  art. 

FROM  IDYL  XIII. 

HYLAS. 

THE  port  relate*  to  his  friend  Nicias  the  rape 
of  Hylas  by  the  Nymphs,  when  he  went  to  frtrh 
water  for  Hercules,  and  the  grief  of  that  hero  for 
the  loss  of  him. 

Love,  gentle  Nicias,  of  celestial  kin  1. 
For  us  alone  sure  never  was  di-siirn'd  ; 
Nor  do  the  charms  of  beauty  only  sway 
Our  mortal  breasts,  the  beings  of  a  day : 


Amphitryon's  son  was  taught  his  power  to  feel, 
Though  arm'd  with  iron   breast,  and  heart  of 

steel, 

Who  slew  the  lion  fell,  lov'd  Hylas  fair, 
Young  Hylas  graceful  with  his  curling  hair. 
And,  as  a  son  by  some  wise  parent  taught, 
The  love  of  virtue  in  his  breast  he  wrought, 
By  precept  and  example  was  his  guide, 
A  faithful  friend,  for  ever  at  his  side  ; 
Whether   the    morn  return'd  from  Jove's  high 

hall 
On  snow-white  steeds,  or  noontide  mark'd  the 

wall, 

Or  night  the  plaintive  chickens  warn'd  to  rest, 
When  careful  mothers  brood,  and  flutter  o'er  the 

nest: 

That,  fully  form'd  and  finish'd  to  his  plan, 
Time  soon  might  lead  him  to  a  perfect  man. 
But  when  bold  Jason,  with  the  sons  of  Greece, 
Sail'd  the  salt  seas  to  gain  the  golden  fleece, 
The  valiant  chiefs  from  every  city  came, 
Renown'd  for  virtue,  or  heroic  fame, 
With  these  assembled,  for  the  host's  relief, 
Alcmena's  son,  the  toil-enduring  chief. 
Firm  Argo  bore  him  cross  the  yielding  tide, 
With  his  lov'd  friend,  young  Hylas,  at  his  side ; 
Between  Cyane's  rocky  isles  she  past, 
Now  safely  fix'd  on  firm  foundations  fast, 
Thence  as  an  eagle  swift,  with  prosperous  gales 
She  flew,  and  in  deep  Phasis  furl'd  her  sails. 

When  first  the  pleasing  Pleiades  appear, 
And  grass-green  meads  pronounc'd  the  summer 

near, 

Of  chiefs  a  valiant  band,  the  flower  of  Greece, 
Had  plann'd  the  emprise  of  the  golden  fleece, 
In  Argo  lodg'd  they  spread  their  swelling  sails, 
And  soon  past  Hellespont  with  southern  gales, 
And  smooth  Propontis,  where  the  land  appears 
Turn'd  in  straight  furrows  by  Cyanean  steers. 
With  eve  they  land ;  some  on  the  greensward 

spread 

Their  hasty  meal ;  some  raise  the  spacious  bed 
With  plants  and  shrubs  that  in  the  meadows 

grow, 

Sweet  flowering  rushes,  and  cyperus  low. 
In  brazen  vase  fair  Hylas  went  to  bring 
Fresh  fountain-water  from  the  crystal  spring 
For  Hercules,  and  Telarnon  his  guest; 
One  board  they  spread,  associates  at  the  feast: 
Fast  by.  in  lowly  dale,  a  well  he  found 
Beset  with  plants,  and  various  herbage  round, 
Cerulean  celendine,  bright  maiden-hair, 
And    parsley   green,   and    bindweed    flourish'd 

there. 

Deep  in  the  flood  the  dance  fair  Naiads  led, 
And  kept  strict  vigils,  to  the  rustic's  dread, 
Ennira,  Malis.  form'd  the  festive  ring, 
And  fair  Nyche"a,  blooming  as  the  spring; 
When  to  the  stream  the  hapless  youth  applied 
II  is  v;ise  crijincious  to  receive  the  tide, 
The  Naiads  seized  his  hand  with  frantic  joy, 
All  were  enamour'd  of  the  Grecian  boy; 
He  fell,  he  sunk  ;  as  from  th'  etherial  plain 
A  flaming  star  falls  headlong  on  the  main; 
The  boatswain  cries  aloud,  "  Unfurl  your  sails, 
And  spread  the  canvass  to  the  rising  gales." 
T 


218 


THEOCRITUS. 


In  vain  the  Naiads  sooth'd  the  weeding  boy, 
And  strove  to  lull  him  in  their  laps  to  joy. 
But  care  and  grief  had  mark'd  Alcides'  brow- 
Fierce,  as  a  Scythian  chief,  he  grasp'd  his  bow, 
And  his  rough  club,  which  well  he  could  com- 
mand, 

The  pride  and  terror  of  his  red  right  hand : 
On  Hylas  thrice  he  call'd  with  voice  profound, 
Thrice  Hylas  heard  the  unavailing  sound  ; 
From  the  deep  well  soft  murmurs  touch'd  his  ear, 
The  sound  seem'd  distant,  though  the  voice  was 

near. 

As  when  the  hungry  lion  hears  a  fawn 
Distressful  bleat  on  some  far-distant  lawn, 
Fierce  from  his  covert  bolts  the  savage  beast, 
And  speeds  to  riot  on  the  ready  feast. 
Thus,  anxious  for  the  boy,  Alcides  takes 
His  weary  way  through   woods    and  pathless 

brakes. 

The  bold  adventurers  blam'd  their  hero's  stay, 
While  long  equipt  the  ready  vessel  lay ; 
With  anxious  hearts   they  spread  their  sail  at 

night, 

Hoping  his  presence  with  the  morning  light ; 
But  he,  with  frantic  speed,  regardless  stray'd — 
Love  pierc'd  his  heart,  and  all  the  hero  sway'd. 
Thus  Hylas,  honoured  with  Alcides'  love, 
Is  number'd  with  the  deities  above, 
While  to  Amphitryon's  son  the  heroes  give 
This  shameful  term,  "  The  Argo's  fugitive  :" 
But  soon  on  foot  the  chief  to  Colchos  came, 
With  deeds  heroic  to  redeem  his  fame. 


FROM  IDYL  XIV. 

CHARACTER  OF  PTOLEMY  PHILADELPHUS. 

WHAT  is  his  character  ? — A  royal  spirit 

To  point  out  genius  and  encourage  merit; 

The  poet's  friend,  humane,  and  good,  and  kind ; 

Of  manners  gentle,  and  of  generous  mind. 

He  marks  his  friend,  but  more  he  marks  his  foe ; 

His  hand  is  ever  ready  to  bestow : 

Request  with  reason,  and  he'll  grant  the  thing, 

And  what  he  gives,  he  gives  it  like  a  king.* 

+  To  this  encomium  of  Ptolemy  by  the  Sicilian  poet,  I 
shall  briefly  show  the  favourable  side  of  his  character,  as 
it  is  given  by  the  historians.  He  was  a  prince  of  great 
learning,  and  a  zealous  promoter  and  encourager  of  it  in 
others,  an  industrious  collector  of  books,  and  a  generous 
patron  to  all  those  who  were  eminent  in  any  branch  of 
literature.  The  fame  of  his  generosity  drew  seven  cele- 
brated poets  to  his  court,  who,  from  their  number,  were 
called  the  Pleiades:  these  were  Aratus,  Theocritus, 
Callimachus,  Lycophron,  Apollonius,  Nicander  and  Phi- 
licus.  To  him  we  are  indebted  for  the  Greek  translation 
of  the  scripture,  called  the  Septuagint.  Notwithstanding 
his  peculiar  taste  for  the  sciences,  yet  he  applied  himself 
with  indefatigable  industry  to  business,  studying  all  pos- 
sible methods  to  render  his  subjects  happy,  and  raise  his 
dominions  to  a  flourishing  condition.  Athenaeus  called 
him  the  richest  of  all  the  princes  of  his  age;  and  Appian 
says,  that  as  he  was  the  most  magnificent  and  generous 
of  all  kings  in  laying  out  his  money,  so  he  was  of  all  the 
most  skilful  and  industrious  in  raising  it.  He  built  an 
incredible  number  of  cities,  and  left  so  many  other  public 
monuments  of  his  magnificence,  that  all  works  of  an  ex- 
travagant taste  and  grandeur  were  proverbially  called 
Philadelphian  works. 


FROM  IDYL  XV. 

THE  STRACUSIATT  GOSSIPS. 

Two  Syracusian  women,  who  had  travelled 
to  Alexandria,  go  to  see  the  solemnity  of  Adonis' 
festival,  which  had  been  prepared  by  Arsinoe, 
the  queen  of  Ptolemy  Philadelphus. 

GORGO,  ETJITOE,  PRAXINOE,  OLD  WOMAN,  and 
STRANGER. 

Gor.  Pray,  is  Praxinoe  at  home  ? 

Eu.  Dear  Gorgo,  yes — how  late  you  come ! 

Prax.  Well !  is  it  you  ?  Maid,  bring  a  chair 
And  cushion. 

Gor.  Thank  you. 

Prax.  Pray  sit  there. 

Gor.  Lord  bless  me!  what  a  bustling  throng! 
I  scarce  could  get  alive  along : 
In  chariots  such  a  heap  of  folks ! 
And  men  in  arms,  and  men  in  cloaks — 
Besides,  I  live  so  distant  hence 
The  journey  really  is  immense. 

Prax.  My  husband,  heaven  his  senses  mend! 
Here  will  inhabit  the  world's  end, 
This  horrid  house,  or  rather  den ; 
More  fit  for  savages  than  men. 
This  scheme  with  envious  aim  he  labours, 
Only  to  separate  good  neighbours — 
My  plague  eternal ! 

Gor.  Softly,  pray, 

The  child  attends  to  all  you  say ; 
Name  not  your  husband  when  he's  by — 
Observe  how  earnest  is  his  eye ! — 

Prax.  Sweet  Zopy  !  there's  a  bonny  lad, 
Cheer  up !  I  did  not  mean  your  dad. 

Gor.  'Tis  a  good  dad. — I'll  take  an  oath, 
The  urchin  understands  us  both. 

Prax.  (Let's  talk  as  if  some  time,  ago, 
And  then  we  shall  be  safe,  you  know,) 
This  person  happen'd  once  to  stop 
To  purchase  nitre  at  a  shop, 
And  what  d'ye  think?  the  silly  creature 
Bought  salt,  and  took  it  for  salt-petre. 

Gor.  My  husband's  such  another  honey 
And  thus,  as  idly,  spends  his  money ; 
Five  fleeces  for  seven  drachms  he  bought, 
Coarse  as  dog's  hair,  not  worth  a  groat. 
But  take  your  cloak,  and  garment  grac'd 
With  clasps,  that  lightly  bind  your  waist; 
Adonis'  festival  invites, 
And  Ptolemy's  gay  court  delights : 
Besides,  our  matchless  queen,  they  say, 
Exhibits  some  grand  sight  to-day. 

Prax.  No  wonder — every  body  knows 
Great  folks  can  always  make  fine  shows: 
But  tell  me  what  you  went  to  see, 
And  what  you  heard — 'tis  new  to  me. 

Gor.  The  feast  now  calls  us  hence  away, 
And  we  shall  oft  keep  holiday. 

Prax.  Maid !  water  quickly — set  it  down — 
Lord  !  how  indelicate  you're  grown  ! 
Disperse  these  cats  that  love  their  ease — 
But  first  the  water,  if  you  please — 
Quick !  how  she  creeps ;  pour,  hussey,  pour ; 
You've  spoil'd  my  gown — so,  so — no  more. 
Well,  now  I'm  wash'd — ye  gods  be  blest! — 
Here — bring  the  key  of  my  large  chest. 


THEOCRITUS. 


219 


Gor.  This  robe  becomes  you  mighty  well ; 
Wliat  might  it  cost  you  ?  can  you  tell? 

Prax.  Three  pounds,  or  more ;  I'd  not  have 

done  it, 
But  that  I'd  set  my  heart  upon  it. 

Gor.  'Tis  wondrous  cheap. 

Prax.  You  think  so? — maid, 

F'-n-h  my  umbrella,  and  my  shade; 
So,  put  it  on — fie,  Zopy,  fie  ! 
Stay  within  doors,  and  don't  you  cry: 
Tlie  horse  will  kick  you  in  the  dirt — 
Roar  as  you  please,  you  shan't  get  hurt. 
Pray,  maid,  divert  him— come,  'tis  late : 
Call  in  the  dog,  and  shut  the  gate. — 

Lord  !  here's  a  bustle  and  a  throng ; 
How  shall  we  ever  get  along! 
Such  numbers  cover  all  the  way, 
Like  emmets  on  a  summer's  day. 

O  Ptolemy,  thy  fame  exceeds 
Thy  godlike  sire's  in  noble  deeds! 
No  robber  now  with  Pharian  wiles 
The  stranger  of  his  purse  beguiles ; 
No  ruffians  now  infest  the  street, 
And  stab  the  passengers  they  meet 

What  shall  we  do  ?  lo,  here  advance 
The  king's  war-horses — how  they  prance! 
Don't  tread  upon  me,  honest  friend — 
Lord,  how  that  mad  horse  rears  on  end! 
He'll  throw  his  rider  down,  I  fear — 
I  in  glad  I  left  the  child,  my  dear. 

Gor.  Don't  be  afraid;  the  danger's  o'er; 
The  horses,  see !  are  gone  before. 

Prax.  I'm  better  now,  but  always  quake 
Whene'er  I  see  a  horse  or  snake  ; 
They  rear,  and  look  so  fierce  and  wild — 
I  own,  I've  lonth'd  them  from  a  child. 
Walk  quicker — what  a  crowd  is  this! 

Gor.  Pray,  come  you  from  the  palace  ? 

Old  W.  Yes. 

Gor.  Can  we  get  in,  d'ye  think  ? 

Old  W.  Make  trial— 

The  steady  never  take  denial ; 
The  steady  Greeks  old  Ilium  won ; 
By  trial  all  things  may  be  done. 

Gor.  Gone,  like  a  riddle,  in  the  dark  ; 
•  •rones,  if  we  their  tales  remark, 
Know  better  far  than  I  or  you  know 
How  Jupiter  was  join'd  to  Juno. 
Lo !  at  the  gate,  what  crowds  are  there ! 

Prax.  Immense,  indeed  !  Your  hand,  my  dear: 
And  let  the  maids  join  hands,  and  close  us, 
Lr~t  in  the  bustle  they  should  lose  us. 
Let's  crowd  together  through  the  door — 
Heav'ns  bless  me!  how  my  gown  is  tore. 
By  Jove,  but  this  is  past  a  joke- 
Pray,  good  sir,  don't  you  rend  my  cloak. 

Mtin.  I  can't  avoid  it;  I'm  so  prest. 

Prax.  Like  pigs  they  justle,  I  pi 

Man.  Cheer  up,  for  now  we're  safe  and  sound. 

Prax.  May  you  in  happiness  abound  ; 
For  you  have  serv'd  us  all  you  can— 
Gorgo ! — a  mighty  civil  man — 
See  how  the  folks  poor  Eunoc  justle ! 
Push  through  the  crowd,  girl! — bustle,  bustle — 
Now  we're  all  in;  as  Dromo  said, 
When  he  had  got  his  bride  in  bed. 


Gor.  Lo !  what  rich  hangings  grace  the  rooms — 
Sure  they  were  wove  in  heavenly  looms. 

Prax.  Gracious !  how  delicately  fine 
The  work  !  how  noble  the  design  ! 
j  How  true,  how  happy  is  the  draught! 
|  The  figures  seem  inform'd  with  thought — 

No  artists  sure  the  story  wove ; 
I  They're  real  men — they  live,  they  move. 
From  these  amazing  works  we  find, 
How  great,  how  wise,  the  human  mind. 
Lo !  stretch'd  upon  a  silver  bed,* 
(Scarce  has  the  down  his  cheeks  o'erspread) 
Adonis  lies ;  O,  charming  show ! 
Lov'd  by  the  sable  pow'rs  below. 

Sir.  Hist!  your  Sicilian  prate  forbear; 
Your  mouths  extend  from  ear  to  ear, 
Like  turtles  that  for  ever  moan ; — 
You  stun  us  with  your  rustic  tone. 

Gor.  Sure!    we   may    speak!    what    fellow's 

this? 

And  do  you  take  it,  sir,  amiss? 
Go,  keep  ^Egyptian  slaves  in  awe : 
Think  not  to  give  Sicilians  law  : 
Besides,  we're  of  Corinthian  mould, 
As  was  Bellerophon  of  old  : 
Our  language  is  entirely  Greek— 
The  Dorians  may  the  Doric  speak. 

Prax.  O  sweet  Proserpina,  sure  none 
Presumes  to  give  us  law  but  one ! 
To  us  there  is  no  fear  you  should 
Do  harm,  who  cannot  do  us  good. 

Gor.  Hark !  the  Greek  girl's  about  to  raise 
Her  voice  in  fair  Adonis'  praise; 
She's  a  sweet  pipe  for  funeral  airs : 
She's  just  beginning,  she  prepares  : 
She'll  Sperchisf  and  the  world  excel, 
That  by  her  prelude  you  may  tell. 

(The  Greek  girl  zings.)  • 

"  O  chief  of  Golgos,  and  the  Idalian  grove, 
And  breezy  Eryx,  beauteous  queen  of  love! 
Once  more  the  soft-foot  hours,  approaching  slow, 
Restore  Adonis  from  the  realms  below  ; 
Welcome  to  man  they  come  with  silent  pace, 
Diffusing  benisons  to  human  race. 
O  Venus,  daughter  of  Dione  fair, 
You  gave  to  Berenice's  lot  to  share 
Immortal  joys  in  heavenly  regions  blest, 
And  with  divine  ambrosia  fill'd  her  breast. 
And  now,  in  due  return,  O  heavenly  born ! 
Whose  honour'd  name  a  thousand  fanes  adorn, 
Arsinoe  pays  the  pompous  rites  divine, 
Rival  of  Helen,  at  Adonis'  shrine  ; 
All  fruits  she  offers  that  ripe  autumn  yields, 
The  produce  of  the  gardens,  and  the  fields; 
All    herbs    and    plants    which    silver    baskets 

hold  ;  $ 

And  Syrian  unguents  flow  from  shells  of  gold. 
With  finest  meal  sweet  paste  the  women  make, 
Oil,  flowers,  and  honey  mingling  in  the  cake : 


*  Lo  !  stretched  upon  a  silver  bed,  Sfc.— At  the  feast  of 
Adonis,  they  always  placed  his  image  on  a  magnificent 
bed. 

f  Sperchis. — A  celebrated  singer. 

t  All  herbs  and  plants,  &c.— The  Greek  is  afra-Xoi  mt-roty 
soft  gardens  ;  Archbishop  Potter  observes,  that  at  the 


220 


THEOCRITUS. 


Earth  and  the  air  afford  a  large  supply 
Of  animals  that  creep,  and  birds  that  fly. 
Green  bow'rs  are  built,  with  dill  sweet-smelling 

crown'd, 

And  little  Cupids  hover  all  around  ; 
And.  as  young  nightingales  their  wings  essay, 
Skip   here   and  there,  and    hop  from   spray  to 

spray. 

What  heaps  of  golden  vessels  glittering  bright! 
What  stores  of  ebon  black,  and  ivory  white  ! 
In  ivory  carv'd  large  eagles  seem  to  move, 
And  through  the  clouds  bear  Ganymede  to  Jove. 
Lo !  purple  tapestry  arrang'd  on  high 
Charms  the  spectators  with  its  Tyrian  dye, 
The  Samian  and  Milesian  swains,  who  keep 
Large  flocks,  acknowledge  'tis   more   soft  than 

steep : 

Of  this  Adonis  claims  a  downy  bed, 
And  lo !  another  for  fair  Venus  spread ! 
Her  bridegroom  scarce  attains  to  nineteen  years, 
Rosy  his  lips,  and  no  rough  beard  appears. 
Let  raptur'd  Venus  now  enjoy  her  mate, 
While  we,  descending  to  the  city  gate, 
Array'd  in  decent  robes  that  sweep  the  ground, 
With  naked  bosoms,  and  with  hair  unbound, 
Bring  forth  Adonis,  slain  in  youthful  years, 
Ere  Phoebus  drinks  the  morning's  early  tears. 
And  while  to  yonder  flood  we  march  along, 
With  tuneful  voices  raise  the  funeral  song. 

"  Adonis,  you  alone  of  demigods 
Now  visit  earth,  and  now  hell's  dire  abodes : 
Not  fam'd  Atrides  could  this  favour  boast, 
Nor  furious  Ajax,  though  himself  a  host ; 
Nor  Hector,  long  his  mother's  grace,  and  joy 
Of  twenty  sons,  not  Pyrrhus  safe  from  Troy, 
Not  brave  Patroclus  of  immortal  fame, 
Nor  the  fierce  Lapithae,  a  deathless  name ; 
Nor  j^ons  of  Pelops,  nor  Deucalion's  race, 
Nor  stout  Pelasgians,  Argos'  honour'd  grace. 

"  As  now,  divine  Adonis,  you  appear 
Kind  to  our  prayers,  0  bless  the  future  year ! 
As  now  propitious  to  our  vows  you  prove, 
Return  with  meek  benevolence  and  love."* 

feast  of  Adonis'  there  were  carried  shells  filled  with 
earth,  in  which  grew  several  sorts  of  herbs,  especially 
lettuces,  in  memory  that  Adonis  was  laid  out  by  Venus  on 
abed  of  lettuces:  these  were  called  xnTrc't,  gardens; 
whence  AJW/efac  HHTTGI  are  proverbially  applied  to  things 
unfruitful,  or  fading;  because  those  herbs  were  only  sown 
so  long  before  the  festival,  as  to  sprout  forth,  and  be 
green  at  that  time,  and  afterwards  cast  in  the  water. 
See  Antiquit.  Vol.  I. 

*  "The  Adonia  were  celebrated  in  most  of  the  Greek 
cities  in  honour  of  Aphrodite  and  her  paramour  Adonis. 
The  solemnity  lasted  two  days;  the  first  of  which  was 
devoted  to  the  expression  of  grief,  the  second  to  merri- 
ment and  joy.  On  the  first  day  the  statues  of  Aphrodite 
and  Adonis  were  brought  forth  with  great  pomp:  the 
women  tore  their  hair,  beat  their  breasts,  and  went 
through  all  the  show  of  violent  grief.  Small  vases  filled 
with  earth,  containing  herbs,  and  especially  lettuces, 
were  carried  in  the  pomp :  these  were  called  '  the  gardens 
of  Adonis,'  and  as  they  were  presently  cast  out  into  the 
water,  the  '  gardens  of  Adonis'  came  to  signify  any  thing 
unfruitful,  fading,  and  transitory.  On  the  second  day  the 
demonstrations  of  joy  were  made  in  memory  of  Adonis, 
who  returned  to  life,  and  dwelt  with  his  beloved  one- 
half  of  every  year. 


Gor.  0,  fam'd  for  knowledge  in  mysterious 

things! 

How  sweet,  Praxione,  the  damsel  sings ! 
Time  calls  me  home  to  keep  my  husband  kind, 
He's  prone  to  anger  if  he  has  not  din'd. 
Farewell,  Adonis,  lov'd  and  honour'd  boy ; 
0  come,  propitious,  and  augment  our  joy. 


FROM  IDYL  XVI 

LIBERALITY  TO  POETS  EXJOIHED. 

#  #  *  #  #  #  * 

NOT  so  the  truly  wise  their  wealth  employ : — 
'Tis  theirs  to  welcome  every  coming  guest, 
And,  blessing  each  departed  friend,  be  blest; 
But  chiefly  theirs  to  mark  with  high  regard 
The  Muse's  laurell'd  priest — the  holy  bard ; 
Lest  in  the  grave  their  unsung  glory  fade, 
And  their  cold   moan  pierce  Acheron's  dreary 

shade — 

As  the  poor  labourer,  who,  with  portion  scant, 
Laments  his  long,  hereditary  want. 
What  though  Aleua's  and  the  Syrian's  domes 
Saw  crowding  menials  fill  their  festal  rooms  ; 
What  though  o'er  Scopas'  fields  rich  plenty  flow'd, 
And    herds    innumerous     through    his    valleys 

low'd ; 

What  though  the  bountiful  Creondaa  drove 
Full  many  a  beauteous  flock  through  many  a 

grove ; 

Yet  when  expiring  life  could  charm  no  more, 
And  their  sad  spirits  sought  the  Stygian  shore, 
Their  grandeur  vanish'd  with  their  vital  breath, 
And  riches  could  not  follow  them  in  death ! 


"Adonis  was  the  son  of  Cinyras;  he  was  killed  by  a 
wild  boar,  while  hunting  As  Aphrodite  was  the  'Ash- 
toreth  of  the  Sidonians,'  Adonis,  we  find,  was  the  Tham- 
muz  worshipped  in  Syria.  The  worship  of  this  pair  made 
atone  time  great  progress  in  Palestine  ;  and  the  prophet 
Ezekiel  says,  that  he  saw  in  the  vision  in  which  the 
various  kinds  of  idolatry  practised  at  Jerusalem  were 
shown  to  him,  'women  sitting  and  weeping  for  Tham- 
muz.' 

"The  legend  of  Venus  and  Adonis  was  done  into  Eng- 
lish verse  by  Shakspeare,  but  with  no  great  success. 
Milton  has  introduced  the  pair  with  striking  effect  in  a 
fine  passage  in  his  'Paradise  Lost,'  (book  i.) : — 

"  With  these  in  troop 

Came  Ashtoreth,  whom  the  Phoenicians  called 
Astarte,  queen  of  heaven,  with  crescent  horns; 
To  whose  bright  image  nightly,  by  the  moon, 
Sidonian  virgins  paid  their  vows  and  songs; 
In  Sion  also  not  unsung,  where  stood 
Her  temple  on  th'  offensive  mountain,  built 
By  that  uxorious  king,  whose  heart,  though  large, 
Beguiled  by  fair  idolatresses,  fell 
To  idols  foul.    Thammuz  came  next  behind, 
Whose  annual  wound  in  Lebanon  allured 
The  Syrian  damsels  to  lament  his  fate 
In  amorous  ditties  all  a  summer's  day, 
While  smooth  Adonis  from  his  native  rock 
Ran  purple  to  the  sea,  supposed  with  blood 
Of  Thammuz  yearly  wounded:  the  love-tale 
Infected  Sion's  daughters  with  like  heat, 
Whose  wanton  passions  in  the  sacred  porch 
Ezekiel  saw,  when,  by  the  vision  led, 
His  eye  surveyed  the  dark  idolatries 
Of  alienated  Judah." 
See  Chapman's  Theocritus. 


THEOCRITUS. 


221 


Lo !  these  for  many  a  rolling  age  had  lain 
In  blank  oblivion,  with  the  vulgar  train, 
Had  not  their  bard,  the  mighty  Ceian,*  strung 
His  many-chorded  harp,  and  sweetly  sung, 
In  various  tones,  each  high-resounding  name, 
And  giv'n  to  long  posterity  their  fame. 

Verse  can  alone  the  steed  with  glory  grace, — 
Whose  wreaths  announce   the   triumph  of  the 

race! 

Could  Lycia's  chiefs,  or  Cycnus'  changing  hues, 
Or  Ilion  live  with  no  recording  muse? 
Not  e'en  Ulysses,  who  through  dangers  ran 
For  ten  long  years,  in  all  th-  haunts  of  man; 
Who  e'en  descended  to  the  depths  of  hell, 
And  fled  unmangled  from  the  Cyclop's  cell ; 
Not  he  had  lived,  but  sunk,  oblivion's  prey, 
Had  no  kind  poet  pour'd  the  unfading  ray. 
Thus,  too,  Philoetius  had  in  silence  past; 
And,  nameless,  old  Laertes  breath'd  his  last; 
And  good  Eumams  fed  his  herds  in  vain, 
But  for  Ionia's  life-inspiring  strain. 
Lo !  while  the  spirit  of  the  spendthrift  heir 
Wings  the  rich  stores  amass'd  by  brooding  care, 
While  the  dead  miser's  scattering  treasures  fly, 
The  Muse  forbids  the  generous  man  to  die. 


FROM  IDYL  XVII. 

PRAISES  OF  PTOLEMY  PHILADELPHIA. 

WITH  Jove  begin,  ye  Nine,  and  end  with  Jove, 
Whene'er  ye  praise  the  greatest  GOD  above : 
But  if  of  noblest  men  the  song  ye  cast, 
Let  Ptolemy  be  first,  and  midst,  and  last. 
Heroes  of  old,  from  demigods  that  sprung, 
Chose  lofty  poets  who  their  actions  sung: 
Well  skill'd,  I  tune  to  Ptolemy  my  reed ; 
Hymns  are  of  gods  above  the  honour'd  meed. 
To  Ida,  when  the  woodman  winds  his  way, 
Where  verdant  pines   their  towering  tops   dis- 
play, 

Doubtful  he  stands,  with  undetermined  look, 
Where  first  to  deal  the  meditated  stroke  : 
And  where  shall  I  commence  ?     New  themes 

arise, 

Deeds  that  exalt,  his  glory  to  the  skies. 
If  from  his  fathers  we  commence  the  plan, 
Lagus,  how  great,  how  excellent  a  man  !  f 
Who  to  no  earthly  potentate  would  yield 
For  wisdom  at  the  board,  or  valour  in  the  field : 
Him  with  the  gods  Jove  equals,  and  has  given 
A  golden  palace  in  the  realms  of  heaven: 
Near  him  sits  Alexander,  \visn  and  preat, 
Th»>  fell  dotroyer  of  the  Persian  stato. 
Against  them,  thron'd  in  adamant,  in  view 
Alcides,  who  the  Cretan  monster  slew, 
Reclines,  and,  as  with  god?  the  (Vast  he  shares, 
Glories  to  meet  his  own  descendant  heirs, 
From  age  and  pain's  impediments  repriev'd, 
And  in  the  rank  of  deities  roroiv'd. 


•  Simonides. 

t  Ptolemy  Lagus,  one  of  Alexander's  captains,  who, 
upon  that  monarch's  death,  and  the  division  of  Ins  em- 
pire, had  Ejiypt,  Libya,  and  that  part  of  Arabia  which 
borders  upon  Egypt,  allotted  to  his  share. 


For  in  his  line  are  both  these  heroes  class'd, 
And  both  deriv'd  from  Hercules  the  last. 
Thence,   when   the  nectar'd   bowl   his   love  in- 
spires, 

And  to  the  blooming  Hebe  he  retires, 
To  this  his  bow  and  quiver  he  allots, 
To  that  his  iron  club,  distinct  with  knots; 
Thus  Jove's  great  son  is  by  his  offspring  led 
To  silver-footed  Hebe's  rosy  bed. 

How  Berenice  shone !  her  parents'  pride  ; 
Virtue  her  aim,  and  wisdom  was  her  guide : 
Sure  Venus  with  light  touch  her  bosom  prest, 
Infusing  in  her  soft  ambrosial  breast 
Pure,  constant  love:  hence  faithful  records  tell, 
No  monarch  ever  lov'd  his  queen  so  well ; 
No  queen  with  such  undying  passion  burn'd, 
For  more  than  equal  fondness  she  return'd. 
Whene'er  to  love  the  chief  his  mind  unbends, 
To  his  son's  care  the  kingdom  he  commends. 
Unfaithful  wives,  dissatisfied  at  home, 
Let  their  wild  thoughts  on  joys  forbidden  roam  : 
Their  births  are  known,  yet,  of  a  numerous  race, 
None  shows  the  features  of  the  father's  face. 
Venus,  than  all  the  goddesses  more  fair, 
The  lovely  Berenice  was  thy  care ; 
To  thee  'twas  owing,  gentle,  kind  and  good, 
She  past  not  Acheron's  woe-working  flood. 
Thou  caught'st  her  e'er  she  went  where  spectres 

dwell, 

Or  Charon,  the  grim  ferryman  of  hell; 
And  in  thy  temple  plac'd  the  royal  fair, 
Thine  own  high  honour's  privilege  to  share. 
Thence  gentle  love  in  mortals  she  inspires, 
And  soft  solicitudes,  and  sweet  desires. 
The  fair  Deipyle  to  Tydeus  bare 
Stern  Diomed,  the  thunderbolt  of  war  : 
And  Thetis,  goddess  of  the  azure  wave, 
To  Peleus  brought  Achilles,  bold  and  brave : 
But  Berenice  nobler  praise  hath  won, 
Who  bore  great  Ptolemy  as  great  a  son : 
And  sea-girt  Cos  receiv'd  thee  soon  as  born, 
When  first  thine  eyes  beheld  the  radiant  morn. 
For  there  thy  mother  to  Lucina  pray'd, 
Who  sends,  to  those  that  suffer  child-bed,  aid. 
She  came,  and  friendly  to  the  genial  bed, 
A  placid,  sweet  tranquillity  she  shed 
O'er  all  her  limbs ;  and  thus  serene  and  mild, 
Like  his  lov'd  sire,  was  born  the  lovely  child. 
Cos  saw,  and  fondling  in  her  arms  the  boy, 
Thus  spoke,  transported,  with  the  voice  of  joy; 
"  Quick  rise  to  light,  auspicious  babe  be  born ! 
And  me  with  equal  dignity  adorn, 
As  Phoebus  Delos :— on  fam'd  Triops'  brow, 
And  on  the  neighbouring  Dorian  race  bestow 
Just  honours,  and  as  favourably  smile, 
As  the  god  views  with  joy  Rhemt-a's  fertile  isle." 
The  Island  spoke ;  and  thrice  the  bird  of  Jove 
His  pinions  clang'd,  resounding  from  above ; 
Jove's  omen  thunder'd  from  his  eagle's  wings; 
Jove  loves  and  honours  venerable  kings. 
But  whom  in  infancy  his  care  befriends, 
Him  power,  and  wealth, and  happiness  attends: 
He  rules,  belov'd,  unbounded  tracts  of  land, 
And  various  oceans  roll  at  his  command. 
Unnumber'd  nations  view  their  happy  plains, 
Fresh  fertiliz'd  by  Jove's  prolific  rains : 

T2 


222 


THEOCRITUS. 


But  none,  like  Egypt,  can  such  plenty  boast, 
When  genial  Nile  o'erflows  the  humid  coast  :  — 
Here,  too,  O  Ptolemy  !  beneath  thy  sway 
What  cities  glitter  to  the  beams  of  day! 
Lo  !  with  thy  statelier  pomp  no  kingdom  vies, 
While  round  thee  thrice  ten  thousand  cities  rise. 
Struck  by  the  terror  of  thy  flashing  sword, 
Syria  bow'd  down,  Arabia  call'd  thee  lord  5 
Phoenicia  trembled,  and  the  Lybian  plain, 
With   the  black  JEthiop,  own'd   thy   wide   do- 

main : 

E'en  Lesser  Asia  and  her  isles  grew  pale, 
As  o'er  the  billows  pass'd  thy  crowd  of  sail. 
Earth  feels  thy  nod,  and  all  the  subject  sea  ; 
And  each  resounding  river  rolls  for  thee. 
And  while  around  thy  thick  battalions  flash, 
Thy  proud  steeds  neighing  for  the  warlike  clash, 
Through    all   thy  marts   the  tide  of  commerce 

flows, 
And  wealth  beyond  a  monarch's  grandeur  glows.* 

Such  gold-hair'd  Ptolemy  !  whose  easy  port 
Speaks  the  soft  polish  of  the  mannered  court  ; 
And  whose  severer  aspect,  as  he  wields 
The  spear,  dire-blazing,  frowns  in  tented  fields. 
And  though  he   guards,  while  other  kingdoms 

own 

His  conquering  arms,  the  hereditary  throne, 
Yet  in  vast  heaps  no  useless  treasure  stor'd 
Lies,  like  the  riches  of  an  emmet's  hoard; 
To  mighty  kings  his  bounties  he  extends, 
To  states  confederate,  and  illustrious  friends. 
No  bard  at  Bacchus'  festival  appears, 
Whose  lyre   has  power  to  charm  the  ravish'd 

ears, 

But  he  bright  honours  and  rewards  imparts, 
Due  to  his  merits,  equal  to  his  arts  : 
And  poets  hence,  for  deathless  song  renown'd, 
The  generous  fame  of  Ptolemy  resound. 
At  what  more  glorious  can  the  wealthy  aim, 
Than  thus  to  purchase  fair  and  lasting  fame  ? 
The  great  Atridoe  this  alone  enjoy, 
While   all   the   wealth  and   spoil  of  plunder'd 


That  scap'd  the  raging  flame,  or  whelming  wave, 
Lies  buried  in  oblivion's  greedy  grave. 
Close  trode  great  Ptolemy,  at  virtue's  call, 
His  father's  footsteps,  but  surpast  them  all. 


*  Ptolemy  intended  to  engross  the  whole  trade  of  the 
east  and  west  to  himself,  and  therefore  fitted  out  two 
great  fleets  to  protect  his  trading  subjects  ;  one  of  these 
he  kept  in  the  Red  sea,  the  other  in  the  Mediterranean  : 
the  latter  was  very  numerous,  and  had  several  ships  of  an 
extraordinary  size.  By  this  means,  the  whole  trade  being 
fixed  at  Alexandria,  that  place  became  the  chief  mart  of 
all  the  traffic  that  was  carried  on  between  the  east  and 
the  west,  and  continued  to  be  the  greatest  emporium  in 
the  world  above  seventeen  hundred  years,  till  another 
passage  was  found  out  by  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope:  but 
as  the  road  to  the  Red  sea  lay  across  the  deserts,  where 
no  water  could  be  had,  nor  any  convenience  of  towns  or 
houses  for  lodging  passengers,  Ptolemy,  to  remedy  both 
these  evils,  opened  a  canal  along  the  great  road,  into 
which  he  conveyed  the  water  of  the  Nile,  and  built  on  it 
houses  at  proper  distances;  so  that  passengers  found 
ev^ry  night  convenient  lodgings,  and  necessary  refresh- 
ments for  themselves,  and  their  beasts  of  burden. 


FROM  IDYL  XVIII. 

THE   EPITHALAMIUM  OF   HELEN   AND   MENELATJS. 

TWELVE  Spartan  virgins,  noble,  young,  and  fair, 
With  violet  wreaths  adorn'd  their  flowing  hair; 
And  to  the  pompous  palace  did  resort, 
Where  Menelaus  kept  his  royal  court. 
There,  hand  in  hand,  a  comely  choir  they  led; 
To  sing  a  blessing  to  his  nuptial  bed, 
With  curious  needles  wrought,  and  painted  flow- 
ers bespread, — 
Jove's  beauteous  daughter  now  his  bride  must  be, 
And  Jove  himself  was  less  a  god  than  he. 
For  this  their  artful   hands  instruct  the  lute  to 

sound, 
Their  feet  assist  their  hands,  and  justly  beat  the 

ground. 
This  was  their  song : — "  Why,  happy  bridegroom, 

why, 

Ere  yet  the  stars  are  kindled  in  the  sky, 
Ere  twilight  shades,  or  evening  dews  are  shed, 
Why  dost  thou  steal  so  soon  away  to  bed  ? 
Has  Somnus  brush'd  thine  eyelids  with  his  rod, 
Or  do  thy  legs  refuse  to  bear  their  load, 
With  flowing  bowls  of  a  more  generous  god? 
If  gentle  slumber  on  thy  temples  creep, 
(But,  naughty  man,  thou  dost  not  mean  to  sleep.) 
Betake  thee  to  thy  bed,  thou  drowsy  drone, 
Sleep  by  thyself,  and  leave  thy  bride  alone : 
Go,  leave  her  with  her  maiden  mates  to  play 
At  sports  more  harmless  till  the  break  of  day! 
Give  us  this  evening:  thou  hast  morn  and  night, 
And  all  the  year  before  thee,  for  delight. 
0  happy  youth !  to  thee,  among  the  crowd 
Of  rival  princes,  Cupid  sneez'd  aloud; 
And  every  lucky  omen  sent  before, 
To  meet  thee  landing  on  the  Spartan  shore. 
Of  all  our  heroes  thou  canst  boast  alone, 
That  Jove,  whene'er  he  thunders, calls  thee  son: 
What  virgin  with  thy  Helen  can  compare, 
So  soft,  so  sweet,  so  balmy,  and  so  fair  ? 
A  boy,  like  thee,  would  make  a  kingly  line; 
But  oh,  a  girl  like  her  must  be  divine. 
Her  equals  we,  in  years,  but  not  in  face, 
Twelve  score  viragos  of  the  Spartan  race, 
While  naked  to  Eurotas'  banks  we  bend, 
And  there  in  manly  exercise  contend, 
When  she  appears,  are  all  eclips'd  and  lost, 
And  hide  the  beauties  that  we  made  our  boast. 
And  as,  when  winter  melts,  when  darkness  flies, 
And  spring  and  noontide  brighten  all  the  skies, 
So  bloom'd  the  virgin  Helen  in  our  eyes; 
So  bloom'd  she,  beautiful  above  the  rest, 
Tall,  slender,  straight,  with  all  the  graces  blest. 
As  pines  the  mountains,  or  as  fields  the  corn, 
Or  as  Thessalian  steeds  the  race  adorn, 
So  rosy-colour'd  Helen  charms  the  sight, 
Our  Sparta's  grace,  our  glory  and  delight. 
With  her  no  nymph  may  in  the  loom  contend  ; 
No  nymph,  like  her,  the  willing  osier  bend  ; 
None  with  such  raptures  animate  the  lyre  ; 
Whether  Minerva  the  rapt  strain  inspire, 
Or  Dian,  sporting  with  her  virgin  choir ; 
None  can  record  their  heavenly  praise  so  well 
As  Helen,  in  whose  eyes  ten  thousand  Cupids 
dwell. 


THEOCRITUS. 


223 


O  fair,  0  graceful!  yet  with  maids  enroll'd, 
But  whom  to-morrow's   sun  a  matron  shall  be- 
hold ! 

Yet  ere  to-morrow's  sun  shall  show  his  head, 
The  dewy  paths  of  meadows  we  will  tread, 
For  crowns  and  chaplets  to  adorn  thy  head. 
When  all  shall  weep,  and  wish  for  thy  return, 
As  bleating  lambs  their  absent  mother  mourn. 
Our  noblest  maids  shall  to  thy  name  bequeath 
The  boughs  of  Lotos,  forrn'd  into  a  wreath. 
This  monument,  thy  maiden  beauties'  due, 
High  on  a  plane-tree  shall  be  hung  to  view, 
On  the  smooth  rind  the  passenger  shall  see 
Thy  name  engrav'd,  and  worship  Helen's  tree : 
Balm,  from  a  silver  box  distill'd  around, 
Shall  all  bedew  the  roots,  and  scent  the  sacred 

ground. 

Hail  bride,  hail  bridegroom,  son-in-law  to  Jove ! 
With  fruitful  joys  Latona  bless  your  love! 
Almighty  Jove  augment  your  wealthy  store, 
(Jive  much  to  you,  and  to  his  grandsons  more! 
From  generous  loins  a  generous  race  will  spring, — 
Each  girl,  like  her,  a  queen ;  each  boy,  like  you, 
a  king." 


FROM  IDYL  XXII. ' 

THE   BOXERS. 

THE  twins  of  Leda,  child  of  Thestius, 
Twice  and  again  we  celebrate  in  song, 
The  Spartan  pair,  stamped  by  ^Egiochus, 
Castor  and  Pollux,  arming  with  the  thong 
His  dreadful  hands  ;  both  merciful  as  strong, 
Saviours  of  men  on  danger's  extreme  edge, 
And  steeds  tost  in  the  battle's  bloody  throng, 
And  star-defying  ships  on  ruin's  ledge, 
Swept  with  their  crews  by  blasts  into  the  cruel 
dredge. 

The  winds,  where'er  they  list,  the  huge  wave 

drive, 

Dashing  from  prow  or  stern  into  the  hold  ; 
Both  sides,  sail,  tackle,  yard,  and    mast  they 

rive, 

Snapping  at  random  :  from  night's  sudden  fold 
Rushes  a  flood ;  hither  and  thither  rolled, 
Broad  ocean's  heaving  volumes  roar  and  hiss, 
Smitten  by  blasts  and  the  hail-volley  cold: 
The  lost  ship  and  her  crew  your  ta>k  it  is, 
Bright  pair!  to  rescue  from  the  terrible  ;: 

They  think  to  die — but  lo !  a  sudden  lull 

0' the   winds;   the  clouds   disperse;   and   the 

hush'd  >heen 

Of  the  calmed  ocean  sparkles  beautiful: 
The  bears  and  asses,  with  the  stall  between. 
Foreshow  a  voyage  safe  and  skies  serene. 
Blest  brothers!  who  to  mortal<  sut'ety  brine:, 
Both  harpers,  minstrels,  knights,  and  warriors 

keen  ; 

Sinee  both  I  hymn,  with  which  immortal  kino: 
Shall  I  commence  rny  song?  of  Pollux  lir.-t  I'll 

sing. 

The  justling   rocks,   the  dangerous    Euxine's 
mouth, 


Snow-veiled,  when  Argo  safely  passed,  and 

ended  • 

Her  course  at  the  Bebrycian  shore,  the  youth 
Born  of  the  gods  from  both  her  sides  descended, 
And  on  the  deep  shore,  from  rude  winds  de- 
fended, 
Their  couches  spread ;  and  strook  the  seeds  of 

fire 

From  the  pyreion.     Forthwith  unattended 
Did  Pollux,  of  the  red-brown  hue,  retire 
With  Castor,  whose  renown  for  horsemanship 
was  higher. 

On  a  high  hill  a  forest  did  appear: 
The  brothers  found  there  a  perennial  spring, 
Under  a  smooth  rock,  filled  with  water  clear, 
With  pebbles  paved,  which  from  below  did 

fling 

A  crystal  sheen  like  silver  glistering : 
The  poplar,  plane,  tall  pine,  and  cypress,  grew 
Hard    by :    and    odorous    flowers   did   thither 

bring 

Thick  swarm  of  bees,  their»sweet  toil  to  pursue, 
As  many  as  in  the  meads,  when  spring  ends, 

bloom  to  view. 

There  lay  at  ease  a  bulky  insolent, 
Grim-looked :  his  ears  by  gauntlets  scored  and 

marred ; 

His  vast  chest,  like  a  ball,  was  prominent; 
His  back  was  broad  with  flesh  like  iron  hard, 
Like  anvil-wrought  Colossus  to  regard; 
And  under  either  shoulder  thews  were  seen 
On  his  strong  arms,  like  round  stones  which, 

oft  jarred 

In  the  quick  rush  with  many  a  bound  between, 
A  winter  torrent  rolls   down   through  the   cleft 

ravine. 

A  lion's  hide  suspended  by  the  feet 
Hung  from  his  neck  and  o'er  his  shoulders  fell : 
Him  the  prize-winner  Pollux  first  did  greet: 
'•  Hail,  stranger !  in  these  parts  what  people 

dwell  ?" 

"The  hail  of  utter  stranger  sounds  not  well, 
At  least  to  me."     "  We're  not  ^alevolent, 
Nor  sons  of  such,  take  heart."    "  You  need  not 

tell 

Me  that — I  in  myself  am  confident." 
"  You  are  a  savage,  quick  to  wrath  and  insolent." 

"  You  see  me  as  I  am  ;  upon  your  land 
I  do  not  walk.''     "  Come  thither,  and  return 
With  hospitable  gifts."     "  I've  none  at  hand, 
Nor  want  I  yours."     "  Pray,  let  me  learn, 
Wilt  let  me  drink  from  out  this  fountain  urn?" 
'•  You'll   know,  if  your  thirst-hanging  lips  are 

dry." 
"  How  may  we  coax  you  from  your  humour 

stern  ? — 
With    silver   or  what  else?''     "The   combat 

try—" 
"  How,  pray,  with  gauntlets,  foot  to  foot  and  eye 

to  »  . 

"In  pugilistic  fight,  nor  spare  your  skill." 
••  Where  is  my  gauntlet-armed  antagonist?" 
"  At  hand  !  he's  here  ;  you  see  him  if  you  will, 
I,  Amycus,  the  famous  pugilist." 


224 


THEOCRITUS. 


"And  what  the  prize  of  the  victorious  fist?" 
"The   vanquished    shall  become   the  victor's 

thrall." 

"  Red-crested  cocks  so  fight,  and  so  desist." 
"  Cock-like,  or  lion-like  the  combat  call ; 
This  is  the  prize  for  which  we  fight,  or  none  at 
all." 

Then  on  a  conch  he  blew  a  mighty  blast : 
The  long-haired  Bebryces,  hearing  the  sound, 
Under  the  shady  plains  assembled  fast; 
And  likewise  Castor,  in  the  fight  renowned, 
Hastened   and   called   his   comrades   to    the 

ground 
From  the    Magnesian    ship.     With  gauntlets 

both 
Armed  their  strong  hands ;  their  wrists  and 

arms  they  bound 

With  the  long  thongs ;  with  one  another  wroth, 
Each  breathing  blood  and  death,  they  stood  up 

nothing  loth. 

First  each  contended  which  should  get  the  sun 
Of  his  antagonist ;  but  much  in  sleight 
That  huge  man,  Pollux !  was  by  thee  outdone ; 
And  Amycus  was  dazzled  with  the  light ; 
But  raging  rushed  straight  forward  to  the  fight, 
Aiming  fierce  blows ;  but  wary  Pollux  met 

him, 

Striking  the  chin  of  his  vast  opposite, 
Who  fiercer  battled,  for  the  blow  did  fret  him, 
And  leaning  forward  tried  unto  the  ground  to 

get  him. 

Shouted  the  Bebryces ;  and,  for  they  feared 
The  man-like  Tityus  might  their  friend  down- 
weigh 

In  the  scant  place,  the  heroes  Pollux  cheered : 
But  shifting  here  and  there  Jove's  son  made 

play, 

And  struck  out  right  and  left,  but  kept  away 
From  the  fierce  rush  of  Neptune's  son  un- 
couth, 
Who,  drunk  with  blows,  reeled  in  the  hot 

affray, 

Out-spitting  purple  blood ;  the  princely  youth 
Shouted,  when  they  beheld  his  battered  jaws  and 
mouth. 

His  eyes  were  nearly  closed  from  the  contusion 
Of  his  swoln  face;  the  prince  amazed  him 

more 

With  many  feints,  and  seeing  his  confusion 
Mid-front  he  struck  a  heavy  blow  and  sore, 
And  to  the  bone  his  forehead  gashing  tore ; 
Instant  he  fell,  and  at  his  length  he  lay 
On  the  green  leaves ;  but  fiercely  as  before, 
On  his  uprising,  they  renewed  the  fray, 
Aiming  terrific  blows,  as  with  intent  to  slay. 

But  the  Bebrycian  champion  strove  to  place 
His  blows  upon  the  broad  breast  of  his  foe, 
Who  ceaselessly  disfigured  all  his  face  : 
His  flesh  with  sweating  shrunk,  that  he   did 

show, 
From  huge,  but  small ;  but  larger  seemed  to 

grow 
The  limbs  of  Pollux,  and  of  fresher  hue 


The  more  he  toiled ;  Muse !  for  'tis  thine  to 

know, 

And  mine  to  give  interpretation  true, 
Tell  how  the  son  of  Zeus  that  mighty  bulk  o'er- 
threw. 

Aiming  at  something  great,  the  big  Bebrycian 
The  left  of  Pollux  with  his  left  hand  caught, 
Obliquely  leaning  out  from  his  position, 
And  from  his  flank  his  huge  right  hand  he 

brought, 

And  had  he  hit  him  would  have  surely  wrought 
Pollux  much  damage ;  but  escape  he  found, 
Stooping  his  head,  arid  smote  him,  quick  as 

thought, 

On  the  left  temple ;  from  the  gaping  wound 
A   bubbling  gush   of  gore   out-spurted   on   the 

ground. 

Right  on  his  mouth  his  left  hand   then   he 

dashed ; 

Rattled  his  teeth ;  and  with  a  quicker  hail 
Of  blows  he   smote  him,  till  his  cheeks  he 

smashed : 

Stretched  out  he  lay ;  his  senses  all  did  fail, 
Save  that  he  owned  the  other  did  prevail 
By  holding  up  his  hands :  nor  thou  didst  claim 
The  forfeit,  Pollux,  taking  of  him  bail 
Of  a  great  oath  in  his  own  father's  name, 
Strangers  to  harm  no  more  with  word  or  deed 

of  shame. 


FROM  IDYL  XXIV. 

THE    INFAKT     HERCULES. 

YOUJTG  Hercules  had  now  beheld  the  light 
Only  ten  months,  when  once  upon  a  night, 
Alcmena  having  washed,  and  given  the  breast 
To  both  her  heavy  boys,  laid  them  to  rest. 
Their  cradle  was  a  noble  shield  of  brass, 
Won  by  her  lord  from  slaughter'd  Pterilas. 
Gently  she  laid  them  down,  and  gently  laid 
Her  hand  on  both  their  heads,  and  yearned,  and 

said  : 
"  Sleep,  sleep,  my  boys  !  a  light  and  pleasant 

sleep,* 

My  little  souls,  my  twins,  my  guard  and  keep  ! 
Sleep  happy,  and  wake  happy  !"     And  she  kept 
Rocking  the  mighty  buckler,  and  they  slept. 

At  midnight  when  the  Bear  went  down,  and 

broad 

Orion's  shoulder  lit  the  starry  road, 
There  came,  careering  through  the  opening  halls 
On  livid  spires,  two  dreadful  animals  — 
Serpents,  whom  Juno,  threatening  as  she  drove, 
Had  sent  there  to  devour  the  boy  of  Jove. 
Orbing  their  blood-fed  bellies  in  and  out, 
They  tower'd  along;  and,  as  they  look'd  about, 

*  The  melody  of  the  original  breathes  an  exquisite  and 
soothing  repose  :  no  lullably  was  ever  more  delightful. 


tpa. 


yXvx&gov  no.   tyt^tfj-ov  vrrvov, 


The  celebrated  song  of  Simonides  is  of  a  similar  cha- 
racter. 


THEOCRITUS. 


225 


An  evil  fire  out  of  their  eyes  came  lamping ; 
A  heavy  poison  dropp'd  about  their  champing. 

And  now  they  have  arrived,  and  think  to  fall 
To  their  dread  meal,  when   lo!   (for  Jove  sees 

all.) 

The  house  is  lit  as  with  the  morning's  break, 
And  the  dear  children  «.>f  Alcrnena  wake. 
The  younger  one,  as  soon  as  he  beheld 
The  evil  creatures  coming  on  the  shield, 
And  saw  their  loathsome  teeth,  began  to  cry 
And  shriek,  and  kick  away  the  clothes,  and  try 
All  his  poor  little  instincts  of  escape  ; 
The  other,  grappling,  seized  them  by  the  nape 
Of  either  poisonous  neck,  for  all  their  twists, 
And  held  like  iron  in  his  little  fists. 

Alcmena   heard   the   noise,  and  "  Wake !''   she 

cried ; 

"  Amphitryon,  wake !  for  terror  holds  me  tied  ; 
Up  3  stay  not  for  the  sandals.     Hark  !  the  child — 
The  youngest — how  he  shrieks!     The   babe  is 

wild ! 

And  see  the  walls  and  windows!     'Tis  as  light 
As  if 'twere  day,  and  yet  'tis  surely  night. 
There's  something  dreadful  in  the  house ;  there  is, 
Indeed,  dear  husband!''     He  arose  at  this, 
And  seized  his  noble  sword,  which  overhead 
Was  always  hanging  at  the  cedar-bed. 

All  in  an  instant,  like  a  stroke  of  doom, 
Returning  midnight  smote  upon  me  room. 
Amphitryon  called,  and  woke  from  heavy  sleep 
His    household,    who    lay   breathing   hard   and 

deep : 
"  Bring  lights  here  from  the  hearth  !  lights !  lights! 

and  guard 

The  doorways  !  rise,  ye  ready  labourers  hard  !'' 
He  said ;  and  lights  came  pouring  in,  and  all 
The  busy  house  was  up  in  bow'r  and  hall; 
But  when  they  saw  the  little  surkler,  how 
He  grasped  the  monsters,  and  with  earnest  brow 
Kept  beating  them  together,  playthingwise, 
They   shrieked    aloud :    but  he,   with    laughing 

eyes, 

Soon  as  he  saw  Amphitryon,  leaped  and  sprung, 
Child  like,  and   at  his   feet  the  dead  disturbers 

flung. 


FROM  IDYL  XXV. 

HERCULES,  THE  LIOX-SLATER. 

HERCULES,  in  quest  of  An  in  with 

one  of  the  dependants  (if  that  i>er>«>na'_re.  He  is 
amazed  at  the  sight  of  his  herds,  having  no  notion 
that  even  ten  kin-zs  together  possessed  such 
wealth.  He  accompanies  Augeias  and  his  son 
while  they  inspect  the  stalls  and  the  business 
p>ing  on  there.  In  the  morning  he  accompanies 
Pliyleus  to  the  city,  and  eommunieates  to  him,  on 
the  road,  the  partic-ulars  of  his  adventure  with 
the  Nemean  lion,  whose  hide  is  hanging  from 
his  shoulders.  The  beL'iniiir.t;,  and  some  think 
the  conclusion  also,  of  this  Idyl  is  wanting  in  the 
original. 

WHEX  to  perform  his  fated  lord's  behest, 
Amphitryon's  son,  with  toils  and  perils  tried, 


Hero  with  the  prodigious  breadth  of  breast,— 
In  his  right  hand  his  club,  the  lion's  hide 
Hung  from  his  shoulders  by  the  fore  feet  tied, — 
To  the  rich  vale  of  fruitful  Elis  came, 
Where  the  sweet  waters  of  Alpheus  glide, 
Seeing  herds,  flocks,  and  pastures,  none  might 

claim, 

But  only  wealthiest  lord,  some  prince  well  known 
to  fame, 

He  asked  a  countryman,  whose  watchful  care 
Overlooked  the  grounds  (his  task  was  his  de- 
light.) 

"Good  friend!  wilt  tell  a  traveller,  whose  are 
These  herds,  and  flocks,  and  pastures  infinite1? 
He  is,  I  well  may  guess,  the  favourite 
Of  the  Olympian  gods.     Here  should  abide 
Those  I  am  come    to   seek."     The  man,  at 

sight 

And  claim  of  stranger,  quickly  laid  aside 
The  work  he  had  in  hand,  and  courteously  re- 
plied : 

"What  thou  dost  ask  I  willingly  will  tell, 
Good  stranger !  for  I  fear  the  heavy  wrath 
Of  Hermes,  the  way-god  ;  of  all  who  dwell 
Above  us,  most  is  he  provoked,  when  scath 
Or  scorn  is  done  to  him  who  asks  his  path. 
Not  in  one  pasture  all  the  flocks  appear, 
Nor  in  one  region,  King  Augeias  hath  : 
Some    pasture   where    Elisson   glides;    some, 

where 
Alpheus ;   at  vine-clad   Buprasion   some ;   some, 

here : 

"And  every  flock  has  its  particular  fold. 
Their  pasture  never  fails  his  numerous  kine 
In  the  green  lowlands  that  receiving  hold 
The  gush  of  Peneus,  and  the  dew  divine  : 
As  in  the  genial  moisture  they  recline, 
The  meads  throw  up  soft  herbage,  which  sup- 
plies 
The  strength  of  the  horned  kind.     Beyond  the 

shine 

Of  the  far-gliding  river — turn  your  eyes 
A  little  to  the  left — their  stalled- enclosure  lies; 

"Yonder,  where  the  perennial  planes  elate 

Stand  lordly,  and  the  green  wild-olives  grow, — 

A  grove  to  King  Apollo  dedicate, 

The  pastoral  god,  most  perfect  god  we  know. 

Hard  by.  our  dwellings  in  a  lengthened  row ; 

Our  labour  an  immense  revenue  yields 

To  our  good  lord,  as  often  as  we  sow, 

When  thrice  or  four  times  ploughed,  the  fallow 

fields  : 
Each  of  his  husbandmen  the  spade  or  hoe  that 

wields, 

"Earthing  the  vine-roots,  or  at  vintage-tide 
Toils   at   the    wine-press,  knows    where    the 

domain 

Of  rich  Augeias  ends  on  every  side. 
For  his  is  all  the  far-extended  plain, 
Orchards  thick-set  with  trees,  and  fields  with 

grain, 

E'en  to  the  fount-full  hill-tops  far  away; 
All  which  we  work  at  (as  behoves  the  swain, 


226 


THEOCRITUS. 


Whose  life  is  spent  a-field)  through  all  the  day 

Why  thou  art  come — to  tell  may  be  thy  profit — 

say. 

"Dost  seek  Augeias,  or  some  one  of  those 
Who  serve  him?  I  will  give  an  answer  clear, 
And  to  the  point,  as  one  that  fully  knows. 
Not  mean  art  thou,  nor  of  mean  sires,  I'd  swear, 
So  grand  thy  form.  The  sons  of  gods  appear 
Such  among  mon."  To  him  Jove's  son  replied  : 
"In  truth,  old  man!  for  that  did  bring  me 

here, 

Augeias  I  would  see  :  if  it  betide 
Th'  Epean  chief  doth  in  the  city  now  abide, 

"And,  caring  for  the  folk,  as  judge  fulfils 
True   judgment;    bid  his  trusty  steward  me 


With  whom  as  guide  I  may  converse.    God 

wills 

That  mortal  men  should  one  another  need." 
To  him  the  husbandman:  "It  seems,  indeed, 
Thy  way  was  heaven-appointed:  in  thine  aim, 
E'en  to  thy  wish,  thou  dost  at  once  succeed  ; 
For  yesterday  Augeias  hither  came, 
With  his  illustrious  son,  Phyleiis  hight  by  name. 

"After  long  time,  his  rural  wealth  to  see, 
He  came :  to  this  e'en  princes  are  not  blind, 
The  master  there,  his  house  will  safer  be. 
But  let  us  to  the  stall ;  there  shall  we  find 
Augeias."     Led  the  way  that  old  man  kind : 
Seeing  the  great  hand-filling  club,  and  spoil 
Of  the  wild  beast,  he  puzzled  much  his  mind, 
Who  he  could  be,  come  from  what  natal  soil; 
And  with  desire  to  ask  him  this  did  inward  boil, 

But  caught  the  word  just  to  his  lips  proceeding, 
For  fear  he  might  with  question  indiscreet, 
Or  out  of  place,  annoy  the  stranger  speeding: 
'Tis  a  hard  thing  another's  thought  to  weet. 
The  hounds  both  ways,  by  scent  and  fall  of  feet, 
Perceived  them  from  afar.     At  Hercules 
They  flew,  loud  barking  at  him,  but  did  greet 
The  old  man,  whining  gently  as  you  please, 
And  round  him  wagged  their  tails,  and  fawning 
licked  his  knees. 

But  he  with  stones — to  lift  them  was  enough — 
Scared  back  the  hounds,  their  barking  did  re- 
strain, 
And  scolded  them  ;  but,  though  his  voice  was 

rough, 

His  heart  was  glad  they  did  such  guard  main- 
tain, 

When  he  was  absent.     Then  he  spoke  again : 
"Gods!  what  an  animal !  what  faithful  suit 
He  does  to  man !  if  he  where  to  abstain, 
Where  rage,  but  knew,  none  other  might  dispute 
With    him   in   excellence;   but  'tis   too  fierce   a 
brute." 

And  soon  they  reached  the  stall.    The  sun  his 

steeds 

Turned  to  the  west,  bringing  the  close  of  day. 
The  herds  and  flocks,  returning  from  the  meads, 
Came  to  the  stables  where  they  nightly  lay. 
The  kine  in  long  succession  trod  the  way, 


Innumerous ;  as  watery  clouds  on  high, 
By  south  or  west  wind  driven  in  dense  array, 
One  on  another  press,  and  forward  fly, 
Numberless,  without  end,  along  the  thickened  sky ; 

So  many  upon  so  many  impels  the  wind; 
Others  on  others  drive  their  crests  to  twine : 
So  many  herds  so  many  pressed  behind  j 
The  plain,  the  ways,  were  filled  in  breadth  and 

line: 

The  fields  were  straitened  with  the  lowing  kine. 
The  sheep  were  folded  soon ;  the  cattle,  too, 
That  inward,  as  they  walk,  their  knees  incline, 
Were  all  installed,  a  multitude  to  view : 
No  man  stood  idly  by  for  want  of  work  to  do. 

Some  to  the  kine  their  wooden  shoes  applied, 
And  bound  with  thongs;  while  some  in  station 

near 

To  milk  them  took  their  proper  place  beside : 
One  to  the  dams  let  go  their  younglings  dear, 
Mad  for  the  warm  milk;  while  another  there 
The  milk-pail  held,  the  curds  to  cheese  one 

turned : 

Meanwhile  Augeias  went  by  every  where, 
And  with  his  own  eyes  for  himself  he  learned 
What  revenue  for  him  his  cattle-keepers  earned. 

With  him  his  son  and  mighty  Hercules 
Through  his  exceeding  show  of  riches  went. 
And  though  his  mind  Amphitryonides 
Was  wont  to  keep  on  balance  and  unbent, 
At  sight  thereof  he  was  in  wonderment : 
Had  he  not  seen  it,  he'd  have  thought  it  fable 
That  any  one,  however  eminent 
For  wealth,  or  any  ten,  in  fold,  stall,  stable, 
The  richest  of  all  kings,  to  show  such  wealth 
were  able. 

Hyperion  gave  unto  his  son  most  dear, 
That  he  should  all  in  flocks  and  herds  excel. 
His  care  increased  them  more  from  year  to 

year; 

For  on  his  herds  no  sort  of  ailment  fell, 
Such  as  destroys  the  cattle :  his  grew  well, 
In  pith  improving  still.    None  cast  their  young, 
Which  almost  all  were  female.    He  could  tell 
Three  hundred  white-skinned  bulls  his  kine 

among. 
A- I'l   >ke  two  hundred  red,  that  to  their  pastime 

sprung. 

Twelve  swan-white  bulls  were  sacred  to  the 

sun, 

All  inknee'd  bulls  excelling;  these  apart 
Cropped  the  green  pasture,  and  were  never 

done 

Exulting ;  when  from  thicket  shag  did  dart 
Wild  beasts,  among  the  herds  to  play  their  part, 
These  twelve  first  rushed,  death-looking,  to  the 

war, 

Roaring  most  terribly.     In  pride  of  heart 
And  strength  great  Phaethon  (men  to  a  star 
Did  liken  him)  was  first,  mid  many  seen  afar. 

When  this  bull  saw  the  tawny  lion's  hide, 
He  rush'd  on  watchful  Hercules,  intent 
To  plunge  his  armed  forehead  in  his  side: 
But  then  the  hero  grasped  incontinent 


THEOCRITUS. 


227 


The  bull's  left  horn,  and  to  the  ground  back 

bent 
His  heavy  neck ;  then  backward  pressed  his 

might. 
The  bull,  more  struggling  as  more  backward 

sent, 

At  last  stood,  stretching  every  nerve,  upright 
The  king,  and  prince,  and  swains,  all  marvelled 

at  the  sight. 

But  to  the  city,  on  the  following  day, 

Bold  Hercules  and  Prince  Phyleus  sped. 

At  first  their  path  through  a  thick  vineyard 

lay, 
Narrow,  and  'mid  the  green,  through  which  it 

led, 

Half-hid.     This  past,  Phyleus  turned  his  head 
O'er  his  right  shoulder,  soon  as  they  did  reach 
The  public  road,  and  to  the  hero  said, 
Who  walked  behind  him — "Friend,  I  did  im- 
peach 

Myself  as   having  lost,  concerning  thee,   some 
speech. 

"  I  long  since  heard  :  now  I  remember  me, 
A  young  Ach;ran  hither  on  a  day 
From  Argos  came,  from  sea-shore  Helice, 
Who,  many  Epeans  present,  then  did  say 
He  saw  an  Argive  man  a  monster  slay, 
A  lion,  dread  of  all  the  country  round, 
Whose  lair  in  grove  of  Zeus  the  Nemean  lay: 
I  am  not  sure  if  on  Tirynthian  ground, 
Or  else  in  Argos  born,  or  in  Mycenian  bound ; 

"But  said,  if  I  remember  rightly  now, 
The  hero  sprung  from  Perseus:  I  confess 
Meihinks  none,  other  Argive  man  but  thou 
Dared  that  adventure:  yea!  that  piece  of  dress, 
The  lion's  hide  avows  that  hardiness. 
Then.  hero,  first  of  a  1  explain  to  me, 
That  I  may  know  if  right  or  wrong  my  guess, 
Whether  thou  art  i>i  truth  that  very  he, 
Whose  deed  was  told  us  by  the  man  of  Helice. 

"  Next,  tell  how  thou  didst  slay  the  dreadful 
beast, 

And  how  his  way  to  Xemean  haunt  he  found: 
One,  if  he  searched  in  Apian  l;md  at  least, 
Such    monster  could    not   find,  though   bears 

•bound, 
Boars    and    destructive    wolves,   the    country 

round  : 

Wherefore  all  marvelled  at  the  man's  recital, 
And  thought  tin-  traveller,  with  idle  sound 
Of  his  invented  wonders,  in  requital 
Of  hospitable  rites,  was  striving  to  delight  all." 

Then  from  the  mid-path  to  the   road-side  near 
Phyleus  kept,  that  both  abreaM  might,  find 
Sufficient  room,  and  he  might  better  hear 
What  Hercules  >houM  -ay.  who  still  behind 
To  him  replied:   ••  Not  from  the  truth  declined. 
But    with    just    balance   thou    hast   judged    it 

well; 
Since   thou   would 'st   hear,   I    with  a  willing 

mind 

Will  tell,  Phyleus,  how  the  monster  fell. 
But  whence  he  came  nor  I,  nor  Argive  else  can 

tell : 


"  Only  we  think  that  some  Immortal  sent, 
For  holy  rites  profaned  or  left  undone, 
That  ill  on  the  Phoronians ;  forth  he  went, 
And  the  Piseiins,  like  a  flood,  o'errun : 
The  BembiiitJeans  least  of  all  could  shun 
His  fateful   wrath  5    they,  nearest,  fared   the 

worst : 

To  slay  that  terrible  redoubted  one 
Was  task  enjoined  me  by  Eurystheus  erst: 
His  wish  I  undertook— of  my  set  toils  the  first. 

"  My  flexile  bow  I  took,  and  quiver  full 
Of  arrows,  and  my  club,  the  bark  still  on, 
The  stem  of  a  wild  olive  I  did  pull 
Up  by  the  roots,  when  thither  I  was  gone, 
Under  the  brow  of  holy  Helicon. 
But  when  I  came  to  the  huge  lion's  lair, 
I  to  the  tip  the  string  did  straightway  don, 
And  fix'd  one  of  the  arrows  which  I  bare : 
To  see,  ere  I  was  seen,  I  looked  around  with  care. 

'•  It  was  the  mid-day,  and  not  yet  I  found 
His  traces :  nor  could  hear  his  mighty  roar. 
I  saw  no  herdsman,  ploughman  on  the  ground, 
To  point  me  where  I  should  his  haunt  explore: 
Green  fear  kept  every  man  within  his  door. 
Nor  till  I  saw  him  and  his  vigour  tried, 
Ceased  I  to  search  the  sylvan  mountain  o'er ; 
And  ere  came  on  the  cool  of  eventide, 
Back  to  his  cavern,  gorged  with  flesh  and  blood 
he  hied. 

"His  dew-lap,  savage  face,  and  mane,  were 

gory; 

He  licked  his  beard,  while  I,  yet  unespied, 
Lurked  in  a  thicket  of  the  promontory ; 
But  as  he  nearer  came,  at  his  left  side 
I  shot  an  arrow,  but  it  did  not  glide, 
Though  sharp,  into  his  flesh,  but  with  rebound 
Fell  on  the  grass.     The  thick  he  closely  eyed, 
His  bloody  head  up-lifting  from  the  ground, 
And  ghastly  grinned,  showing  his  teeth's  terrific 
round. 

"  Then  on  the  string  another  shaft  I  placed, 
And  shot — vext  that  the  former  idly  flew : 
Mid-breast  I   hit  him,  where   the   lungs  are 

placed  : 
His  hide  the  sharp,  sharp  arrow  pierced  not 

through, 

But  at  his  feet  fell  ineffectual  too: 
Airain  a  third  I  was  in  act  to  shoot, 
Kiiraged  to  think  in  vain  my  bow  I  drew, 
When  I  was  seen  by  the  blood-thirsty  brute, 
Who  to  the  battle-thought  his  angry  signs  did  suit. 

"With  his  long  tail  he  lashed  himself;  and  all 
His  neck  was  filled  with  wrath:  the  fiery  glow 
Of  his  vext  mane  up-bristled  ;  in  a  ball 
He  gathered  up  himself,  till  like  a  bow 
His  spine  was  arched  .  as  when  one,  who  doth 

know 

Chariots  to  build,  excelling  in  his  art, 
Having  lir-^t  heated  in  a  fire-heat  slow 
Bend-;  for  his  wheel  a  fig-branch;  with  a  start 
The  fissile  wild-fix  flies  far  from  his  hands  apart. 

"  Collected  for  the  spring,  and  mad  to  rend  me, 
So  leapt  the  lion  from  afar  :  I  strove 


228 


THEOCRITUS. 


With  skin-cloak,  bow  and  quiver  to  defend  me 
With  one  hand ;  with  the  other  I  up-hove 
My  weighty  club,  and  on  his  temple  drove, 
But  broke  in  pieces  the  rough  olive  wood 
On  his  hard  shaggy  head  :  he  from  above 
Fell  ere  he  reached  me,  by  the  stroke  subdued, 

And  nodding  with  his  head  on  trembling  feet  he 

stood. 

"  Darkness  came  over  both  his  eyes :  his  brain 
Was  shaken  in  the  bone ;  but  when  I  spied 
The  monster   stunned   and   reeling  from  his 

pain, 

I  cast  my  quiver  and  my  bow  aside, 
And  to  his  neck  my  throttling  hands  applied, 
Before  he  could  recover.     I  did  bear  me 
With  vigour  in  the  death-clutch,  and  astride 
His  body  from  behind  from  scath  did  clear  me, 

So  that  he  could  not  or  with  jaw  or  talons  tear 

me. 

"His  hind  feet  with  my  heels  I  pressed  aground; 
Of  his  pernicious  throat  my  hands  took  care  ; 
His  sides  were  for  my  thighs  a  safe-guard  found 
From  his  fore-feet :  till  breathless  high  in  air 
I  lifted  him  new  sped  to  hell's  dark  lair. 
Then  many  projects  did  rny  thoughts  divide, 
How  best  I  might  the  monster's  carcass  bare, 
Arid  from  his  dead  limbs  strip  the  shaggy  hide : 

Hard  task  it  was  indeed,  and  much  my  patience 

tried. 

"I  tried, and  failed  with  iron,  wood,  and  flint; 
For  none  of  these  his  skin  could  penetrate ; 
Then  some  Immortal  gave  to  me  a  hint 
With  his  own  talons  I  might  separate 
The  carcass  and  the  hide  :  success  did  wait 
The  trial  of  this  thought;  he  soon  was  flayed. 
I  wear  his  hide,  that  serves  rne  to  rebate 
Sharp-cutting  war.     The  Nemean  beast  was 
laid 

Thus  low,  which  had  of  men  and  flocks  much 
havoc  made." 


A  new  carved   fig-tree   image.     Though  three- 

legged, 
Barlc'd  with   rough  rind,  and   earless,  know  the 

god, 

Genial  Priapus,  speeds  the  soft  designs 
Of  Venus.     He  is  circled,  where  he  stands, 
With  a  fair  chapel  ;  and  a  running  brook, 
As  clear  it  sparkles  from  the  rock,  looks  green 
•  With  myrtles,  bays,  and  aromatic  boughs 
Of  cypress  trees;  and  there  a  branching  vine 
Spreads  broad   its  clusters.     Blackbirds   of  the 

spring 

Re-echo  shrill  their  varied  whistling  pipe  ; 
And  tawny  nightingales,  perch'd  opposite, 
Strain  their  sweet  throats,  with  soft,  low-gurgled 

tone. 

Sit,  therefore,  in  that  spot  ;  and  pray  the  god, 
Gracious  Priapus,  to  release  this  heart 
From  love  of  Daphne.     Promise  at  my  hand 
A  goodly  kid;  but.  if  he  still  deny, 
Three  victims  I  devote  in  sacrifice  — 
A  heifer,  and  a  shagged  goat,  and  lamb 
Fed  in  the  stall  ;  and  may  the  god  be  kind  ! 

Another  translation  of  the  Same. 


ON  THE  STATUE  OF  AESCULAPIUS. 
THE  son  of  Pceon  to  Miletus  came 
To  meet  his  Nicias  of  illustrious  name; 
He,  in  deep  reverence  of  his  guest  divine, 
Deck'd  with  the  daily  sacrifice  his  shrine ; 
And  of  the  god  this  cedar  statue  bought — 
A  finish'd  work,  by  skilled  Eetion  wrought. 
The  sculptor,  with  a  lavish  sum  repaid, 
Here  all  the  wonders  of  his  art  display'd. 

Another  translation  of  the  Same. 
AT  fam'd  Miletus,  Paeon's  son  the  wise 
Arriv'd,  with  learned  Nicias  to  advise, 
Who  to  his  shrine  with  daily  offerings  came, 
And  rais'd  this  cedar  statue  to  his  fame  ; 
The  cedar  statue  by  Eetion  wrought, 
Illustrious  artist!  for  large  sums  he  bought: 
The  work  is  finish'd  to  the  owner's  will, 
For  here  the  sculptor  lavish'd  all  his  skill. 


down,  goatherd,  by  the  oaks,  you'll  see 
i  A  fig-tree  statue,  put  up  recently, 
Three-footed,  with  the  bark  on,  without  ears  ; 
Yet  plain  enough  Priapus  it  appears. 
A  sacred  hedge  runs  round  it  ;  and  a  brook, 
i  Flowing  from  out  a  little  gravelly  nook, 
j  Keeps  green  the  laurel  and  the  myrtle  trees 
And  odorous  cypresses  : 
And  there's  a  vine  there,  heaping  all  about 
!  Its  tendrilled  clusters  out  ; 
j  And  vernal  blackbirds  through  the  sprays 
i  Shake  their  shrill  notes  a  thousand  ways; 
And  yellow  nightingales  reply, 
Murmuring  a  honied  song  deliciously. 
Sit  you  down  there,  and  the  kind  god  implore, 
That  I  may  yearn  for  Psamathe  no  more  ; 
Myself,  with  a  fine  kid,  will  follow  you, 
And  sacrifice  ;  and  should  the  deity  nod, 
A  heifer  and  a  goat  shall  thank  him  too, 
And  a  house-lamb.    Hear,  then,  kind-hearted  god  ! 


A  VOW  TO  PRIAPUS. 
O  GOATHERD  !  wind  adown  that  village  road, 
Where  oaks  are  growing.     Thou  wilt  find  be- 
yond 


EPITAPH 

03T   EUSTHEXES  THE   PHYSIOGNOMIST. 

To  Eusthenes,  the  first  in  wisdom's  list, 

Philosopher  and  Physiognomist, 

This  tomb  is  rais'd :  he  from  the  eye  could  scan 

The  cover'd  thought,  and  read  the  very  man. 

By  strangers  was  his  decent  bier  adorn'd, 

By  strangers  honour'd,  and  by  poets  mourird : 

Whate'er  the  Sophist  merited  he  gain'd. 

And  dead,  a  grave  in  foreign  realms  obtained. 


ON  ANACREON. 

STRANGERS,  who  near  this  statue  chance  to  roam, 
Let  it  awhile  your  studious  eyes  engage  ; 

And  you  may  say,  returning  to  your  home, 
"  I've  seen  the  image  of  the  Tei'an  sage — 
Best  of  the  bards,  who  grace  the  Muses'  page.'' 


NICIAS. 


229 


Then,  if  you  add,   "Youth   loved  him  passing 

well," 
You  tell  them  all  he  was,  and  aptly  tell. 


ON  A  FRIEND  DROWNED  AT  SEA. 

RISK  not  your  life  upon  the  wintry  sea  ; 
With  all  his  care  man's  life  must  fragile  be : 
My  Cleonicus  sped  from  Syria's  shore 
To  wealthy  Thasos,  and  rich  cargo  bore; — 
Ah  !  passing  rich  : — but  as  the  Pleiad's  light 
In  ocean  set,  he  with  them  sank  to  night. 

Another  translation  of  the  Same. 

0  STRAXGER  !  spare  thy  life  so  short  and  frail, 
Nor,  but  when  times  are  seasonable,  sail. 
Poor  Cleonicus,  innocent  of  guile, 
From  Syria  hasten'd  to  rich  Thasos'  isle ; 
The  Pleiads  sunk  as  he  approach'd  the  shore ; 
With  them  he  sunk,  to  rise,  alas !  no  more. 


ON  HIPPONAX,  THE  SATIRIST. 
HERE  lies  Hipponax,  to  the  Muses  dear. 
Traveller !  if  conscience  sting,  approach  not  near  ! 
But  if  sincere  of  heart,  and  free  from  guile, 
Here  boldly  sit,  and  even  sleep  awhile. 


ON  EURYMEDON. 

THIXE  early  death,  ah !  brave  Eurymedon, 
Hath  made  an  orphan  of  thine  infant  son  ; 


For  thee,  this  tomb  thy  grateful  country  rears ; 
For  him,  she  bids  thee  calm  a  parent's  fears ; — 
Secure,  thy  rest  do  thou  with  heroes  take — 
He  shall  be  honour'd  for  his  father's  sake. 


AN  OFFERING  TO  PAN. 
DAPHNIS,  the  fair,  who,  with  bucolic  song 
And   pastoral  pipe,  could  charm  the    listening 

throng, 

To  Pan  presents  the  emblems  of  his  art, 
A  fawn's  soft  skin,  a  crook,  and  pointed  dart, 
Three  rural  pipes  adapted  to  his  lip, 
And  for  his  homely  food  a  leathern  scrip. 


TO  THE  MUSES  AND  APOLLO. 
THIS  wild-thyme  and  these   roses,  fresh    with 

dews, 

Are  sacred  to  the  Heliconian  Muse ; 
The  bay,  Apollo,  with  dark  leaves  is  thine, — 
Thus  art  thou  honour'd  at  the  Delphic  shrine : 
And  there  to  thee  this  shaggy  goat  I  vow, 
That  loves  to  crop  the  pine-tree's  pendant  bough. 


ORTHON'S  EPITAPH. 
To  every  toping  traveller  that  lives, 
Orthon  of  Syracuse  this  warning  gives : — 
With  wine  o'erheated,  and  depriv'd  of  light, 
Forbear  to  travel  on  a  winter's  night; 
This  was  my  fate ;  and  for  my  native  land 
I  now  lie  buried  on  a  foreign  strand. 


NICIAS. 

[About  280  B.  C.] 

SUPPOSED  to  have  been  a  native  of  Miletus,  and  the  friend  to  whom  Theocritus  has  addressed  his 

eleventh  and  thirteenth  Idyls. 


THE  BEE. 
MANY-COLOURED,  sunshine-loving, 

«[>iiii^-bctokening  bee! 
Yellow  bee,  so  mad  for  love 

of  early-blooming  flowers- 
Till  thy  waxen  cell  be  full, 

fair  fall  thy  work  and  thee, 
Buzzing  round  the  sweetly-smelling 

garden  plots  and  bowers. 


THE  GRASSHOPPER. 

I  SHALL  never  sing  my  pleasant  ditty  now, 
Folded  round  by  lon^  Iriivcs  on  the  bough, 
Under  my  shrilly  chirping  winy;: 
For  a  child's  hand  seized  me  in  luckless  hour, 


Sitting  on  the  petals  of  a  flower, 
Looking  for  no  such  evil  thing. 


ON  THE  TOMB  OF  AN  INFANT.* 
STAT,  weary  traveller,  stay! 

Beneath  these  boughs  repose ! 
A  step  out  of  the  way, 

My  little  fountain  flows. 
And  never  quite  forget 

The  monumental  urn, 
Which  Simus  here  hath  set 

His  buried  child  to  mourn. 


*  The   nymph  of  the  fountain,  by  the  side  of  which 
Simus  had  erected  a  monument  to  his  child,  is  supposed 
to  utter  these  words  to  the  passer-by. 
U 


LEONIDAS  OF  TARENTUM. 


[About  280  B.  C.J 


LEONIDAS  lived  in  the  days  of  Pyrrhus,  king  of 
Epirus,  and  appears  to  have  been  one  of  the  cap- 
tives made  by  that  prince  in  his  war  on  the  Taren- 
tines.  He  left  behind  him  about  a  hundred 


epigrams  in  the  Doric  dialect, — some  dedicatory, 
others  descriptive,  or  commemorative, — and  all  (to 
his  praise  be  it  spoken,)  remarkably  free  from 
exception  on  the  ground  of  morality. 


HOME. 

CLISTG    to   thy   home !      If   there   the   meanest 

shed 

Yield  thee  a  hearth,  and  shelter  for  thy  head, 
And  some  poor  plot,  with  vegetables  stor'd, 
Be  all  that  heaven  allots  thee  for  thy  board — 
Unsavoury  bread,  and  herbs  that  scattered  grow, 
Wild  on  the  river-brink  or  mountain-brow, 
Yet  e'en  this  cheerless  mansion  shall  provide 
More  heart's  repose  than  all  the  world  beside. 


THE  DYING  SHEPHERD. 
LONE  shepherds,  who  your  goats  and  well-wool'd 

sheep 

Teach  to  climb  up  this  mountain's  ridgy  steep  ; 
By  Earth  adjured  and  dark  Persephone, 
O  grant  this  small  but  grateful  boon  to  me 
Clitagoras !  that  on  yon  craggy  rock 
Some  shepherd  softly  to  my  browzing  flock 
May  pipe ;  and  meadow-flowers  of  early  spring 
Wreathe,  for  my  grave  a  rustic  offering. 
Pressing  the  milky  teats  of  teeming  ewe, 
With  milk-libations  may  the  swain  bedew 
My  tomb ;  these  are — these  are  those  charities 
Of  mutual  love,  which  even  in  Hades  please. 


THE  OFFERING  TO  THE  RURAL  DEITIES. 

To  Pan,  the  master  of  the  woodland  plain, 

To  young  Lyseus  and  the  azure  train 

Of  Nymphs,  that  make  the  pastoral  life  their  care, 

With  offerings  due  old  Areas  pours  his  prayer. 

To  Pan  a  playful  kid,  in  wars  untried, 

He  vows,  yet  sporting  by  its  mother's  side ; 

And  lays  the  creeping  ivy  on  the  vine, 

A  grateful  present  to  the  God  of  Wine ; 

And  to  the  gentler  Deities,  who  guide 

Their  winding  streamlets  down  the  mountain's 

side, 

Each  varied  bud  from  autumn's  shady  bowers, 
Mixed  with  the  full-blown  roses'  purple  flowers. 
Therefore,  ye  Nymphs,  enrich  my  narrow  field, 
With  the  full   stores    your   bounteous  fountains 

yield : 

Pan,  bid  my  luscious  pails  with  milk  o'erflow, 
And,  Bacchus,  teach  my  yellow  vines  to  glow. 
230 


TO  THE  SAME. 

YE  lowly  huts !  thou  sacred  hill, 
Haunt  of  the  Nymphs  !  pure  gushing  rill, 
That  underneath  the  cold  stone  flowest ! 
Pine,  that  those  clear  streams  o'ergrowest! 
And  thou,  O  Pan,  whose  wandering  flocks 
Frolic  o'er  the  thyme-clad  rocks 
Pleased,  the  rustic  goblet  take, 
Filled  with  wine,  and  th'  oaten  cake, 
Offered  to  your  deities 
By  a  true  ^Eacides. 


THE  RETURN  OF  SPRING  TO  SAILORS. 
HASTE  to  the  port!  the  twittering  swallow  calls, 

Again  returned  j  the  wintry  breezes  sleep  ; 
The  meadows  laugh;  and  warm  the  zephyr  falls 

On  ocean's  breast  and  calms  the  fearful  deep. 
Now  spring  your  cables,  loiterers ;  spread  your 
sails ; 

O'er  the  smooth  surface  of  the  waters  roam ! 
So  shall  your  vessel  glide  with  friendly  gales, 

And,  fraught  with  foreign  treasure,  waft  you 
home. 

A  MOTHER  ON  HER  SON. 
UXHAPPY  child  !  unhappy  I,  who  shed 
A  mother's  sorrows  o'er  thy  funeral  bed ! 
Thou'rt  gone  in  youth,  Amyntas ;  I,  in  age, 
Must  wander  through  a  lonely  pilgrimage, 
And  sigh  for  regions  of  unchanging  night, 
And  sicken  at  the  day's  repeated  light. 
Oh.  guide  me  hence,  sweet  spirit,  to  that  bourne, 
Where,  in  thy  presence,  I  shall  cease  to  mourn.* 

*  There  is  a  Latin  epitaph,  somewhere,  on  a  monument 
erected  by  a  mother  over  her  children,  all  of  whom  she  had 
survived.  Having  forgotten  the  exact  lines  of  the  oiigi- 
nal,  I  can  only  present  the  reader  with  an  attempted 
translation  of  them: — 

All,  all  are  gone, — the  good,  the  fair, — 

All  lost,  in  life's  sweet  bloom; 
And  she,  whose  age  might  claim  their  care, 

Survives  to  raise  their  tomb. 
Then  hush,  fond  hearts— hearts  that  have  not 

A  parent's  rapture  known  ; 
And,  if  ye  envied  once  my  lot, 

Now  learn  to  bless  your  own. 


LEONIDAS   OF   TARENTUM. 


231 


PAN  TO  HIS  WORSHIPPERS. 

Go,  rouse  the  deer  with  horn  and  hound, 

And  chase  him  o'er  the  mountains  free; 
Or  bid  the  hollow  woods  resound 

The  triumphs  of  your  archery. — 
Pan  leads — and,  if  you  hail  me  right, 

As  guardian  of  the  sylvan  reign, 
I'll  wing  your  arrows  on  their  flight, 

And  speed  your  coursers  o'er  the  plain. 


INSCRIPTION  OX  THE  BANKS  OF  A 
RIVER. 

NOT  here,  0  thirsty  traveller,  stoop  to  drink ; 
The  sun  has  warmed,  and  flocks  disturbed,  its 

brink ; 

But  climb  yon  upland,  where  the  heifers  play, 
Where  that  tall  pine  excludes  the  sultry  day; 
There  will  you  list  a  bubbling  rill  that  flows 
Down  the  cool  rock,  more  cold  than  Thracian 

snows. 


INSCRIPTION  ON  A  BOAT. 

THET  say  that  I  am  small  and  frail, 

And  cannot  live  in  stormy  seas : — 
It  may  be  so ;  yet  every  sail 

Makes  shipwreck  in  the  swelling  breeze 
Nor  strength  nor  size  can  then  hold  fast, 

But  fortune's  favour,  heaven's  decree : — 
Let  others  trust  in  oar  and  mast, 

But  may  the  gods  take  care  of  me ! 


ON  A  GRASSHOPPER.* 

THOUGH   humble  be  this  grave  of  mine, 

O  stranger,  in  thine  eyes, 
And  this  low  tomb-stone  scarcely  seem 

above  the  ground  to  rise ; 
Yet  to  the  fair  Philrpnis  her 

due  meed  of  praise  award, 
For  the  love  which  she  has  shown  to  me, 

the  thorn-frequenting  bard. 
For  two  whole  years  she  cherish'd  me, 

and  when  the  hand  of  doom 
Bereft  her  of  my  soothing  strains, 

she  laid  me  in  this  tomb. 


ON  HOMER. 

DIM  grow  the  planets,  when  the  God  of  Day 
Rolls  his  swift  chariot  through  the  heavenly  way; 
The  Moon's  immortal  round,  no  longer  bright, 
Shrinks  in  pale  terror  from  the  glorious  light: — 
Thus,  all  eclipsed  by  Homer's  wondrous  blaze, 
The  crowd  of  poets  hide  their  lessened  rays. 

ON  A  STATUE  OF  ANACREON. 

COME,  see  your  old  Anacreon, 

How,  seated  on  his  couch  of  stone 

With  silvery  temples  garlanded, 

He  quaffs  the  rich  wine,  rosy-red ; 

How,  with  flush'd  cheek  and  swimming  eye, 

In  drunken  fashion,  from  his  thigh 

He  lets  his  robe  unheeded  steal, 

And  drop  and  dangle  o'er  his  heel. 

One  sandal's  off;  one  scarce  can  hide 

The  lean  and  shrivell'd  foot  inside. 

Old  Anacreon — hark!  he  sings 

Still  of  love  to  th'  old  harp  strings ! 

Still,  Bathylla — still,  Megiste, — 

How  he  coax'd  ye,  how  he  kiss'd  ye ! 

Gentle  Bacchus,  watch  and  wait, 

You  must  watch  and  hold  him  straight; 

Hold  him  up  ;  for,  if  he  fall, 

You  lose  your  boldest  bacchanal 


*  Chirping  crickets,  or  grasshoppers,  (the  "UL^K,  as 
well  as  the  TtTrrytc.)  were  kept  in  houses  like  singing 
birds,  and  more  especially  in  the  apartments  of  the 
women.  By  a  quick,  tremulous  motion  of  the  wings 
against  the  sides,  these  little  creatures  produced  a  sort 
of  song,  which,  according  to  the  notion  of  the  Greeks,  J 
formed  a  part  of  the  full  charm  of  summer.  The  fashion 
of  wearing  a  golden  cricket  in  the  hair,  wan  one  of  great 
antiquity  in  Athens.  Many  fanciful  interpretations 
have  been  given  of  this  custom;  by  some  it  waa  said  to 
denote  not  only  the  love  of  music,  but  the  privileges  of 
autochthony,  of  which  this  insect  was  the  sacred  symbol. 
See  HILIC'S  Jimcient  Greek*. 


EPITAPH  ON  AN  AGED  FISHERMAN. 

THEKIS,  the  aged  fisherman,  whose  skill 
Taught  him  to  live,  and  many  a  basket  fill 
With  fishes,  (for  their  plundering  foe  was  he, 
And  than  the  sea-fowl  oftener  tost  at  sea,) — 
Theris,  whose  few-oared  boat,  and  seine,  and 

hooks, 

Could  win  the  fishes  from  their  secret  nooks. 
Yet — not  Arcturus,  nor  the  blasts  that  blow 
Down-rushing,  swept  this  aged  man  below : 
But,  like  a  lamp  long  burning,  and  whose  light 
Flickers,  self  spent,  and  is  extinguish'd  quite, 
In  a  rush  hut  he  died: — to  him  this  grave 
(No  wife,  no  child,  he  had)  his  brother  fishers 

gave. 


ON  HIMSELF. 

FAR  from  Tarentum's  native  soil  I  lie, 

Far  from  the  dear  land  of  my  infancy. 

'Tis  dreadful  to  resign  this  mortal  breath, 

But  in  a  stranger  clime  'tis  worse  than  death. 

Call  it  not  life  to  pass  a  fevered  age 

In  ceaseless  wanderings  o'er  the  world's  wide 

stage. 

But  me  the  Muse  has  ever  loved,  and  given 
Sweet  joys  to  counterpoise  the  curse  of  heaven ; 
Nor  lets  my  memory  decay,  but  long 
To  distant  times  preserves  my  deathless  song. 


POSIDIPPUS. 


[About  280  B.  C.] 


A  PICTURE  OF  HUMAN  LIFE. 
WHAT  course  should  man  pursue  in  life  ? 
At  home  there's  care;  abroad  there's  strife; 
On  shore,  'tis  labour  without  leisure ; 
At  sea,  all  danger,  and  no  pleasure ; — 
From  realm  to  realm,  a  pilgrim,  go ; 
If  rich,  what  fear !  if  poor,  what  woe ! 
House,  wife,  and  children,  are  a  curse, 
And  yet  to  be  without  them's  worse : 
Follies  and  toys  our  youth  engage, 
And  pains  and  weakness  come  with  age. 
What  choice  of  good  amidst  such  dearth  ? 
Oh,  had  I  ne'er  been  doomed  to  earth, 
Or  died  the  moment  of  my  birth  !* 

*  METRODORUS'S  PARODY  OF  THE  ABOVE. 
LIVE  where  and  how  beseems  thee  best ; 
Abroad  there's  fame,  at  home  there's  rest: 
Glad  Nature's  grace  attires  the  fields, 
And  gain  the  smiling  ocean  yields  : — 
Go,  roam;  if  rich,  all  are  thy  brothers; 
If  poor,  it  is  not  known  to  others. 
Art  married?  O  how  blest  for  thee! 
A  bachelor  1  Well,  at  least,  thou'rt  free. 
Then  children!  What  a  charm's  about  them! 
And  yet  we've  fewer  cares  without  them: 
Youth  boasts  its  health  and  strength,  while  age 
Is  dignified,  religious,  sage  :— 
Then  talk  not  thus  of  life  with  scorn, 
Or  wish  that  thou  hadst  ne'er  been  born, 
For  good  doth  all  its  parts  adorn. 


ON  THE  TOMB  OF  A  SHIPWRECKED 
MARINER. 

AH,  why,  my  brother  mariners, 

so  near  the  boisterous  wave 
Of  ocean,  have  ye  hollowed  out 

my  solitary  grave  ? 
'Twere  better  much,  that  far  from  hence 

a  sailor's  tomb  should  be, 
For  I  dread  my  rude  destroyer, 

I  dread  the  roaring  sea. 
But  may  the  smiles  of  fortune, 

may  love  and  peace  await 
All  ye  that  shed  a  tear  for  poor 

Nicetas'  hapless  fate ! 

ON  A  CHILD. 
THE  little  child  was  playing 

About  the  crystal  well, 
And,  reaching  for  its  image, 

Into  the  water  fell. 
The  mother  ran  and  snatch'd  it, 

With  an  ever-watchful  care, 
And  fondly  kiss'd  and  clasp'd  it, 

To  see  if  life  was  there. 
It  hath  not  stain'd  the  water, 

But  upon  its  mother's  breast 
It  hangs,  and  there  in  beauty 

Tis  lull'd  to  gentle  rest. 


ARATUS. 


[About  277  B.  C.] 


ARATUS  was  a  native  of  Soli  in  Cilicia,  and 
physician  to  Antigonus  Gonatus,  king  of  Mace- 
don.  He  was  also  favoured  by  Ptolemy  Phila- 
delphus,  and  lived  on  intimate  terms  with  Theo- 
critus, who  mentions  him  more  than  once  in  his 
Idyls.  His  principal  poems  were  thrice  trans- 
lated into  Latin  verse,  first  by  Cicero,  secondly 


are  simple  and  inartificial,  but  contain  almost  all 
that  Greece  then  knew  of  the  heavenly  pheno- 
mena. Virgil  has,  in  several  instances,  availed 
himself  of  his  predecessor's  knowledge  on  such 
subjects. — Aratus  stood  in  high  favour  amongst 
the  fathers  of  the  Church,  as  being  the  poet 
quoted  by  St.  Paul  in  his  speech  to  the  Athenians 


by  Germanicus,  and  lastly  by  Avienus.     They  '•  on  Mars'  Hill.     Acts  xvii.  28. 


PROEM  TO  THE  PHENOMENA. 

FROM  Jove  begin  my  song ;  nor  ever  be 

The  name  unutter'd  ;  all  are  full  of  thee; 

The  ways,  and  haunts  of  men ;  the  heavens  and 


On  thee  our  being  hangs ;  in  thee  we  move ; 
All  are  thy  offspring,  and  the  seed  of  Jove. 
Benevolent,  he  warms  mankind  to  good, 
Urges  to  toil,  and  prompts  the  hope  of  food. 
He  shows  when  best  the  yielding  glebe  will  bear 
The  goaded  oxen,  and  the  cleaving  share. 


232 


LYCOPHRON. 


233 


He  shows  what  seasons  smile,  to  delve  the  plain, 
To  set  the  plant,  or  sow  the  scatter'd  grain. 
'Twas  he,  that  placed  those  glittering  signs  on 

high, 

Those  stars,  dispers'd  throughout  the  circling  sky; 
From  these  the  seasons  and  the  times  appear, 
The  labours,  and  the  harvests  of  the  year. 
Hence  men  to  him  their  thankful  homage  raise, 
Him,  first  and  last,  their  theme  of  joy  and  praise. 
Hail,  Father!   wondrous!  whence  all  blessings 

spring! 

Thyself  the  source  of  every  Jiving  thing! 
Oh  of  mellifluous  voice !  ye  Muses  hear ! 
And,  if  my  prayer  may  win  your  gracious  ear, 
Your  inspiration,  all  ye  Muses,  bring, 
And  aid  my  numbers,  while  the  stars  I  sing. 


PROGNOSTICS  OF  WEATHER. 

BE  this  the  sign  of  wind  :  with  rolling  sweep 
High  swells  the  sea ;  long  roarings  echo  deep 
From  billow-breaking  rocks;  shores  murmur 

shrill, 
Though  calm  from  storm,  and  howls  the  topmost 

hill. 

The  heron  with  unsteady  motion  flies, 
And  shoreward  hastes,  with  loud  and  piercing 

cries ; 

Borne  o'er  the  deep,  his  flapping  pinions  sail, 
While  air  is  ruffled  by  the  rising  gale. 
The  coots,  that  wing  through  air  serene  their  way, 
'Gainst  coming  winds  condense  their  close  array. 
The  diving  cormorants  and  wild-ducks  stand, 
And  shake  their  dripping  pinions  on  the  sand : 
And  oft,  a  sudden  cloud  is  seen  to  spread, 
With   length'ning  shadow,  o'er  the   mountain's 

head. 

By  downy-blossom'd  plants,  dishevell'd  strown, 
And  hoary  thistles'  tops,  is  wind  foreshown : 


When,  those  behind  impelling  those  before, 
On  the  still  sea  they  slowly  float  to  shore. 
Watch  summer  thunders  break,  or  lightnings  fly, 
Wind  threatens  from  that  quarter  of  the  sky: 
And,  where  the  shooting  stars,  in  gloomy  night, 
Draw  through  the  heavens  a  tract  of  snowy  light, 
Expect  the  coming  wind  ;  but,  if  in  air 
The  meteors  cross,  shot  headlong  here  and  there, 
From  various  points  observe  the  winds  arise, 
And  thwarting  blasts  blow  diverse  from  the  skies. 
When  lightnings  in  the  north  and  south  appear, 
And  east  and  west,  the  mariner  should  fear 
Torrents  of  air,  and  foamings  of  the  main; 
These  numerous  lightnings  flash  o'er  floods  of  rain. 
And  oft,  when  showers  are  threat'ning  from  on 

high, 

The  clouds,  like  fleeces,  hang  beneath  the  sky : 
Girding  heaven's  arch,  a  double  rainbow  bends, 
Or,  round  some  star,  a  black'ning  haze  extends  : 
The  birds  of  marsh,  or  sea,  insatiate  lave, 
And  deeply  plunge,  with  longings  for  the  wave  : 
Swift  o'er  the  pool  the  fluttering  swallows  rove, 
And  beat  their  breasts  the  ruffled  lake  above: 
Hoarse  croak  the  fathers  of  the  reptile  brood, 
Of  gliding  water-snakes  the  fearful  food: 
At  break  of  day,  the  desert-haunting  owl 
Lengthens  from  far  her  solitary  howl : 
The  clamouring  crow  is  perch'd,  where  high  the 

shore 

With  jutting  cliff  o'erhangs  the  ocean  roar ; 
Or  with  dipp'd  head  the  river  wave  divides, 
Dives  whole-immers'd,  or, cawing,  skims  the  tides. 
Nor  less  the  herds  for  coming  rain  prepare, 
And  skyward  look,  and  snuff  the  showery  air. 
On  walls  the  slimy-creeping  snails  abound, 
And  earth-worms  trail  their  length,  the  entrails 

o£  the  ground ; 

The  cock's  young  brood  ply  oft  the  pluming  bill, 
And  chirp,  as  drops  from  eves  on  tinkling  drops 

distil. 


LYCOPHRON. 


[About  269  B.  C.) 

LTCOPHBOX  was  born  at  Chalcis  in  Euboea;    died  by  the  wound  of  an  arrow.     Twenty  tra- 
and  was  one  of  the  seven  poets,  under  Ptolemy    gedies  of   his   composition   are  lost.      All    that 


Philadelphia,  king  of  Egypt,  who  formed  the 
poetical  constellation  of  the  Pleiads.     Lycophron 


FROM  THE  CASSANDRA. 

PROPHECY  OF  THE  DEATH  OF  HECTOB. 

Now  Myrina's  turrets  o'er 
And  along  the  ocean  shore 
Sounds  are  heard  of  wailing  cries, 
Neighings  shrill  of  war-steeds  rise 
30 


remains  of  him  is  his  prophetical  rhapsody  of 
Cassandra. 


When  the  tawny  wolf  his  feet, 
With  Thessalian  swiftness  fleet, 
Springing  with  impetuous  leap, 
Presses  on  the  sandy  steep  ; 
Hidden  fountains  gushing  round, 
As  he  stamps  the  yielding  ground. 


234 


HEGESIPPUS.-- .EUPHORION. 


Mars,  in  war-dance  famed,  hath  stood 
Blowing  shrill  the  trump  of  blood. 
All  the  earth,  before  mine  eyes, 
Drear  and  desolated  lies  : 
Lances  bristle,  and  in  air 
Iron  harvests,  waving,  glare. 
From  the  topmost  tower  I  bend; 
Shrieks  the  height  of  air  ascend  : 
Groans  are  utter 'd  ;  garments  torn ; 
Women  o'er  the  slaughters  mourn. 
Woe  my  heart!  to  me,  to  me 
That  the  heaviest  blow  will  be ; 
That  will  gnaw  my  soul  to  see. 


See  the  warlike  eagle  come, 
Green  of  eye,  and  black  of  plume  : 
Screaming  fierce  he  swooping  springs, 
Marks  the  dust  with  trailing  wings; 
Plougher  of  the  furrow'd  sand, 
Sweeping  circles  track  the  land. 
With  a  mix'd  and  horrid  cry, 
See,  he  snatches  him  on  high ! 
Brother !  to  my  soul  endear'd — 
Nursling,  by  Apollo  rear'd  ! 
Beak  and  talon  keen  deface 
All  his  body's  blooming  grace 
Slaughter-dyed,  his  native  wood 
Reddens  with  the  stain  of  blood. 


HEGESIPPUS. 

NOTHING  is  known  of  the  age  or  country  of  this  writer. 


THE  RIGHT-HAND  ROAD  TO  HADES. 

'Tis  by  yon  road,  which  from  the  funeral  pyre 
Slopes  to  the  right,  that  Hermes,  it  is  said, 

Leads  to  the  seat  of  Rhadamanthus  dire 
The  willing  spirits  of  the  virtuous  dead. 

That  right-hand  path  thy  pensive  ghost  pursued, 
Loved  Aristonous !  when  it  left  behind 

Those  not  unmindful  of  the  great  and  good, 
Eternal  joys  among  the  blest  to  find. 


ON  A  SHIPWRECKED  PERSON. 

PERISH  the  hour — the  dark  and  starless  hour — 
Perish  the  roaring  main's  tempestuous  power — 
That  whelmed  the  ship  where  loved  Abdera's 

son 

Prayed  to  unheeding  heaven  and  was  undone ! 
Yes — all  were  wreck'd  !  and  by  the  stormy  wave 
To  rough  Seriphos  borne,  he  found  a  grave,— 
Found,  from  kind  stranger  hands,  funereal  fires, 
Yet  reached,  inurn'd,  the  country  of  his  sires. 


EUPHORION. 


[274—221  B.  C.] 

A  JTATIYE  of  Chalcis,  and  a  celebrated  poet  of  I  epigrams  and  a  few  inconsiderable  fragments, 
the  age  and  court  of  Antiochus  the  Great.  Three    are  all  that  remain  of  his  writings. 


ON  TEARS. 

BE  temperate  in  grief!     I  would  not  hide 
The  starting  tear-drop  with  a  Stoic's  pride — 
I  would  not  bid  the  o'erburthen'd  heart  be  still, 
And  outrage  Nature  with  contempt  of  ill. 
Weep  ;  but  not  loudly  !     He,  whose  stony  eyes 
Ne'er  melt  in  tears,  is  hated  by  the  skies. 

ON  A  CORPSE  WASHED  ASHORE. 
NOT  rugged  Trachis  hides  these  whitening  bones, 
Nor  that  black  isle,  whose  name  its  colours 

shows, 
But  the  wild  beach,  o'er  which  with  ceaseless 

moans 
The  vexed  Icarian  wave  eternal  flows, 


Of  Drepanus — ill-fated  promontory— 

And  there,  instead  of  hospitable  rites, 
The   long  grass    sweeping   tells  his  fate's   sad 

story 

To  rude  tribes  gathered  from  the  neighbouring 
heights. 


AN  OFFERING  TO  APOLLO. 

THE  first  bright  honours  of  his  youthful  head, 
Phoebus!  to  thee  hath  fair  Eudoxus  shed. 
Grant  him  instead,  his  temples  to  adorn 
With  greenest  ivy  on  Acharnae  born.* 


*  The  custom  here  alluded  to  is  that  of  the  consecra- 
tion, by  young  men  first  entering  into  life,  of  their  hair 
to  Apollo. 


ANTAGORAS. 


[About  260  B.  C.] 


A  NATIVE  of  Rhodes,  and  said  by  Pausanias  to  I  tas,  at  whose  court  he  resided, 
have  been  a  familiar  friend  of  Antigonus  Gona-  |  writings  are  lost. 


Almost  all  his 


CUPID'S  GENEALOGY. 

WHITHER  shall  we  go  to  prove 

The  genealogy  of  Love  ? 

Shall  we  call  him  first-created 

Of  the  gods  from  Chaos  dated, 

When  Erebus  and  Night  were  mated ; 

And  their  glorious  progeny 

Sprung  from  out  the  secret  sea? 

Or  will  Venus  claim  Love's  birth? 

Or  the  roving  Winds,  or  Earth  ? 

For  his  temper  varieth  so, 

And  the  gifts  he  doth  bestow 


(Like  his  form,  which  changeth  still, 
Taking  either  sex  at  will,) 
Are  now  so  good,  and  now  so  bad, 
We  know  not  whence  his  heart  he  had. 


ON  TWO  CYNIC  PHILOSOPHERS. 
HERE  Palemo  and  pious  Crates  lie — 
(So  speaks  this  column  to  the  passers  by) 
In  life  unanimous  and  joined  in  death, 
Who  taught  pure  wisdom  with  inspired  breath  : 
Whose  acts,  accordant  with  the  truths  severe 
Their  lips  pronounced,  bespoke  the  soul  sincere. 


CALLIMACHUS. 


[About  260  B.  C.] 


CALITMACHITS  was  born  at  Gyrene,  and  taught 
letters  at  Alexandria,  where  he  also  filled  the 
place  of  keeper  of  the  Alexandrian  Library,  un- 
der Ptolemy  Philadelphus  and  his  son,  Ptolemy 


Euergetes.  He  produced  a  variety  of  works. — 
elegies,*  satires,  mythologic  tales,  hymns  and  in- 
scriptions,— of  which  only  a  few  of  the  two  latter 
remain. 


FROM  HIS  HYMN  ON  THE  BATH  OF  MINERVA. 
THE   STORT   OF    TIRESIAS. 

I*  times  of  old.  Minerva  loved 

A  fair  companion  with  cvcrtling  love — 

The  mother  of  Tiresias;  nor  apart 

I.iv'd  they  a  moment.      Whether  she  her  steeds 

l>rov»  to  the  Thespians  old.  or  musky  groves 

Of  Coron<pa,  and  Curalius'  hanks, 

That  smoke  with  fragrant  altars,  or  approach'd 

To  Haliartus,  and  BcBOtia'l  fields; 

Still  in  the  chariot  by  her  side  she  placed 

The  nymph  Chariclo;  nor  the  prattlings  sweet, 

Nor  dances  of  the  nymphs,  to  her  were  sweet, 

Unless  Chariclo  spoke,  or  led  the  dance. 

Yet  for  the  nymph  Chariclo  was  reserved 

A  store  of  tears  ;    lor  her.  the  favour'd  Nymph, 

The  pleasing  partner  of  Minerva's  hours. 


For  once,  on  Helicon,  they  loosed  the  clasps 
That  held  their  flowing  robes,  and  bathed  their 

limbs 

In  Hippocrene,  that,  beauteous,  glided  by; 
While   noonday  stillness  wrapp'd  the  mountain 

round. 

Both  laved  together ;  'twas  the  time  of  noon  ; 
And  deep  the  stilly  silence  of  the  mount. 
|  When,  with  his  dogs  of  chase,  Tiresias  trod 
That  sacred  haunt.     The  darkening  down  just 

bloom'd 

Upon  his  cheek.     With  thirst  unutterable 
Panting,  he  sought  that  fountain's  gushing  stream, 
Unhappy ;  and,  involuntary,  saw 
What  mortal  eyes,  not  blameless,  may  behold. 

*  One  of  these,  on  the  consecration  of  Queen  Bere- 
nice's hair  in  the  temple  of  Venus,  is  known  to  us  by  the 
Latin  version  of  Catullus. 

235 


236 


CALLIMACHUS. 


Minerva,  though  incensed,  thus  pitying  spoke : 
"  Who  to  this  luckless  spot  conducted  thee, 

0  son  of  Everus  ?  who  sightless  hence 

Must  needs  depart!''  she  said,  and  darkness  fell 
On  the  youth's  eyes,  astonished  where  he  stood  : 
A  shooting  anguish  all  his  nerves  benumb'd, 
And  consternation  chain'd  his  murmuring  tongue. 
Then  shriek'd  the  Nymph  ;  "  What,  Goddess,  hast 

thou  done 

To  this  my  child  ?  are  these  the  tender  acts 
Of  Goddesses  ?  thou  hast  bereaved  of  eyes 
My  son.     Oh  miserable  child!  thy  gaze 
Has  glanced  upon  the  bosom  and  the  shape 
Of  Pallas;  but  the  sun  thou  must  behold 
No  more.     Oh  miserable  me !  oh  shades 
Of  Helicon!  oh  mountain,  that  my  steps 
Shall  ne'er  again  ascend !  for  small  offence 
Monstrous  atonement !  thou  art  well  repaid 
For  some  few  straggling  goats  and  hunted  deer 
With  my  son's  eyes!"  the  Nymph  then  folded 

close, 

With  both  her  arms,  her  son  so  dearly  loved ; 
And  utter'd  lamentation,  with  shrill  voice, 
And  plaintive,  like  the  mother  nightingale. 
The  Goddess  felt  compassion  for  the  Nymph, 
The  partner  of  her  soul,  and  softly  said  : 
"  Retract,  diviriest  woman  !  what  thy  rage 
Erring,  has  utter'd.     'Tis  not  I  that  smite 
Thy  son  with  blindness.     Pallas  hath  no  joy 
To  rob  from  youths  the  lustre  of  their  eyes. 
The  laws  of  Saturn  thus  decree — Whoe'er 
Looks  on  a  being  of  immortal  race, 
Unless  the  willing  God  consent,  must  look 
Thus,  at  his  peril,  and  atoning  pay 
The  dreadful  penalty.     This  act  of  fate, 
Divinest  woman,  may  not  be  recall'd. 
So  spun  the  Destinies  his  mortal  thread 
When  thou  didst  bear  him.     Son  of  Everus ! 
Take  then  thy  portion.     But,  what  hecatombs 
Shall  Aristaeus  and  Autonoe, 
Hereafter,  on  the  smoking  altars  lay, 
So  that  the  youth  Actoeon,  their  sad  son, 
Might  be  but  blind,  like  thee!  for  know  that 

youth 

Shall  join  the  great  Diana  in  the  chase  ; 
Yet,  not  the  chase,  nor  darts  in  common  thrown, 
Shall  save  him;  when  his  undesigning  glance 
Discerns  the  goddess  in  her  loveliness 
Amidst  the  bath.     His  own  unconscious  dogs 
Shall  tear  their  master,  and  his  mother  cull 
His  scattered  bones,  wild-wandering  through  the 

woods. 
That  mother,  Nymph!  shall  call  thee  blest,  who 

now 

Receivest  from  the  mount  thy  sightless  son. 
Oh  weep  no  more,  companion!  for  thy  sake 

1  yet  have  ample  recompense  in  store 
For  this  thy  son.     Behold  !  I  bid  him  rise 
A  prophet :  far  o'er  every  seer  renown'd 
To  future  ages.     He  shall  read  the  flights 
Of  birds,  and  know  whatever  on  the  wing 
Hovers  auspicious,  or  ill-omen'd  flies, 

Or  void  of  auspice.     Many  oracles 
To  the  Boeotians  shall  his  tongue  reveal  ; 
To  Cadmus,  and  the  great  Labdacian  tribe. 
I  will  endow  him  with  a  mighty  staff, 


To  guide  his  steps  aright ;  and  I  will  give 
A  lengthen'd  boundary  to  his  mortal  life ; 
And,  when  he  dies,  he  only,  midst  the  dead, 
Shall  dwell  inspired,  and,  honoured  by  that  king 
Who  rules  the  shadowy  people  of  the  grave." 
She   spoke,   and  gave  the  nod ;   what  Pallas 

wills 

Is  sure :  in  her,  of  all  his  daughters,  Jove 
Bade  all  the  glories  of  her  father  shine. 
Maids  of  the  bath  !  no  mother  brought  her  forth ; 
Sprung  from  the  head  of  Jove.     Whate'er  the 

head 

Of  Jove,  inclining,  ratifies,  the  same 
Stands  firm ;    and   thus   his  daughter's   nod   is 

fate. — 

She  comes!  in  very  truth,  Minerva  comes! 
Receive  the  goddess,  damsels!  ye,  whose  hearts, 
With  tender  ties,  your  native  Argos  binds, 
Receive  the  goddess !  with  exulting  hails, 
With  vows,  and  shouts.     Hail,  Goddess!  oh  pro- 
tect 

Inachian  Argos  !  hail !  and,  when  thou  turn'st 
Thy  coursers  hence,  or  hitherward  again, 
Guidest  thy  chariot-wheels,  oh  !  still  preserve 
The  fortunes  of  the  race  from  Danaus  sprung! 


ON  A  BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 
WE  buried  him  at  dawn  of  day : 
Ere  set  of  sun  his  sister  lay 

Self-slaughtered  by  his  side. 
Poor  Basile!  she  could  not  bear 
Longer  to  breathe  the  vital  air, 

When  Melanippus  died. 

Thus  in  one  fatal  hour  was  left, 
Of  both  a  parent's  hopes  bereft, 

Their  desolated  sire ; 
While  all  Cyrene  mourned  to  see 
The  blossoms  of  her  stateliest  tree 

By  one  fell  blight  expire. 


THE  CHASE. 

MAHK,  Epicydes,  how  the  hunter  bears 
His  honours  in  the  chase — when  timid  hares 
And  nobler  stags  he  tracks  through  frost   and 

snow, 

O'er  mountains  echoing  to  the  vales  below. 
Then   if  some   clown   halloos — "Here,  master, 

here 

Lies  panting  at  your  feet  the  stricken  deer" — 
He  takes  no  heed,  but  starts  for  newer  game: 
Such  is  my  love,  and  such  his  arrow's  aim, 
That  follows  still  with  speed  the  flying  fair, 
But  deems  the  yielding  slave  below  his  care. 


EPITAPH  ON  A  GOOD  MAN. 
IT*  holy  sleep  Acanthian  Saon  lies: — 
O  say  not  that  the  good  man  ever  dies. 


THE  DEATH  OF  CLEOMBROTUS. 
CLEOMBHOTUS,  upon  the  rampart's  height 
Bade  the  bright  sun  farewell ;  then  plungt  d  to 
night. 


NIC^NETUS  OF  SAMOS.— DIOSCORIDES. 


237 


The  cares  of  life  were  yet  to  him  unknown  ; 
Glad  were  his  hours,  his  sky  unclouded  shone ; 
But  Plato's  reason  caught  his  youthful  eye, 
And  fixed  his  soul  on  immortality. 


THE  VIRGIN'S  OFFERING  TO  VENUS.* 

A  J.HELL,  Zephyritis,  is  all  that  I  am, 

First  fruits  from  Selena  to  thec. 
Time  was.  that  a  nautilus  gaily  I  swam, 

And  steer'd  my  light  bark  on  the  sea. 

*  It  was  a  custom  among  the  Greek  girls  on  the  eve  of 
marriage,  to  consecrate  some  favourite  toy  of  their  child- 
ish years  to  Venus,  and  happy  might  the  bride  esteem 
herself,  if,  like  our  Selena,  the  daughter  of  Clinias,  she 
Irid  it  in  her  power  to  present,  from  her  cabinet  of  shells 
and  marine  curiosities,  a  tribute  so  magnificent  as  that 
of  the  shining  conch  of  the  nautilus.  The  Venus  Zephy- 
riti:*,  (so  called  from  the  promontory  of  Zephyrion,  near 
Alexandria,  where  her  temple  stood,)  was  also  called 
Chloris  and  Arsionoe,  and,  in  fact,  was  no  other  than  the 
deiaed  wife  of  Ptolemy  Phitadelphus.— See  JVotes  of 
Blond's  Anthology. 


Then  hoisting  my  own  little  yards  and  my  sail, 
I  swam  the  soft  breeze  as  it  came, 

And  rowed  with  my  feet,  if  a  calm  did  prevail, 
And  thus,  Cypris,  got  I  my  name. 

But  cast  by  the  waves  on  the  liilian  shore, 

I  am  sent  for  a  plaything  to  thee, 
Now  lifeless ; — the  sea-loving  halcyon  no  more 

Shall  brood  on  the  waters  for  me. 

Arsinoe!  oh,  may  all  grace  from  thy  hand 

On  Clinias'  daughter  alight; 
From  Smyrna  she  sends  in  folia's  land, 

And  sweet  be  her  gift  in  thy  sight 


ON  HERACLEITUS. 

THET  told  me,  Heracleitus,  thou  wert  dead ; 
And  then  I  thought,  and  tears  thereon  did  shed, 
How  oft  we  two  talked  down  the  sun;  but  thou, 
Halicarnassian  guest !  art  ashes  now. 
Yet  live  thy  nightingales  of  song;  on  those 
All-plundering  Death  shall  ne'er  his  hand  im- 


NIC^ENETUS  OF  SAMOS 


[About  250  B.  C.] 


THE  PRECEPT  OF  CRATINUS. 

IF  with  water  you  fill  up  your  glasses, 
You'll  never  write  anything  wise; 

For  wine  is  the  horse  of  Parnassus, 
Which  hurries  a  bard  to  the  skies.* 


THE  FETE  CHAMPETRE. 

NOT  in  the  city  be  my  banquet  spread, 

But  in  sweet  meadows,  where  around  my  head 


*  Horace  Bays  of  this  jovial  philosopher  :— 
"  Frisco  si  credis,  Meccnas  docte,  Cratino, 
Nulla  placere  dm  nee  vivere  carmina  possunt, 
Quae  scribuntur  aquw  potnrihus  :" 

And  Aristophanes  tells  us  that  he  died  of  vexation  at 
seeing  ajar  of  good  wine  broken. 


The  zephyr  may  float  freely :  be  my  seat 

The  mossy  platform  of  some  green  retreat. 

Where  shrubs  and  creepers,  starting  at  my 
side, 

May  furnish  cushion  smooth  and  carpet  wide. 

Let  wine  be  serv'd  us,  and  the  warbling  lyre 

Trill  forth  soft  numbers  of  the  Muses'  choir; 

That  we,  still  drinking,  and  our  hearts  con- 
tenting, 

And  still  to  dulcet  tunes  new  hymns  inventing, 

May  sing  Jove's  bride,  from  whom  these  plea- 
sures come, 

The  guardian  Goddess  of  our  island  home.* 


*  The  favourite  abode  of  Juno  was  in  the  island  of 
Samos,  where  was  also  her  most  ancient  temple. 


DIOSCORIDES. 


[About  240  B.  C.] 


DIOSCOHIDES  flourished  at  Alexandria,  under  Pto- '  epigrams,  hut  most  of  them  too  trivial, or unbecom- 
k  my  Euergetes.  He  has  bequeathed  us  about  forty  |  ing  in  character,  to  repay  the  labours  of  translation. 


THE  PERSIAN  SLAVE  TO  HIS  MASTER. 

<  '  M  VSTER!  shroud  my  body,  wh.Mi  I  die, 
In  decent  cerements,  from  the  vulgar  . 


But  burn  me  not  upon  yon  funeral  pyre, 
Nor  dare  the  gods  and  dcsocrato  their  fire: 
I  am  a  Persian  ;  'twere  a  Persian's  shame 
To  dip  his  body  in  the  sacred  flame. 


238 


APOLLONIUS  RHODIUS. 


Nor  o'er  my  worthless  limbs  your  waters  pour ; 
For  streams  and  fountains  Persia's  sons  adore ; 
But  leave  me  to  the  clods  that  gave  us  birth, — 
For  dust  should  turn  to  dust,  and  earth  to  earth. 


SPARTAN  VIRTUE. 

WHEW  Thrasybulus  from  the  embattled  field 
Was  breathless  borne  to  Sparta  on  his  shield, 


His  honoured  corse,  disfigured  still  with  gore, 
From  seven  wide  wounds,  (but  all  received  be- 
fore,) 

Upon  the  pyre  his  hoary  father  laid, 
And  to  the  admiring  crowd  triumphant  said  : 
Let  slaves  lament, — while  I,  without  a  tear, 
Lay  mine  and  Sparta's  son  upon  his  bier. 


APOLLONIUS  RHODIUS. 

[About  2iO  B.  C.] 

APOLLOHTIUS  was  born  at  Naucratis,  and  edu- '  obtain   from    them   the    freedom 
cated  at  Alexandria.     He  afterwards  migrated 
to  Rhodes,  where  he  opened  a  school  of  rhetoric, 


Hence  his  surname  of  Rhodius. 


of  their   city. 
He  finally  re- 


turned to  Egypt,  and  succeeded  Callimachus  as 
and  became  so  popular  with   the  people  as  to  j  keeper  of  the  Alexandrian  Library. 


FROM  THE  ARGONAUTS. 

THE  SOJf  G  OF  ORPHEUS,  AND  SAILING  OF  THE  AHGO. 

THEN  too,  the  jarring  heroes  to  compose,* 
Th'  enchanting  bard,  CEagrian  Orpheus  rose, 
And  thus,  attuning  to  the  trembling  strings, 
His  soothing  voice  of  harmony,  he  sings — 
In  the  beginning  how  heaven,  earth,  and  sea, 
In  one  tumultuous  chaos  blended  lay; 
Till  Nature  parted  the  conflicting  foes, 
And  beauteous  Order  from  Disorder  rose : 
How,  roll'd  incessant  o'er  the  etherial  plain, 
Mov'd  in  eternal  dance  the  starry  train ; 
How  the  pale  orb  of  night,  and  golden  sun, 
Through  months  and  years  their  radiant  journeys 

run ; 
Whence  rose  the  mountains  clad  with  waving 

woods, 

The  rushing  rivers  and  resounding  floods, 
With  all  their  Nymphs ;  from  what  celestial  seed 
The  various  tribes  of  animals  proceed. 
Next  how  Ophion  held  his  ancient  reign, 
With  his  fam'd  consort,  daughter  of  the  main : 
On  high  Olympus'  snowy  head  enthron'd, 
The  new-created  world  their  empire  own'd : 
Till  force  superior,  and  successful  war, 
Divested  of  their  crowns  the  regal  pair  ; 
On  Saturn's  head  Ophion's  honours  plac'd, 
And  with  his  consort's  glories  Rhea  grae'd. 
Thence  to  old  Ocean's  watery  kingdoms  hurl'd ; — 
Thus  they  resign'd  the  sceptre  of  the  world ; 

*  The  names  of  these  heroes  were  Idmon  and  Idas,  the 
latter  of  whom,  having  been  reprimanded  by  the  former 
for  speaking  too  arrogantly  of  himself  and  too  disrepect- 
fully  of  the  gods,  being  heated  with  wine,  fell  into  a  rage, 
and  from  reproaches  and  threats  would  have  proceeded 
to  blows,  had  he  not  been  restrained  by  his  brother  Argo- 
nauts, and  their  leader,  Jason. 


And  Saturn  rul'd  trie  bless'd  Titanian  gods, 
While  infant  Jove  possess'd  the  dark  abodes 
Of  Dictes'  cave  ;  his  mind  yet  uninform'd 
With  heav'nly  wisdom,  and  his  hand  unarm'd : 
Forg'd  by  the  Cyclops,  earth's  gigantic  race, 
Flam'd  not  as  yet  the  lightning's  scorching  blaze, 
Nor  warr'd  the  thunder  through  the  realms  above, 
The  strength  and  glory  of  almighty  Jove. 

This  said,  the  tuneful  bard  his  lyre  unstrung, 
And  ceas'd  th'  enchanting  music  of  his  tongue. 
But  with  the  sound  entranc'd,  th'  attentive  ear 
Thought  him  still  singing,  still  stood  fix'd  to  hear.* 
In  silent  rapture  ev'ry  chief  remains, 
And  feels  within  his  heart  the  thrilling  strains. 
Forthwith  the  bowl  they  crown  with  rosy  wine, 
And  pay  due  honours  to  the  pow'rs  divine. 
The  pure  libations  on  the  fire  they  pour, 
While  rising  flames  the  mystic  tongues  devour. 

Now  sable  Night  ascends  her  starry  throne, 
And  Argo's  chiefs  her  drowsy  influence  own. 
But  when  the  bright-ey'd  Morning  rear'd  her 

head, 

And  look'd  o'er  Pelion's  summits,  ting'd  with  red. 
Light  skimm'd  the  breezes  o'er  the  wat'ry  plain, 
And  gently  swell'd  the  fluctuating  main. 
Then  Tiphys  rose,  and,  summon'd  by  his  caro, 
Embark  the  heroes,  and  their  cars  prepare. 

+  The  translator  has  evidently  framed  his  version  of 
this  line  after  Milton— 

The  angel  ended,  and  in  Adam's  ear 

So  charming  left  his  voice,  that  he  awhile 

Thought  him  still  speaking,  still  stood  fix'd  to  near. 

Par.  Lost.  viii. 

And  Pope  has  done  the  same  in  his  narrative  of  Ulys- 
ses— 

He  ceas'd ;  but  left  so  charming  in  their  ear 
His  voice,  that,  listening,  still  they  seem'd  to  hear. 


APOLLONIUS   RHODIUS. 


239 


Portentous  now  along  the  winding  shores, 
Hoarse-sounding  Pagasoan  Neptune  roars. 
Impatient  Argo,  the  glad  signal  took, 
While  from  her  vocal  keel  loud  murmurs  broke  ^ 
Her  keel  of  sacred  oak,  divinely  wrought, 
Itonian  Pallas  from  Dodona  brought. 

On  their  allotted  posts  now  rang'd  along, 
In  seemly  order,  sat  the  princely  throng: 
Fast  by  each  chief  his  glitt'ring  armour  flames  ; 
The  midmost  station  bold  Anceeus  claims, 
With  great  Alcides,  whose  enormous  might 
A;:m'd  with  a  massy  club  provokes  the  fight, 
Now  plac'd  beside  him :  in  the  yielding  flood 
The  keel,  deep-sinking,  feels  the  demi-god. 

Their  hawsers  now  they  loose,  and  on  the  brine 
To  Neptune  pour  the  consecrated  wine. 
Then  from  his  native  shores  sad  Jason  turns 
His  oft-reverted  eye,  and  silent  mourns. 
A ;j  in  Ortygia,  or  the  Delphic  fane, 
Or  where  Isrnenus  laves  Boeotia's  plain, 
Apollo's  altars  round,  the  youthful  choir, 
The  dance  according  with  the  sounding  lyre, 
T  if  hallow'd  ground  with  equal  cadence  beat, 
A:.id  move  in  measure  their  harmonious  feet : 
Together  so  Thessalia's  princes  sweep 
With  well-tinrd  oars  the  silver-curling  deep, 
While,  raising  high  the  Thracian  harp,  presides 
Melodious  Orpheus,  and  the  movement  guides. 
On  either  side  the  dashing  surges  broke, 
Aid  fierce  re-murmur'd  to  each  mighty  stroke; 
Thick  flash  the  brazen  arms  with  streaming  light, 
While  the  swift  bark  pursues  her  rapid  flight, 
A  id  ever  as  the  sea-green  tide  she  cleaves, 
Foams  the   long  track  behind,  and  whitens  all 

the  waves : 

S<   .-hinrs  tlif  path,  across  some  verdant  plain, 
Trac'd  by  the  footsteps  of  the  village  swain. 

Jove  on  that  day  from  his  celestial  throne, 
And  all  th'  immortal  Pow'rs  of  heav'n  look'd 

down, 

The  godlike  chiefs  and  Argo  to  survey, 
As  through  the  deep  theyur^'d  their  daring  way. 
Then  too  on  Pelioifs  etood-topp'd  summits  stood 
The  Nymphs  and  Fauns,  and  Si>ters  of  the  wood, 
With  wonder  viewing  the  tall  pine  below, 
That  shaded  once  the  mountain's  sha^y  brow, 
N»\v.  fratn'd  by  Pallas,  o'er  the  .-ounding  sea, 

•iia's  mighty  heroes  to  convey. 
But,  lo!   from  Pelion's  highest  cliff  descends, 
And  downward  to  the  >ea  his  footstep  bends 
The  centaur  Chiron;  on  the  beach  he  stood, 
And  dipp'd  his  ft- 1 locks  in  the  hoary  II 

.  waving  hi>  broad  hand,  the  bark  he  hails, 
And    ?pceds   \\ith    pror-p'roiis   vows   the   parting 

sails. 
With  him  a  Ivanc'd  his  contort  to  the  shore; 

••ling  Achilles  in  her  anus  >li«-  bore: 
T  ien  raising  high  in  air  the  pleasing 
To  his  fond  sire  the  smiling  infant  show'd. 

PASSION  OF  MKIIKA. 

AMIDST  them  all,  the  son  of  ^son,  chief, 
Shone  forth  divinely  in  1'is  comeliness, 
And  graces  of  his  form.      On  him  the  maid 
Held  still  her  eyes  askance,  and  gazed  him  o'er, 


Through  her  transparent  glistening  veil ;  while 

grief 

Consum'd  her  heart.    Her  mind,  as  in  a  dream, 
Slid  stealthily  away,  and  hovering  hung 
On  his  departing  footsteps.     Sorrowing  they 
Went  from  the  palace  forth.     Chalciope 
Dreading  ^Eetes'  anger,  hastening  pass'd 
Within  her  secret  chamber,  with  her  sons : 
And  thus  Medea  went,  her  soul  absorbed 
In  many  musings,  such  as  love  incites, 
Thoughts  of  deep  care.     Now  all  remember'd 

things 

In  apparition  rose  before  her  eyes : 
What  was  his  aspect;  what  the  robe  he  wore; 
What  words  he  utter'd ;  in  what  posture  placed, 
He  on  the  couch  reclined ;  and  with  what  air 
He  from   the  porch  pass'd  forth.    Then  red  the 

blush 
Burn'd  on  her  cheek;    while  in  her  soul  she 

thought 

No  other  man  existed  like  to  him : 
His  voice  was  murmuring  in  her  ears,  and  all 
The  charming  words  he  utter'd.    Now,  disturb'd, 
She  trembled  for  his  life ;  lest  the  fierce  bulls, 
Or  lest  JEetes  should,  himself,  destroy 
The  man  she  loved:  and  she  bewailed  him  now 
As  if  already  dead ;  and  down  her  cheeks, 
In  deep  commiseration,  the  soft  tear 
Flow'd  anxiously.     With  piercing  tone  of  grief 
Her  voice  found  utterance  :  "  Why,  unhappy  one ! 
Am  I  thus  wretched  1    What  concerns  it  me, 
Whether  this  paragon  of  heroes  die 
The  death,  or  flee  discomfited?     And  yet 
He  should  unharm'd  depart.     Dread  Hecate ! 
Be  it  thy  pleasure  \  let  him  homeward  pass, 
And  'scape  his  threaten'd  fate :  or,  if  his  fate 
Beneath  the  bulls  have  destined  him  to  fall, 
First  let  him  know,  that  in  his  wretched  end 
Medea  does  not  glory."     So  disturb'd, 
Mused  the  sad  virgin  in  her  anguish'd  thoughts. 

DELIBERATION  OF  MEDEA,  OX  HER  PROMISE  TO 
JASON. 

NIGHT  then  brought  darkness  o'er  the  earth :  at 

sea 

The  mariners  their  eyes  from  shipboard  raised, 
Fix'd  on  the  star  Orion,  and  the  Bear. 
The  traveller  and  the  keeper  of  the  gate 
Rock'd  with  desire  of  sleep ;  and  slumber  now 
Fell  heavy  on  some  mother,  who  had  wept 
Her  children  in  the  grave.     No  bay  of  dogs, 
No  noise  of  tumult,  stirr'd  the  city  streets; 
All  hush'd  in  stillest  darkness.     But  sweet  sleep 
Sooth'd  not  Mfdca.      Many  a  busy  thought, 
For  love  of  Jason,  strain'd  her  wakeful  eyes. 
J>he   fear'd    the   bulls,  by  whose   o'er-mastering 

strength 

He,  on  the  battle-field,  may  haply  meet 
Dishonourable  death.     With  feverous  throbs 
The  heart  within  her  bosom  restless  heav'd. 
As  when  the  glitter  of  tin-  sun.  that  springs 
From  water,  in  some  cauldron  freshly  pour'd, 
Or  milk-pail,  brandish'd  quivers  on  the  walls, 
Darts   in   quick    rings,   and   vibrates  round  and 

round ; 
So  was  the  virgin's  heart,  within  her  breast, 


240 


APOLLONIUS   RHODIUS. 


Turn'd  to  and  fro.     The  tear,  compassionate, 
Stole  trickling  from  her  eyes,  and  inward  grief 
Prey'd  with  slow  wasting  on  her  pining  frame ; 
Such  weight  of  suffering  did  her  sleepless  love 
Lay  on  her  bosom.     Now  her  will  resolves 
To  gift  the  chief  with  drugs  of  charming  power  : 
Now  she  abjures  the  thought ;  and  she  will  die 
Together  with  the  man  she  loves.     Anon 
Her  resolutions  change ;  nor  will  she  die 
With  him  she  loves,  nor  yield  the  charming  drugs  ; 
But  calm,  with  unresisting  apathy, 
Bear  with    his    fate.     Then    sitting,  while   her 

thoughts 

Waver'd  in  musing  doubt,  aloud  she  spake : 
"  Still  am  I  wretched  with  a  choice  of  ills ! 
My  mind  is  impotent  of  thought :  no  cure 
For  this,  the  torment  irresistible, 
That  evermore  consumes  me.    Would  to  heaven 
That  I  had  fallen  by  Diana's  darts, 
Ere  I  beheld  him !    Ere  my  sister's  sons 
Had  gone  for  Greece,  whence  some  unfriendly 

god 

Or  fury,  brings  these  lamentable  woes. 
Then  let  him  fight,  and  perish,  if  his  fate 
Decree  that  he  shall  die  upon  the  field. 
How  should  I  shun  my  parents'  eyes,  and  mix 
The  needful  drugs?    What  speech  can  serve  my 

turn? 

What  fraud  shall  aid  me,  or  what  secret  will? 
Shall  I,  apart  from  his  companions,  see 
The  chief  alone,  and  interchange  kind  words? 
Wretch  that  I  am!  for  if,  indeed,  he  die, 
How  could  I  hope  a  respite  for  my  woes? 
Then  were  my  sum  of  misery  full,  if  he 
Were  reft  of  life.     Away  with  modesty! 
Away  with  decent  forms !  and  let  him  go 
Saved  by  my  counsels,  wheresoe'er  he  list. 
And  then,  on  that  same  day,  when  he  achieves 
The  combat,  let  me  die :  to  yon  high  beam, 
Let  me,  suspended  by  the  throat,  expire ; 
Or  drain  the  juices,  that  destroy  the  soul. 
Yet  man  will  cast  reproaches,  after  life, 
Upon  my  breathless  body :  and,  from  far, 
Shall  the  whole  city  cry  aloud,  and  rail 
Upon  my  death  ;  and  here  and  there  will  throng 
The  Colchian  women,  and  pursue  with  taunts 
My  memory:  'This  maiden's  heart  was  wrapt 
So  deeply  in  a  stranger,  that  for  him 
She  died,  and  stain'd  her  parents,  and  her  house, 
To  love-sick  frenzy  yielding  up  herself.' 
What  shame  will  not  be  mine !  Oh,  misery ! 
Were  it  not  better  now,  this  very  night, 
Here  in  my  chamber,  to  forsake  my  life  ? 
So,  by  a  sudden  death,  to  'scape  at  once 
All  this  reproach;  before  my  deeds  have  wrought 
This  foul  disgrace,  unworthy  of  a  name  ?" 

She  said,  and  to  her  casket  went,  full-stored 
With  drugs:  some  healthful,  some  of  deadly  bane. 
She  placed  it  on  her  knees,  and  wept ;  the  tears 
Unceasing  bathed  her  bosom  ;  flowing  forth, 
Spite  of  herself,  abundantly,  for  grief 
Of  her  hard  fate.     And  now  the  impulse  rose, 
To  cull  and  taste  the  drugs  that  poison  life. 
She  loosed  the  casket's  fastenings ;  with  ill  hap 
Gathering  the  mortal  herbs,  when,  suddenly, 
Came  o'er  her  mind  a  horror  of  the  grave. 


Long  time  she  mused  in  doubt :  life's  pleasing 

cares, 

In  smiling  vision,  flitted  on  her  sight: 
She  thought  upon  the  pleasures  that  are  found 
Among  the  living ;  she  remember'd  her 
Of  the  gay  playmates  of  her  virgin  hours: 
The  sun  more  pleasant  in  her  fancy  shone 
Than  ere  his  light  had  been;  and,  more  and  more, 
Her  fondness  grew  for  each  remember'd  thing. 
She  then  replaced  the  casket  from  her  knees, 
For  Juno  turn'd  her  heart ;  and,  straight  she  long'd 
For  morning  to  appear,  that  she  might  give 
The  promised  drugs  of  saving  power,  and  greet 
The  face  of  Jason.     Oft  she  drew  the  bolts 
That  closed  her  chamber  door,  and  with  long  look 
Watch'd  for  the  light. 

THE  MAGIC  TRIAL. 

THE  evening  sun  went  down  beneath  the  verge 
Of  dusky  earth,  far  glancing  o'er  the  hills 
Of  ^Ethiopia  ;  and  the  Night  arose, 
And  yoked  her  chariot-steeds.     The  heroes  then 
Spread  at  their  anchorage  their  couch  of  rest. 
But  Jason,  instant  at  the  Bear's  bright  star, 
Had  turn'd  the  pole,  and  silence  from  the  heaven 
Suffused  the  depth  of  aether,  took  his  way 
To  a  lone  spot,  like  some  night-stealing  thief, 
With  all  things  needful:  he  all  needful  things 
In  daylight  had  prepared :  milk  from  the  fold 
Argus  had  brought,  and  a  ewe  lamb :  the  rest 
He  from  the  ship  received.     When  now  he  saw 
A  spot  remote  from  intercourse  of  men, 
And  stood,  in  quiet,  midst  the  meadow  streams  : 
Then  in  the  sacred  river  bathed  he  all 
His  delicate  body,  duly  purified  ; 
And  round  him  threw  a  sable  cloak,  the  gift 
Of  that  fair  Lemnian,  sad  Hypsipyle  : 
Mournful  memorial  of  her  nuptial  bed. 
Then  of  a  cubit's  depth  he  dug  the  trench, 
And  piled  the  logs ;  and  laid  the  lamb,  its  neck 
Cut  by  the  knife,  in  order  on  the  pile ; 
Kindled  the  wood,  from  underneath,  with  fire, 
And  shed  the  mix'd  libation,  and  invoked 
Dread  Hecate,  to  aid  his  bold  emprise. 
And,  having  call'd  her  name  of  terror,  fell 
Back  from  the  altar.     She  the  summons  heard : 
The  powerful  goddess,  from  earth's  hollow  depth, 
At  Jason's  charming  rite,  ascended  up ; 
Begirt  with  oaken  boughs  and  grisly  snakes, 
And  circled  with  the  multitudinous  glare 
Of  glimmering  torches,  while  around  her  yell'd 
The  howl  of  subterraneous  dogs ;  and  where 
Her  footsteps  trod,  earth  quak'd  on  every  side. 
The  nymphs  of  marshes  and  of  rivers  shriek'd  : 
Whatever  haunt  that  solitary  spot 
On  Phasis'  banks.     Then  fear  on  Jason  fell : 
But  him  with  unreverted  looks,  his  feet 
Still  bore  right  onward,  that  he  might  rejoice 
His  comrades.     Morn,  now  rising  in  the  east, 
Cast  streaks  of  light  o'er  snow-topp'd  Caucasus — 
When  o'er  his  breast  ^Eetes,  arming,  drew, 
The  firm-conjointed  corslet,  gift  of  Mars ; 
Who,  with  his  own  hands,  rent  the  bloody  spoil 
From  Minus,  Thracia's  giant.     On  his  head 
He  placed  a  four-coned  helm  of  burnish'd  geld; 
Resplendent,  as  the  round  sun  when  emerged 


APOLLONIUS  RHODIUS. 


241 


From  ocean.  Then  he  grasp'd  the  massive  shield 
Of  many-folded  hides,  and  clench'd  the  spear, 
Weighty,  enormous — which  no  single  man 
Of  that  heroic  band,  in  combat  match'd, 
Might  firm  sustain,  since  Hercules  was  left 
On  distant  shores.     Hard  by,  Absyrtus  stood, 
And  held  the  solid  chariot  for  the  king 
To  mount ;  and  straight  he  mounted  and  caught 

up 

The  reins  within  his  grasp,  and  rode,  upborne 
Through  the  broad  chariot-way,  from  forth  the 

town, 

To  give  the  fight  his  presence.  With  them  rush'd 
The  people  in  a  torrent  multitude. 
As  Neptune  to  the  Isthmian  contest  speeds, 
Climbing  his  car,  or  guides  his  rolling  wheels 
To  Taenarus,  or  Lerna's  lake ;  or  seeks 
Orchestus1  grove ;  or  lashes  his  fleet  steeds 
To  Calaurea  or  Haemonia's  rock, 
Or  tree-embower'd  Gerastus ;  so  was  seen 
The  king  of  Colchos.     Jason  now,  with  heed 
Of  wise  Medea's  counsels,  liquefied 
The    drug,    and   with    it    smear'd    th'  anointed 

shield, 
And  the  strong  spear  and  sword.    His  comrades 

all 

Essay'd  to  bend  the  weapons,  nor  avail'd 
With  all  their  strength :  the  spear's  unyielding 

beam 

Grew  hard,  and  stiffen'd  in  their  vigorous  hands. 
But  Idas  smote  in  wrath  the  spear-head's  cross 
With  his  huge  sword :  the  clanging  edge  leap'd 

back, 

As  the  reverberating  hammer  bounds 
From  the  struck  anvil.     Joyful  tumult  rose 
Among  the  heroes,  in  that  victory's  hope. 
Himself  he  last  anointed  ;  and  a  strength 
Intrepid,  marvellous,  unspeakable, 
Enter'd  his  frame  :  his  hands  were  sudden  strung 
With  callous  force,  his   muscles   swell'd  with 

strength. 

E'en  as  a  war-horse,  in  the  hope  of  fight, 
Neighs,   beating   with    his    hoof    the    trampled 

earth, 
And,  with  raised  ears,  lifts  glorying  his  arch'd 

neck, 

Hiirh  toss'd  in  air;  so  Jason,  borne  along 
By  new-strung  vigour,  moved  his  balanced  limbs, 
Oft  pacing  to  and  fro  with  lofty  step : 
And  poising  on  hi-^  arm  tin-  bra/on  shield, 
And  brandi-iliing  the  -pear.      A  man  had  said 
That  stormy  lightning  glitter'd  in  dark  air, 
And  ever  and  anon  gleam'd  from  the  clouds 
That  wafted  blackening  rain.     Nor  longer  then 
Abstain'd  they  from  the  contest;  but  all  sate 
Upon  the  rising  benches  of  the  bark, 
And  streteh'd  with  ease  to  reach  that  field  of 

Mars. 

Such  distance  from  the  city  opposite 
Then  intervened,  as  from  the,  starting  post 
Spreads  to  the  chariot's  goal :  when  they  who 

guide 

The  funeral  pageant  of  some  monarch  dead, 
To  horse  and  foot  appoint  the  various  games. 
They  came  before  ^Eetes,  and  the  train 
Of  Colchian  people.    These  stood  ranged  above, 
31 


On  rocks  of  Caucasus — he  where  the  bank 
Of  the  broad  river  wound  its  bending  verge. 
But,  when  his  comrades  now  had  cast  the  cord 
That  moor'd  the  ship  to  land,  forth  Jason  leap'd 
From  the  high  deck,   with    buckler    and   with 

lance, 

And  went  to  front  the  combat:  and  he  took 
His  helm  of  glittering  brass,  its  hollow  fill'd 
With  the  sharp  serpent's  teeth  :  the  falchion  slung 
Athwart  his  shoulder :  naked  was  his  form. 
He  look'd,  in  part,  another  Mars — in  part 
Naked  Apollo— girded  o'er  his  breast 
With  sword  of  beamy  gold.     Then,  traversing 
The  fallow  with  his  eyes,  he  saw  the  yoke 
Of  brass,  and  plough  of  hardest  adamant. 
Still  on  he  went,  approaching  near,  and  fix'd, 
Hard  by,  his  lance  erect  upon  its  point, 
And  laid  his  helmet  down ;  and,  with  his  shield 
Upborne  before  him,  touch'd  the  footmarks  vast 
Of  those  enormous  bulls.     They  suddenly 
From  subterraneous  caves,  their  rocky  stall, 
Enwrapt  in  sooty  smoke  rush'd  forth  at  once, 
Breathing  the  glare  of  flame.    The  heroes  shrank, 
Shuddering  as  they  beheld :  but  he  with  art 
Eluded  their  assault,  as,  in  the  sea, 
A  rock  awaits  the  waves,  that  turbid  swell 
With  mighty  rush  of  winds.     Before  him  still 
He   held   the  buckler.      They,  with  bellowing 

roar, 
Both  thrust,  and  smote   him  with  their  sturdy 

horns — 

But,  as  they  rush'd  against  him,  could  not  move, 
Nor  stagger  his  firm  footing.     And,  as  when 
The  bellows  in  the  windy  orifice 
Of  a  smith's  forge,  now  kindle  to  a  blaze 
The    scorching   flame,  now  cease  their  breezy 

blast, 
And   deep   the  crackling  roar   is   heard,  while 

mounts, 

Stirr'd  from  below,  the  fluctuating  fire : 
So  they,  with  hollow  blowings  from  their  mouths 
Breathed  snorting  forth  the  sharp  and  flickering 

flame. 
Still  the  life-threatening  blaze  enwrapp'd  him 

round 

As  if  with  sheeted  lightning:  him  preserved 
The  virgin's  drug.     He  then  the  right-hand  bull 
Grasp'd  by  his  horn,  and    sternly  press'd  him 

down 

With  his  whole  strength,  till  underneath  the  yoke 
Of  brass  he  bent  him,  prostrating  to  earth 
On  his  bow'd  knees,  and  tripping  with  swift  foot 
The  brazen  hoof.     The  other  rushing  on 
He  smote,  and  at  a  blow  him,  too,  he  fell'd 
Doubling  the  knee.    Then,  casting  on  the  ground 
His    huge-orb'd    shield,    now    from    their    fiery 

breath 
Released,  he  strode,  and  kept  them  down,  and 

held 
From  side  to  side,  where,  grovelling,  each  was 

fallen 

Upon  his  foremost  knees :  ^Eetes  gazed 
In  wonder  on  the  vigour  of  the  man. 
The  sons  of  Tyndarus,  who  long  had  look'd 
Upon  his  prowess,  close  approaching,  gave 
The  yoke  from  off  the  field,  to  throw  around 
V 


242 


APOLLONIUS  RHODIUS. 


The  bulls'  broad  necks.     He  firmly  bound  the 

thongs 
Clench'd  in  the  midst,  the  brazen  draught-beam 

rais'd, 

And  fitted  to  the  polish'd  ring  that  hung 
From  the  link'd  yoke.     They  backward  from  the 

flame 

Retreated  to  the  ship.     But  he  again 
Seized  his  round  shield, and  cast  upon  his  back: 
Then  taking  his  strong  helm,  its  hollow  fill'd 
With  the  sharp  teeth,  he  grasp'd  th'  enormous 

lance 

Midway  the  shaft,  and,  as  a  Grecian  swain 
The  ox-goad  thrusts,  so  with  his  pointed  spear 
He    smote  their   lingering   sides,  and  turn'd  at 

will 

The  strong  plough-staff  of  solid  adamant. 
They,  struggling  with  immeasurable  wrath, 
Breathed  out  the  ravening  flame ;   and   such  a 

blast 

Of  hollow  sound  arose,  as  warring  winds 
In  tempest  breathe,  when  ocean-faring  men 
Furl  the  vast  sail  in  fear.     Not  long  they  went, 
Thus  quicken'd  by  the  goading  spear,  nor  long 
The  rugged  field  was,  transverse,  plough'd  and 

broke 

By  those  strong  bulls  and  by  that  vigorous  swain; 
Ere,  marvellous,  in  the  furrows  of  the  ground, 
The  clods,  men-teeming,  clash'd.    He,  following, 

trod 
The  bulls'  track'd  steps  with  firm-set  foot,  and 

far 
'Midst  the  plough'd  glebe  threw  thick  the  serpent 

teeth. 

His  head  still  backward  o'er  his  shoulder  turn'd, 
Lest  the  destroying  crop  of  earth-born  men 
Should  intercept  his  way.     Right  onward  still 
The  bulls  with  brazen  hoofs  slow-striving  toil'd. 
Now  when  a  third  of  wasted  clay  was  left 
From    rise    of    morn,    and    toil-worn    labourers 

call'd 

On  the  sweet  evening's  yoke-releasing  hour, 
Then  was  the  fallow  of  four-acred  breadth 
Plough'd  through  by  that  unwearied  ploughman's 

hand. 
He  loos'd  the  draught-beam  from  the  harness'd 

bulls, 
And  scared  them  through  the  plains  in  startled 

flight; 

He  to  the  ship  return'd ;  but  bent  his  eye 
On  those  man-teeming  furrows.  Thronging  round, 
His    comrades    cheer'd    him  with  emboldening 

words. 

He,  from  the  river  current,  in  his  helm 
Drain'd   a  full  draught,  and  slaked  his  panting 

thirst : 

Then  bent  his  pliant  knees  with  motion  light, 
Fill'd  with  high  courage,  and  impetuous  zeal 
Of  daring — as  a  boar  that  whets  his  fangs 
Against  the  hunters,  while  the  dropping  foam 
Flows  from  his  chafing  jaws  upon  the  ground. 
And  now,  from  all  the  furrow'd  plain  uprose 
The  earth-born  men;  all  bristling  with  strong 

shields, 

Arid  barbed  spears,  and  shining  helms,  a  field 
Hallo w'd  to  Mars,  the  mortal-slayer  god. 


Through  air  the  splendour  flash'd  from  earth  to 

heaven ; 

As  when  on  earth  abundant  snows  have  fallen — 
The  winds  disperse  again  the  wintry  clouds 
In  the  dark  night,  and  thick  the  crowded  stars 
All  glitter  through  the  gloom ;  so  gleam'd  the 

ranks 

Up-growing  from  the  dusky-moulded  soil. 
But  Jason  then  bethought  him  of  the  wile 
Medea  counsell'd,  and  from  off  the  plain 
Snatch'd   a  round  stone,  immense,  a  quoit  for 

Mars — 

Not  four  strong  youthful  men  had  lifted  it, 
Though  but  a  little.     This  within  his  gripe 
He  took,  and  hurl'd  at  distance,  with  full  sway 
Of  his  impulsive  force,  amid  the  host. 
He  back-receding,  sate  behind  his  shield 
Hid,  but  courageous :  then  the  Colchians  sent 
A  mighty  outcry,  as  the  sea,  that  shrill 
Dashes,  re-murmuring,  on  the  pointed  rocks. 
But  on  ^Eetes,  from  that  quoit's  strong  cast, 
Foreboding  silence  fell.     They,  like  swift  dogs, 
Raging  in  fierceness,  on  each  other  turn'd 
Tumultuous  battle.     On  their  mother  earth 
By  their  own  spears  they  sank,  like  pines,  or 

oaks, 

Strew'd  by  a  whirlwind  in  the  mountain  dale. 
But,  as  a  shooting  star  draws  through  the  heavens 
A  fiery  furrow,  marvellous  to  men 
That  view  the  splendour  dart  through  gloomy 

air, 

So  Jason  rush'd  upon  the  earth-sprung  host. 
Drawn  from   the  scabbard  waved  his  flashing 

sword, 
And    smote   promiscuous;   mowing  with   keen 

stroke 

Some  half-uprisen  to  air,  high  as  the  waist; 
Some  striving  from  the  shoulders ;  some,  but  now 
Erect,  and  others  starting  to  their  feet, 
And  hasting  to  the  charge.     As  when  a  war 
Is  kindled  on  the  borders,  straight  the  swain, 
Fearing  lest  others  reap  before  the  time 
His  harvest,  takes  his  sickle  newly  sharp'd, 
And  hastening  cuts  the  tender  corn,  nor  waits 
The  warm  sun's  ripening  beams  to  dry  the  grain ; 
So  Jason  reap'd  the  crop  of  earth-born  men. 
The  furrows  overflow'd  with  blood,  as  dikes 
Fill'd  from  a  fountain.  Headlong  fell  they  down, 
And  bit  the   rugged  ground  with  hard  clench'd 

teeth. 
Some   backwards    fell ;    some    on   their  elbows 

propp'd ; 
Some   on  their   sides,   and  wallowing  lay  like 

whales, 

And  many  wounded,  ere  their  footing  trod 
Earth's  surface,  far  as  into  upper  air 
Their  bodies  half  emerged,  so  far,  below 
The  ground  sunk  down,  and  plunged  their  heads 

yet  dank 
With  the  fresh  mould.     As  when,  profuse,  the 

rain 

Is  pour'd  from  sether,  the  young  fig-trees  bow, 
Torn  from  the  roots,  to  earth ;  the  gardener's  toil 
Is  blasted,  and  dejection  and  sore  grief 
O'ercome  the  orchard's  owner ;  so  deep  cares 
Press'd  on  the  sadden'd  spirit  of  the  king 


APOLLONIUS  RHODIUS. 


243 


./Eetes,  and  he  went,  on  his  return 
To  his  own  city,  with  the  Colchian  train ; 
Casting  within  his  troubled  mind,  how  best 
With  sharper  trial  to  confront  the  chiefs. 
Day  fell,  and  so  the  contest  was  fulfilled. 

THE   COMBAT   BETWEEN   POLLUX  AND  AMYCUS.* 

FAST  by  the  beach  oxstalls  and  tents  were  spread 
By  bold  Bebrycians,  Amycus  their  head, 
Whom,  on  the  precincts  of  the  winding  shore, 
A  fair  Bithynian  Hamadryad  bore 
To  genial  Neptune,  in  base  commerce  join'd, 
Proud  Amycus,  most  barbarous  of  mankind. 
Who  made  this  stern,  unequitable  law, 
That  from  his  realm  no  stranger  should  with- 
draw, 

Till  first  with  him  compell'd  in  fight  to  wield 
The  dreadful  gauntlet  in  the  listed  field : 
Unnumber'd  guests  his  matchless  prowess  slew  : 
Stern  he  accosts  swift  Argo's  valiant  crew, 
Curious  the  reason  of  their  course  to  scan, 
Who,   whence    they   were:    and    scornful   thus 

began : 
"Learn  what  'tis   meet   ye  knew,  ye  vagrant 

host, 

None  that  e'er  touches  on  Bebrycia's  coast, 
Is  hence  by  law  permitted  to  depart, 
Till  match'd  with  me  he  prove  the  boxer's  art 
Choose  then  a  chief  that  can  the  gauntlet  wield, 
And  let  him  try  the  fortune  of  the  field: 
If  thus  my  edicts  ye  despise  and  me, 
Yield  to  the  last  immutable  decree." 
Thus  spoke  the  chief  with  insolent  disdain, 
And  rons'd  resentment  in  the  martial  train : 
But  most  his  words  did  Pollux'  rage  provoke, 
Who  thus,  a  champion  for  his  fellows,  spoke : 
"Threat  not,  whoe'er  thou  art,  the  bloody  fray; 
Lo,  we,  obsequious,  thy  decrees  obey ! 
Unforc'd  this  instant  to  the  lists  I  go, 
Thy  rival  I,  thy  voluntary  foe." 
Siiinu'  to  the  quick  with  this  severe  reply, 
On  him  he  turn'd  his  fury-flaming  eye : 
As  the  grim  lion,  pierced  by  some  keen  wound, 
Whom  hunters  on  the  mountain-top  surround ; 
Though  close  hemm'd  in,  his  glaring  eye-balls 

glance 

On  him  alone  who  threw  the  pointed  lance. 
Then  Pollux  dotf'il  his  mantle,  richly  wrought, 
Late  from  the  Lemnian  territory  brought, 
Which   some   fair   nymph  who  had  her  flame 

avow'd, 

The  pledge  of  hospitable  love  bestow'd  : 
His  double  cloak,  with  clasps  of  sable  hue, 
Bebrycia's  ruler  on  the  greensward  threw, 
And  his  rough  sheep-hook  ol'  wild-olive  made, 
Which  lately  flourish'd  in  the  woodland  shade. 
Then  sought  the  heroes  for  a  place  at  hand 
Commodious  for  the  u'lrht.  and  on  the  strand 
They  placed  their  friends,  who  saw,  with  won- 
dering eyes, 
The   chiefs   how   different,  both    in   make   and 

size: 

For  Amycus  like  fell  Typhoeus  stood, 
Enormous  ;  or  that  miscreated  brood 

*  See  this  combat  described  by  Theocritus,  pp.  223,  224. 


Of  mighty  monsters,  which  the  heaving  earth, 
Incens'd  at  Jove,  brought  forth,  a  formidable  birth. 
But  Pollux  shone  like  that  mild  star  on  high 
Whose  rising  ray  illumes  the  evening  sky. 
Down  spread  his  cheek,  ripe  manhood's  early 

sign, 

And  in  his  eye  fair  beam'd  the  glance  divine : 
Such  seem'd  Jove's  valiant  son,  supremely  bright, 
And  equal  to  the  lion  in  his  might. 
His  arms  he  pois'd,  advancing  in  the  ring, 
To  try  if  still  they  kept  their  pristine  spring— 
If  pliant  still  and  vigorous  as  before, 
Accustom'd  to  hard  toil,  the  labour  of  the  oar. 
But  Amycus  aloof  and  silent  stood, 
Glar'd  on  his  foe,  and  seem'd  athirst  for  blood, : 
With  that  his  squire  Lycoreus  in  full  view 
Two  pair  of  gauntlets  in  the  circle  threw, 
Of  barbarous  fashion,  harden'd,  rough  and  dried ; 
Then  thus  the  chief  with  insolence  and  pride : 
"  Lo,  two  stout  pair,  the  choice  I  give  to  thee ; 
Accuse  not  fate,  the  rest  belong  to  me. 
Securely  bind  them,  and  hereafter  tell 
Thy  friends  how  much  thy  prowess  I  excel : 
Whether  to  make  the  cestus  firm  and  good, 
Or  stain  the  cheeks  of  enemies  with  blood." 
Thus  spoke  he  boastful ;  Pollux  nought  replied, 
But  smiling  chose  the  pair  which  lay  beside. 
Castor,  his  brother  both  by  blood  and  fame, 
And  Talaus  the  son  of  Bias  came ; 
Firm  round  his  arms  the  gloves  of  death  they 

bind, 

And  animate  the  vigour  of  his  mind. 
To  Amycus  Aratus,  and  his  friend 
Bold  Ornytus,  their  kind  assistance  lend : 
Alas!  they  little  knew,  this  conflict  o'er, 
Those  gauntlets  never  should  be  buckled  more. 
Accoutred  thus  each  ardent  hero  stands, 
And  raises  high  in  air  his  iron  hands. 
With  clashing  gauntlets  fiercely  now  they  close, 
And  mutual  meditate  death-dealing  blows. 
First  Amycus  a  furious  onset  gave, 
Like  the  rude  shock  of  an  impetuous  wave, 
That,  heap'd  on  high  by  driving  wind  and  tide, 
Bursts  thundering  on  some  gallant  vessel's  side  ; 
The  wary  pilot  by  superior  skill 
Foresees  the  storm,  and  shuns  the  menac'd  ill. 
Thus  threatening  Amycus  on  Pollux  prest, 
Nor  sufler'd  his  antagonist  to  rest: 
But  Jove's  brave  son  observes  each  coming  blow, 
Quick  leaps  aside,  and  disappoints  the  foe ; 
And  where  a  weak  unguarded  part  he  spies, 
There  all  the  thunder  of  his  arm  he  plies. 
As  busy  shipwrights  stoutly  labouring  strive 
Through   sturdy  planks  the   piercing  spikes  to 

drive, 

From  head  to  stern  repeated  blows  go  round, 
And  ceaseless  hammers  send  a  various  sound^ 
Thus    from   their  batter'd   cheeks    loud    echoes 

sprung, 
Their  dash'd  teeth  crackled,  and  their  jawbones 

rung: 
Nor  ceas'd  they  from  the  strokes  that  threaten'd 

death, 

Till  faint  with  toil  they  fairly  gasp'd  for  breath : 
Then  first  awhile  remit  the  bloody  fray, 
And  panting  wipe  the  copious  sweat  away. 


244 


CLEANTHES. 


But   adverse    soon   they  meet,  with  rage    they 

glow, 
Fierce   as   two   bulls  fight  for  some   favourite 

cow. 

Then  Amyous,  collecting  all  his  might, 
Rose  to  the  stroke,  resolved  his  foe  to  smite, 
And  by  one  blow  the  dubious  war  conclude. 
His  wary  foe,  the  ruin  to  elude, 


Bent  back  his  head ;  defeated  of  its  aim 
The  blow  impetuous  on  his  shoulder  came. 
Then  Pollux  with  firm  step  approaching  near, 
Vindictive  struck  his  adversary's  ear ; 
Th'  interior  bones  his  ponderous  gauntlet  broke — 
Flat  fell  the  chief  beneath  his  dreadful  stroke. 
The  Grecians  shouted,  with  wild  rapture  fir'd, 
And,  deeply  groaning,  Amyous  expir'd. 


CLEANTHES. 

[About  240  B.  C.] 

A  WATIVE  of  Assos  in  Asia  Minor. — He  was  heads  of  his  master's  lectures  on  shells  and  bones 
originally  a  common  wrestler,  in  which  capacity  for  want  of  money  to  procure  better  materials. 
he  visited  Athens.  There,  having  caught  the  He  was  a  follower  of  Zeno,  and,  after  his  death, 
spirit  of  knowledge  so  prevalent  among  the  succeeded  him  in  the  portico.  Though  he  wrote 
people,  he  devoted  himself  to  study,  drawing  j  much,  yet  none  of  his  writings  have  come  down 
water  as  a  common  labourer  during  the  night,  [  to  us  but  the  following  hymn,  which  is  deservedly 
that  he  might  have  means  and  leisure  to  attend  j  lauded  by  West,  as  displaying  such  correct  sen- 
the  schools  of  philosophy  by  day.  So  great  was  '  timents  of  duty  in.  a  heathen,  and  so  much  poetry 
his  poverty,  that  he  is  said  to  have  written  the  j  in  a  philosopher. 


HYMN  TO  JUPITER. 

MOST  glorious  of  the  immortal  powers  above ! 
Oh  thou  of  many  names !  mysterious  Jove ! 
For  evermore  almighty !  Nature's  source ! 
That  govern'st  all  things  in  their  order'd  course ! 
All  hail  to  thee !  since,  innocent  of  blame, 
E'en  mortal  creatures  may  address  thy  name ; 
For  all  that  breathe,  and  creep  the  lowly  earth, 
Echo  thy  being  with  reflected  birth—- 
Thee will  I  sing,  thy  strength  for  aye  resound : 
The  universe,  that  rolls  this  globe  around, 
Moves  wheresoe'er  thy  plastic  influence  guides, 
And,  ductile,  owns  the  god  whose  arm  presides. 
The  lightnings  are  thy  ministers  of  ire ; 
The  double-fork'd,  and  ever-living  fire ; 
In  thy  unconquerable  hands  they  glow, 
And  at  the  flash  all  nature  quakes  below. 
Thus,  thunder-arm'd,  thou  dost  creation  draw, 
To  one  immense,  inevitable  law : 
And,  with  the  various  mass  of  breathing  souls 
Thy  power  is  mingled,  and  thy  spirit  rolls. 
Dread  genius  of  creation !  all  things  bow 
To  thee ;  the  universal  monarch  thou ! 
Nor  aught  is  done  without  thy  wise  control, 
On  earth,  or  sea,  or  round  th'  ethereal  pole, 
Save  when  the  wicked,  in  their  frenzy  blind, 
Act  o'er  the  follies  of  a  senseless  mind. 
Thou  curb'st  th'  excess ;  confusion  to  thy  sight 
Moves  regular ;  th'  unlovely  scene  is  bright. 


Thy  hand,  educing  good  from  evil,  brings 
To  one  apt  harmony  the  strife  of  things. 
One  ever-during  law  still  binds  the  whole, 
Though  shunn'd,  resisted,  by  the  sinner's  soul. 
Wretches !  while  still  they  course  the  glittering 

prize, 

The  law  of  God  eludes  their  ears  and  eyes. 
Life  then  were  virtue,  did  they  this  obey ; 
But  wide  from  life's  chief  good  they  headlong 

stray. 

Now  glory's  arduous  toils  the  breast  inflame ; 
Now  avarice  thirsts,  insensible  of  shame  ; 
Now  sloth  unnerves  them  in  voluptuous  ease ; 
And  the  sweet  pleasures  of  the  body  please. 
With  eager  haste  they  rush  the  gulf  within, 
And  their  whole  souls  are  center'd  in  their  sin. 
But,  oh,  great  Jove !  by  whom  all  good  is  given ! 
Dweller  with  lightnings,  and  the  clouds  of  heaven ! 
Save  from  their  dreadful  error  lost  mankind! 
Father!  disperse  these  shadows  of  the  mind! 
Give  them  thy  pure  and  righteous  law  to  know; 
Wherewith  thy  justice  governs  all  below. 
Thus  honour'd  by  the  knowledge  of  thy  way, 
Shall  men  that  honour  to  thyself  repay ; 
And  bid  thy  mighty  works  in  praises  ring ; 
As  well  befits  a  mortal's  lips  to  sing : 
More  blest,  nor  men,  nor  heavenly  powers,  can  be, 
Than  when   their   songs   are   of  thy  law  and 

thee! 


RHIANUS. 


[About  222  B.  C.] 


native  of  Bena  in  the  isle  of  Crete, 
was  originally  master  of  the  Palaestra,  or  circus  of 
gymnastic  exercises ;  but  by  honourable  study  and 
exertion,  became  at  length  distinguished  as  a  poet 
and  grammarian.  He  wrote  a  history  of  Mes- 
sene  in  verse,  the  accuracy  of  which  is  praised 


by  Pausanias,  and  composed  similar  poems  on 
other  Grecian  states.  Tiberius  was  so  partial  to 
the  works  of  Rhianus,  that  he  caused  his  bust  to 
be  placed  in  the  public  libraries,  amongst  those 
of  the  most  eminent  poets.  For  a  list  of  his 
works,  see  Clinton's  Fast.  Hett.  vol.  ii.  p.  512. 


ON  HUMAN  FOLLY. 

STILL  err  our  mortal  souls :  nor  wisely  bear 
The  heaven-dealt  lots,  that  still  depress  the  scale 
From  side  to  side.     The  man  of  indigence 
Loads  with   his   bitter   blame   the   gods;    and, 

stung 

"With  discontent,  neglects  his  mental  powers, 
A  nd  energies  ;  nor  dares,  courageous,  aught 
Of  speech  or  action ;  trembling,  when  the  rich 
Appear  before  him :  sadness  and  despair 
Fating  his  very  heart.    While  he,  who  swells 
With  proud  prosperity,  whom  heaven  endows 
With  riches,  and  with  power  above  the  crowd ; 
Forgets  his  being's  nature ;  that  his  feet 
Tread  the  low  earth,  and  that  himself  was  born 
Of  mortal  parents ;  but,  with  puff'd-up  mind, 
Sinful  in  haughtiness,  like  Jove,  he  wields 
The  thunder ;  and,  though  small  in  stature,  lifts 
The  neck,  with  high-rein'd  head,  as  though  he 

wooed 
Fair-arm'd  Minerva ;  and  had  cleft  a  way 


To  high  Olympus'  top ;  that,  with  the  gods 
There  number'd,  he  might  feast  in  blessedness. 
But  lo !  Destruction,  running  with  soft  feet, 
Unlook'd  for,  and  unseen,  bows  suddenly 
The  loftiest  heads.     Deceitfully  she  steals 
In  unexpected  forms  upon  their  sins; 
To  youthful  follies  wears  the  face  of  age ; 
To  aged  crimes  the  features  of  a  maid ; 
And  her  dread  deed  is  pleasant  in  the  sigh 
Of  Justice,  and  of  him  who  rules  the  gods. 


A  LOVER'S  WISH. 

DEXIOXICA,  with  a  limed  thread, 
Her  snare  beneath  a  verdant  plane-tree  spread, 
And  caught  a  blackbird  by  the  quivering  wing : 
The  struggling  bird's  shrill  outcries  piping  ring. 

0  God  of  Love !  O  Graces,  blooming  fair ! 

1  would  that  I  a  thrush,  or  blackbird,  were  ; 
So,  in  her  grasp,  to  breathe  my  murmur'd  cries, 
And  shed  a  sweet  tear  from  my  silent  eyes. 


DAMAGETES, 


[About  209  B.  C.] 


OH  TWO  THEBAN  BROTHERS, 

8LAIX    IX   THRACE. 

BY  Jove,  the  god  of  strangers,  we  implore 
Thee,  gentle  pilgrim,  to  the  ^Eolian  shore, 
(Our  Theban  home,)  the  tidings  to  convey 
That  here  we  lie,  to  Thracian  wolves  a  prey. 
This  to  our  father,  old  Charimis,  tell ; 
And,  with  it,  this, — "We  mourn  not  that  we  fell 
In  early  youth,  of  all  our  hopes  bereft  ; 
But  that  his  darkening  age  is  lonely  left. 


ON  A  WIFE 

DYIJCG  IK  HER  HUSBAND'S  ABSENCE. 
THESE,  the  last  words,  Theano,  swift  descending 
To  the  deep  shades  of  night,  was  heard  to 

say— 
"Alas!  and  is  it  thus  my  life  is  ending, 

And  thoti,  my  husband,  far  o'er  seas  away? 
Ah!   could    I    but   that   dear   hand   press  with 

mine, 

Once — once  again ! — all  else  I'd,  pleas'd,  resign. 
v2  245 


ALGOUS  OF  MESSENE. 


[About  190  B.  C.] 


A  CONTEMPORARY  and  ardent  partisan  of  the  1  Philip,  whose  defeat  by  the  former  he  celebrates 
Roman   consul,  Titus  Flarninius,  against   King  |  in  some  of  his  epigrams. 


ON  THE  EXPEDITION  OF  FLAMINIUS. 

XERXES  from  Persia  led  his  mighty  host, 
And  Titus  his  from  fair  Italia's  coast. 
Both  warred  with  Greece ;  but  here  the  differ- 
ence see 
That,  brought  a  yoke — this,  gives  us  liberty. 


ON  THE  MACEDONIANS 

SLAIIT  AT  CTIfOCEPHALiB. 


,  unburied,  passenger,  we  lie, 
Three  myriad  sons  of  fruitful  Thessaly, 
In  this  wide  field  of  monumental  clay. 
^lolian  Mars  had  marked  us  for  his  prey  ; 
Or  he,  who  bursting  from  th'  Ausonian  fold, 
In  Titus'  form,  the  waves  of  battle  roll'd  ; 
And  taught  ^Emathia's  boastful  lord  to  run 
So  swift,  that  swiftest  stags  were  by  his  speed 
outdone.* 


*  Philip  is  said  to  have  retorted  the  insult  by  the  fol- 
lowing inscription  on  a  tree,  in  which  he  pretty  plainly 
insinuates  the  chastisement  reserved  for  Alcseus,  had  he 
fallen  into  the  hands  of  his  enemy. 

Unbarked  and  leafless,  passenger,  you  see, 
Fixed  in  this  mound,  Alcseus'  gallows-tree. 


ON  HIPPONAX  THE  SATIRIST. 

THY  tomb  no  purple  clusters  rise  to  grace, 
But  thorns  and  briars  choke  the  fearful  place  5 
These  herbs  malign  and  bitter  fruits  supply 
Unwholesome  juices  to  the  passer-by ; 
And  as,  Hipponax,  near  thy  tomb  he  goes, 
Shuddering  he  turns,  and  prays  for  thy  repose. 


ON  HOMER. 

THE  visionary  dream  of  life  is  o'er ; 
The  bard  of  heroes  sleeps  on  los'  shore: 
Fair  los'  sons  their  lamentations  pay, 
And  wake  the  funeral  dirge,  or  solemn  lay. 
O'er  his  pale  lifeless  corse  and  drooping  head, 
Ambrosial  sweets  the  weeping  Nereids  shed, 
And  on  the  shore  their  weeping  poet  laid, 
Beneath  the  towering  mountain's  peaceful  shade. 
Nor  undeserved  their  care — his  tuneful  tongue 
Achilles'  wrath  and  Thetis'  sorrows  sung; 
His  strains  Laertes'  son  in  triumph  bore, 
Through  woes  unnumbered,  to  his  native  shore. 
Blest  isle  of  los!    On  thy  rocky  steeps 
The  Star  of  Song — the  Grace  of  Graces — sleeps. 


BION. 


[About  170  B.  C.] 


Bioir  was  a  native  of  Smyrna,  in  Ionia,  and  I  appears  that  he  died  by  poison :  but  when,  why, 
lived  some  time  under  Ptolemy  Philometor.  or  by  whom,  the  foul  act  was  perpetrated,  it  is 
From  the  monody  on  his  death  by  Moschus,*  it  |  useless  to  conjecture. 


ELEGY  ON  ADONIS. 
I  MOURN  Adonis,  fair  Adonis,  dead : 
The  Loves  their  tears  for  fair  Adonis  shed : 
No  more,  oh  Venus!  sleep  in  purple  vest; 
Rise  robed  in  blue  :  ah,  sad  one !  smite  thy  breast, 

*  O  hapless  Bion  !  Poison  was  thy  fate  ; 
The  baneful  potion  circumscribed  thy  date 
How  could  fell  poison  cause  effect  so  strange? 
Touch  thy  sweet  lips  and  not  to  honey  change  ? 
246 


And  cry  "  the  fair  Adonis  is  no  more !" 

I  mourn  Adonis :  him  the  Loves  deplore : 

See  fair  Adonis  on  the  mountains  lie  ,- 

The  boar's  white  tusk  has  rent  his  whiter  thigh: 

While  in  vain  gasps  his  life-breath  ebbs  away, 

Grief's  harrowing  agonies  on  Venus  prey : 

Black  through  the  snowy  flesh  the  blood-drops 

creep, 
The  eyes  beneath  his  brows  in  torpor  sleep : 


BION. 


247 


The  rose  has  fled  his  lips,  and  with  him  dies 
The  kiss,  that  Venus,  though  in  death,  shall  prize : 
Dear  is  the  kiss,  though  life  the  lips  have  fled; 
But  not  Adonis  feels  it  warm  the  dead. 

I  mourn  Adonis :  mourn  the  Loves  around : 
Ah  !  cruel,  cruel,  is  that  bleeding  wound : 
Yet  Venus  feels  more  agonising  smart  5 
A  deeper  wound  has  pierced  within  her  heart. 
Around  the  youth  his  hounds  in  howlings  yell ; 
And   shriek  the   nymphs  from  every  mountain 

dell; 

Venus,  herself,  among  the  forest-dales, 
Unsandal'd,  strews  her  tresses  to  the  gales : 
The  wounding  brambles,  bent  beneath  her  tread, 
With  sacred  blood-drops  of  her  feet  are  red : 
She  through  the  lengthening  valleys  shrieks  and 

cries, 
'Say,  where    my   young   Assyrian   bridegroom 

lies?'' 

But  round  his  navel  black  the  life-blood  flow'd ; 
His  snowy  breast  and  side  with  purple  glow;d. 
Ah  !  Venus !  ah !  the  Loves  for  thee  bewail ; 
With  that  lost  youth  thy  fading  graces  fail ; 
Her  beauty  bloom'd,  while  life  was  in  his  eyes ; 
Ah,  woe!  with  him  it  bloom'd,  with  him  it 

dies. 

The  oaks  and  mountains  "  Ah !  Adonis !"  sigh : 
The  rivers  moan  to  Venus'  agony: 
The  mountain  springs  all  trickle  into  tears : 
The  blush  of  grief  on  every  flower  appears: 
And  Venus  o'er  each  solitary  hill, 
And  through  wide  cities  chaunts  her  dirges  shrill. 

Woe,  Venus  !  woe  !  Adonis  is  no  more  : 
Echoes  repeat  the  lonely  mountains  o'er, 
"  Adonis  is  no  more  :"  woe,  woe  is  me ! 
Who  at  her  grievous  love  dry-eyed  can  be? 
Mute  at  th'  intolerable  wound  she  stood, 
And  saw,  and  knew  the  thigh  dash'd  red  with 

blood  : 
Groaning  she  stretch'd  her  arms :  and   "  Stay ! " 

she  said, 

"  Stay,  poor  Adonis ! — lift  thy  languid  head  : 
Ah  !  let  me  find  thy  last  expiring  breath, 
Mix  lips  with  lips,  and  suck  thy  soul  in  death. 
Wake  but  a  little,  for  a  last,  last  kiss : 
Be  it  the  last,  but  warm  with  life  as  this, 
That  through  my  lips  I  may  thy  spirit  drain, 
Suck  thy  sweet  breath,  drink  love  through  every 

vein : 

This  kiss  shall  serve  me  ever  in  thy  .stead  ; 
Since  thou  thyself,  unhappy  one  !  art  fled  : 
Thou  art  fled  far  to  Acheron's  drear  so.- 
A  king  abhorr'd,  and  an  inhuman  queen: 
I  It-el  the  woe,  yet  live  :  and  fain  would  be 
No  goddess,  thus  in  death  to  follow  thee. 
Take,  Proserpine,  my  spouse  :  all  loveliest  things 
Time  to  thy  realm,  oh,  mightier  Goddess!  brings: 
Disconsolate,  I  mourn  Adonis  dead, 
With  tears  unsated.  and  thy  name  I  dread. 
Oh  thrice  belov'd,  thou  now  art  dead  and  gone ! 
And  all  my  sweet  love,  like  a  dream,  is  flown. 
Venus  sinks  lonely  on  a  widow'd  bed: 
The  Loves  with  listless  feet  my  chamber  tread: 
My  cestus  perish'd  with  thyself:  ah,  why. 
Fair  as  thou  wert,  the  coverts  venturous  try, 
And  tempt  the  woodland  monster's  cruelty?" 


So  Venus  mourns :  her  loss  the  Loves  deplore : 
Woe,  Venus,  woe !  Adonis  is  no  more. 
As  many  drops  as  from  Adonis  bled, 
So  many  tears  the  sorrowing  Venus  shed  : 
For  every  drop  on  earth  a  flower  there  grows : 
Anemones  for  tears ;  for  blood  the  rose. 

I  mourn  Adonis :  fair  Adonis  dead  : 
Not  o'er  the  youth  in  words  thy  sorrows  shed : 
For  thy  Adonis'  limbs  a  couch  is  strown, 
That  couch  he  presses,  Venus !  :tis  thy  own. 
There  dead  he  lies,  yet  fair  in  blooming  grace- 
Still  fair,  as  if  with  slumber  on  his  face. 
Haste,  lay  him  on  the  golden  stand,  and  spread 
The  garments  that  enrobed  him  in  thy  bed, 
When  on  thy  heavenly  breast  the  livelong  night 
He  slept,  and  court  him.  though  he  scare   thy 

sight: 

Lay  him  with  garlands  and  with  flowers ;  but  all 
With  him  are  dead,  and  withered  at  his  fall. 
With  balms  anoint  him  from  the  myrtle  tree: 
Or  perish  ointments ;  for  thy  balm  was  he. 

Now  on  his  purple  vest  Adonis  lies : 
The  groans  of  weeping  Loves  around  him  rise  : 
Shorn   of  their   locks,  beneath   their  feet  they 

throw 

The  quiver  plumed,  the  darts,  and  broken  bow : 
One  slips  the  sandal,  one  the  water  brings 
In  golden  ewer,  one  fans  him  with  his  wings. 

The  Loves  o'er  Venus'  self  bewail  with  tears, 
And  Hymen  in  the  vestibule  appears 
Shrouding  his  torch;  and  spreads  in  silent  grief 
The  vacant  wreath  that  twined  its  nuptial  leaf. 
"  Hymen !"  no  more  :  but  "  Woe,  alas !"  they  sing : 
"Ah,  for  Adonis!"  "Ah!  for  Hymen!"  ring: 
The  Graces  for  the  son  of  Myrrha  pine ; 
And,  Venus!  shriek  with  shriller  voice  than  thine. 
Muses,  Adonis  !  fair  Adonis!   call, 
And  sing  him  back ;  but  he  is  deaf  to  all. 
Bootless  the  sorrow,  that  would  touch  his  sprite, 
Nor  Proserpine  shall  loose  him  to  the  light  -. 
Cease,  Venus!  now  thy  wail:  reserve  thy  tear: 
Again  to  fall  with  each  Adonian  year. 


THE  TEACHER  TAUGHT. 

As  late  I  slumbering  lay,  before  my  sight 
Bright  Venus  rose  in  visions  of  the  night: 
She  led  young  Cupid ;  as  in  thought  profound 
His  modest  eyes  were  fix'd  upon  the  ground ; 
And  thus  she  spoke :  "  To  thee,  dear  swain,  I 

bring 
My  little  son ;  instruct  the  boy  to  sing." 

No  more  she  said ;  but  vanish'd  into  air, 
And  left  the  wily  pupil  to  my  care  : 
I, — sure  I  was  an  idiot  for  my  pains, — 
Began  to  teach  him  old  bucolic  strains; 
How  Pan  the  pipe,  how  Pallas  form'd  the  flute, 
Phoebus  the  lyre,  and  Mercury  the  lute : 
Love,  to  my  lessons  quite  regardless  grown, 
Sung  lighter  lays,  and  sonnets  of  his  own; 
Th'  amours  of  mon  below,  and  gods  above, 
And  all  the  triumphs  of  the  Queen  of  Love. 
I, — sure  the  simplest  of  all  shepherd-swains, — - 
Full  soon  forgot  my  old  bucolic  strains ; 
The  lighter  lays  of  love  my  fancy  caught, 
And  I  remember'd  all  that  Cupid  taught. 


248 


BION. 


CUPID  AND  THE  FOWLER. 

A  TOUTH,  once  fowling  in  a  shady  grove, 

On  a  tall  box-tree  spied  the  God  of  Love, 

Perch'd  like  a  beauteous  bird ;  with  sudden  joy 

At  sight  so  noble  leap'd  the  simple  boy. 

With  eager  expedition  he  prepares 

His  choicest  twigs,  his  bird-lime,  and  his  snares, 

And  in  a  neighb'ring  covert  smil'd  to  see 

How  here  and  there  he  skipp'd,  and  hopp'd  from 

tree  to  tree. 

When  long  in  vain  he  waited  to  betray 
The  god,  enrag'd  he  flung  his  twigs  away, 
And  to  a  ploughman  near,  an  ancient  man, 
Of  whom  he  learn'd  his  art,  the  youngster  ran, 
Told  the  strange  story,  while  he  held  his  plough, 
And  show'd  the  bird  then  perch'd  upon  a  bough. 
The  grave  old  ploughman  archly  shook  his 

head, 

Smil'd  at  the  simple  boy,  and  thus  he  said : 
"  Cease,  cease,  my  son,  this  dangerous  sport  give 

o'er, 

Fly  far  away,  and  chase  that  bird  no  more : 
Blest  should  you  fail  to  catch  him ! — hence,  away! 
That  bird,  believe  me,  is  a  bird  of  prey : 
Though  now  he  seems  to  shun  you  all  he  can, 
Yet,  soon  as  time  shall  lead  you  up  to  man, 
He'll  spread  his  flutt'ring  pinions  o'er  your  breast, 
Perch  on  your  brow,  and  in  your  bosom  nest." 

SHORTNESS  OF  LIFE. 

IP  any  virtue  my  rude  songs  can  claim, 
Enough  the  Muse  has  given  to  build  my  fame ; 
But  if  condemned  ingloriously  to  die, 
Why  longer  raise  my  mortal  minstrelsy  ? 
Had  Jove  or  Fate  to  life  two  seasons  lent, 
In  toil  and  ease  alternate  to  be  spent, 
Then  well  one  portion  labour  might  employ 
In  expectation  of  the  following  joy  ; 
But  if  one  only  age  of  life  is  due 
To  man,  and  that  so  short  and  transient  too, 
How  long  (ah,  miserable  race !)  in  care 
And  fruitless  labour  waste  the  vital  air  ? 
How  long  with  idle  toil  to  wealth  aspire, 
And  feed  a  never-satisfied  desire  ? 
How  long  forget  that,  mortal  from  our  birth, 
Short  is  our  troubled  sojourn  on  the  earth  ? 


FRIENDSHIP. 
THRICE  happy  they !  whose  friendly  hearts  can 

burn 

With  purest  flame,  and  meet  a  kind  return. 
With  dear  Perithous,  as  poets  tell, 
Theseus  was  happy  in  the  shades  of  hell : 
Orestes'  soul  no  fears,  no  woes,  deprest ; 
Midst  Scythians  he  with  Pylades  was  blest. 
Blest  was  Achilles,  while  his  friend  surviv'd, 
Blest  was  Patroclus  every  hour  he  liv'd ; 
Blest,  when  in  battle  he  resign'd  his  breath,* 
For  his  unconquer'd  friend  aveng'd  his  death. 


*  According  to  Homer,  Patroclus,  when  dying,  thus 
addresses  Hector : — 
"Insulting  man!  Thou  shall  be  soon  as  T  ; 

Black  Fate  hangs  o'er  thee,  and  thy  hour  draws  nigh; 

E'en  now  on  life's  last  verge  I  see  thee  stand, 

I  see  thee  fall,  and  by  Achilles'  hand." 


HYMN  TO  THE  EVENING  STAR. 
MILD  star  of  eve,  whose  tranquil  beams 

Are  grateful  to  the  queen  of  love, 
Fair  planet,  whose  effulgence  gleams 

More  bright  than  all  the  host  above, 
And  only  to  the  moon's  clear  light 
Yields  the  first  honours  of  the  night! 
All  hail,  thou  soft,  thou  holy  star, 

Thou  glory  of  the  midnight  sky ! 
And  when  my  steps  are  wandering  far,' 

Leading  the  shepherd-minstrelsy, 
Then,  if  the  moon  deny  her  ray, 
Oh  guide  me,  Hesper,  on  my  way ! 
No  savage  robber  of  the  dark, 

No  foul  assassin  claims  thy  aid, 
To  guide  his  dagger  to  its  mark, 

Or  light  him  on  his  plund'ring  trade; 
My  gentle  errand  is  to  prove 
The  transports  of  requited  love. 

THE  LAMENTATION  OF  THE  CYCLOPS. 

YET  will  I  go  beside  the  sounding  main, 

And  to  yon  solitary  crags  complain ; 

And,  onward  wandering  by  the  sounding  shore, 

The  scorn  of  Galatea's  brow  deplore  : 

But  oh,  sweet  Hope !  be  present  to  my  heart, 

Nor  with  my  latest,  feeblest  age  depart. 


THE  SEASONS. 

CLEODAMAS. 

SAT,  in  their  courses  circling  as  they  tend, 
What  season  is  most  grateful  to  my  friend  ? 
Summer,  whose  suns  mature  the  teeming  ground, 
Or  golden  Autumn,  with  full  harvests  crown'd  ? 
Or  Winter  hoar,  when  soft  reclin'd  at  ease, 
The  fire  bright  blazing,  and  sweet  leisure  please  ? 
Or  genial  Spring  in  blooming  beauty  gay  ? 
Speak,  Myrson,  while  around  the  lambkins  play. 

MYRSOIf. 

It  ill  becomes  frail  mortals  to  define 
What's  best  and  fittest  of  the  works  divine ; 
The  works  of  nature  all  are  grateful  found, 
And  all  the  Seasons,  in  their  various  round ; 
But,  since  my  friend  demands  my  private  voice, 
Then  learn  the  season  that  is  Myrson's  choice. 
Me  the  hot  Summer's  sultry  heats  displease ; 
Fell  Autumn  teems  with  pestilent  disease ; 
Tempestuous  Winter's  chilling  frosts  I  fear, 
But  wish  for  purple  Spring  throughout  the  year. 
Then  neither  cold  nor  heat  molests  the  morn, 
But  rosy  Plenty  fills  her  copious  horn ; 
Then  bursting  buds  their  odorous  blooms  display, 
And  Spring  makes  equal  night,  and  equal  day. 

FRAGMENTS. 
i. 

IXCESSAITT  drops,  as  proverbs  say,     m 
Will  wear  the  hardest  stones  away. 

n. 

LET  me  not  pass  without  reward ! 
For  Phoebus  on  each  tuneful  bard 
Some  gift  bestows :  The  noblest  lays 
Are  owing  to  the  thirst  of  praise. 


THEODORIDES. 


NOTHING  is  known  of  this  poet's  age  and  country. 


ON  AN  ANCIENT  MONUMENT  OF 

HERACLITUS. 

ROUJTDED  by  age,  and,  like  some  pebble-stone, 
O'er   which   the  wild  wave  dashes,   shapeless 

grown, 

No  letters  speak — no  graven  image  tells — 
That  here  the  dust  of  Heraclitus  dwells.* 
But  still  with  Fame's  loud  trumpet  I  proclaim 
The  barking  cur's  imperishable  name. 


EPITAPH  ON  AN  USURER. 
WITHOUT  the  aid  of  crutch — entire  of  limb- 
Servant  of  Mercury!  to  hell  thou  goest: 
Whose  king  will,  pleased,  receive  thee,  since  to 

him 
Thou  freely  renderest  all  the  debt  thou  owest. 

MAXIM. 
SPEAK  something  better  or  else  hold  your  tongue. 


TYMN^EUS. 


Or  this  poet  nothing  certain  is  known. 


SPARTAN  VIRTUE. 
DEMETRIUS,  when  he  basely  fled  the  field, 
A  Spartan  born,  his  Spartan  mother  killed; 
Then,  stretching  forth  his  bloody  sword  she  cried, 
(Her  teeth  fierce  gnashing  with  disdainful  pride,) 
"  Fly,  cursed  offspring,  to  the  shades  below, 
Where  proud  Eurotas  shall  no  longer  flow 
For  timid  hinds  like  thee! — Fly,  trembling  slave, 
Abandoned  wretch,  to  Pluto's  darkest  cave! 
This  womb  so  vile  a  monster  never  bore, 
Disown'd  by  Sparta,  thou'rt  my  son  no  more." 


EPITAPH 

•  O1C  OWE  WHO  DIED  IK  A  FOREIGN  COUWTRT. 

GRIEVE   not,   Philaenis,   though    condemned   to 

die 

Far  from  thy  parent  soil,  and  native  sky ; 
Though  strangers'  hands  must  raise  thy  funeral 

pile, 

And  lay  thine  ashes  in  a  foreign  isle : 
To  all  on  death's  last  dreary  journey  bound, 
The  road  is  equal,  and  alike  the  ground. 


MOSCHUS. 


[About  IM  B.  C.) 
MOSCBUS,  the  friend  of  Bion,  was  a  native  of  Syracuse,  but  resided  chiefly  at  Alexandria. 


THE  CONTRAST. 
O'ER  the  smooth  main,  when  scarce  a  zephyr 

blows 

To  break  the  dark-blue  ocean's  deep  repose, 
I  seek  the  calmness  of  the  breathing  shore, 
Delighted  with  the  fields  and  woods  no  more. 


But  when,  white-foaming,  heave  the  deeps  on 

high, 
Swells  the  black  storm,  and  mingles  sea  with 

sky, 

Trembling,  I  fly  the  wild  tempestuous  strand, 
And  seek  the  close  recesses  of  the  land. 

249 


250 


MOSCHUS. 


Sweet  are  the  sounds  that  murmur  through  the 

wood, 
While   roaring   storms   upheave   the  dang'rous 

flood; 

Then,  if  the  winds  more  fiercely  howl,  they  rouse 
But  sweeter  music  in  the  pine's  tall  boughs. 
Hard  is  the  life  the  weary  fisher  finds 
Who  trusts  his  floating  mansion  to  the  winds, 
Whose  daily  food  the  fickle  sea  maintains, 
Unchanging  labour,  and  uncertain  gains. 
Be  mine  soft  sleep,  beneath  the  spreading  shade 
Of  some  broad  leafy  plane,  inglorious  laid, 
Lull'd  by  a  fountain's  fall,  that,  murmuring  near, 
Soothes,  not  alarms,  the  toil-worn  labourer's  ear. 


ALPHEUS  AND  ARETHUSA. 

FROM  where  his  silver  waters  glide, 
Majestic,  to  the  ocean-tide 

Through  fair  Olympia's  plain, 
Still  his  dark  course  Alpheus  keeps 
Beneath  the  mantle  of  the  deeps, 

Nor  mixes  with  the  main. 

To  grace  his  distant  bride,  he  pours 
The  sand  of  Pisa's  sacred  shores, 

And  flowers  that  deck'd  her  grove ; 
And,  rising  from  the  unconscious  brine, 
On  Arethusa's  breast  divine 

Receives  the  meed  of  love. 

'Tis  thus  with  soft  bewitching  skill 
The  childish  god  deludes  our  will, 

And  triumphs  o'er  our  pride; 
The  mighty  river  owns  his  force, 
Bends  to  the  sway  his  winding  course, 

And  dives  beneath  the  tide. 


EUROPA. 

THE  Queen  of  Love,  on  amorous  wiles  intent, 
A  pleasing  dream  to  young  Europa  sent, 
What  time  still  night  had  roll'd  the  hours  away, 
And  the  fresh  dawn  began  to  promise  day — 
When  balmy  slumbers  and  composing  rest 
Close  every  eye,  and  soothe  the  pensive  breast, 
When  dreams  and  visions  fill  the  busy  brain, 
Prophetic  dreams,  that  never  rise  in  vain. 
'Twas  then  Europa,  as  she  sleeping  lay, 
Chaste  as  Diana,  sister  of  the  day, 
Saw  in  her  cause  the  adverse  shore  engag'd 
In  war  with  Asia ;  terribly  they  rag'd : 
Each  seem'd  a  woman ;  that,  in  foreign  guise, 
A  native  this,  and  claim'd  the  lovely  prize 
With  louder  zeal :  "  The  beauteous  Nymph,"  she 

said 

"  Her  daughter  was,  and  in  her  bosom  bred." 
But  she,  who  as  a  stranger  was  array 'd, 
Forc'd  to  her  arms  the  unresisting  maid ; 
Call'd  her  her  right,  by  all  the  powers  above, 
Giv'n  her  by  fate,  and  ^Egis-bearing  Jove. 

The  fair  Europa,  struck  with  sudden  dread, 
All  pale  and  trembling  started  from  her  bed ; 
Silent  she  sat,  and  thought  the  vision  true, 
Still  seem'd  their  forms  to  strive  before  her  view: 


At  length  she  utter'd  thus  the  voice  of  fear  : 
"  Ye  gods,  what  spectres  to  my  sight  appear  ? 
What  dreams  are  these,  in  fancy's  livery  drest, 
That  haunt  my  sleep,  and  break  my  golden  rest? 
And  who  that  form  that  seem'd  so  wond'rous 

kind  ? 

The  dear  idea  still  delights  my  mind. 
She,  like  a  mother, press'd  me  in  her  arms: 
But,  0  ye  gods !  that  send  such  strange  alarms, 
Preserve  these  visionary  scenes  from  harms." 
She  .  said,    and    lightly    from    her  couch   up- 
sprung, 

Then  sought  her  comrades,  beautiful  and  young, 
Her  social  mates ;  with  them  she  lov'd  to  lave 
Her  limbs  unblemish'd  in  the  crystal  wave ; 
With  them  on  lawns  the  sprightly  dance  to  lead, 
Or  pluck  sweet  lilies  in  the  flowery  mead. 
The  nymphs  assembled  soon,  a  beauteous  band ! 
With  each  a  curious  basket  in  her  hand ; 
Then  reach'd  those  fields  where  oft  they  play'd 

before, 

The  fragrant  fields  along  the  sea-beat  shore, 
To  gather  flowers,  and  hear  the  billows  roar. 

Europa's  basket,  radiant  to  behold, 
The  work  of  Vulcan,  was  compos'd  of  gold ; 
He  gave  it  Libya,  mighty  Neptune's  bride, 
She  Telephassa,  next  in  blood  allied ; 
From  her  bequeath'd  to  fair  Europa  came 
This  splendid  basket  of  celestial  frame. 
Fair  in  the  work  the  milk-white  lo  stood 
In  roughen'd  gold,  and,  lowing,  paw'd  the  flood, 
(For  Vulcan  there  had  pour'd  the  azure  main) 
A  heifer  still,  not  yet  transform'd  again. 
Two  men  stood  figur'd  on  the  ocean's  brim, 
Who  watch'd  the  cow,  that  seem'd  inclined  to 

swim. 

Jove  too  appear'd,  enamour'd,  on  the  strand, 
And  strok'd  the  lovely  heifer  with  his  hand : 
Till,  on  the  banks  of  Nile  again  array'd, 
In  native  beauty  shone  the  blooming  maid : 
The  sev'n-mouth'd  Nile  in  silver  currents  roll'd, 
And  Jove  was  sculptur'd  in  refulgent  gold. 
Near  piping  Herrnes  sleepless  Argus  lies, 
Watching  the  heifer  with  his  hundred  eyes : 
From  Argus,  slain,  a  painted  peacock  grew, 
Fluttering  his  feathers  stain'd  with  various  hue, 
And,  as  a  ship  expands  her  swelling  sail, 
He  round  the  basket  spread  his  starry  tail. 
Such  were  the  scenes  the  Lemnian  god  display'd, 
And  such  the  basket  of  the  Tyrian  maid. 

The  lovely  damsels  gather'd  flow 'rets  bright, 
Sweet  to  the  smell,  and  beauteous  to  the  sight ; 
The  fragrant  hyacinth  of  purple  hue, 
Narcissus,  wild  thyme,  and  the  violet  blue ; 
Some  the  gilt  crocus  or  pale  lily  chose, 
But  fair  Europa  cropp'd  the  blooming  rose ; 
And  all  her  mates  excell'd  in  radiant  mein, 
As  'midst  the  graces  shines  the  Cyprian  queen. 
Not  long,  alas!  in  these  fair  fields  she  shone, 
Nor  long  unloos'd  preserv'd  her  virgin  zone : 
Saturnian  Jove  beheld  the  matchless  maid, 
And  sudden  transports  his  rapt  soul  invade; 
He  glows  with  all  the  fervid  flame  of  love ; 
For  Cupid's  arrows  pierce  the  breast  of  Jove. 
But,  best  his  amorous  intent  to  screen, 
And  shun  the  jealous  anger  of  his  queen, 


MOSCHUS. 


251 


He  laid  his  immortality  aside, 
And  a  bull's  form  the  intriguing  god  belied; 
But  not  of  earthly  shape,  or  mortal  breed, 
Such  as  at  large  in  flowery  pastures  feed ; 
Whose  stubborn  necks  beneath  the  yoke  we  bow. 
Break  to  the  wain,  or  harness  to  the  plough. 
His  golden  hue  distinguished  him  afar ; 
Full  in  his  forehead  beam'd  a  silver  star: 
His  large  blue  eyes,  that  shone  serenely  bright, 
Languished  with  love,  and  sparkled  with  delight : 
On  his  broad  temples  rose  two  equal  horns, 
Like  that  fair  crescent  which  the  skies  adorns. 
Gently  he  moves  with  peaceful  look  and  bland, 
And  spreads  no  terror  in  the  virgin  band  : 
Nearer  they  draw,  with  eager  longing  led 
To  stroke  his  sides,  and  pat  his  comely  head : 
His  breath  divine  ambrosial  odours  yields, 
Sweeter  than  fragrance  of  the  flowery  fields. 
At  fair  Europa's  feet  with  joy  he  stands, 
And  prints  sweet  kisses  on  her  lily  hands. 
His  foamy  lips  she  wipes,  unaw'd  by  dread, 
And  strokes  his  sides,  and  pats  his  comely  head. 
Gently  he  low'd,  as  musical  and  clear 
As  notes  soft  warbled  on  the  raptur'd  ear : 
And.  as  on  earth  his  pliant  knees  he  bent, 
Show'd  his  broad  back,  that  hinted  what  he 

meant ; 
Then  turn'd  his  suppliant  eyes,  and  view'd  the 

maid; 

Who  thus,  astonish'd,  to  her  comrades  said : 
"  Say,  dearest  mates,  what  can  this  beast  intend? 
Let  us  (for  lo!  he  stoops)  his  back  ascend, 
And  ride  in  sportive  gambols  round  the  mead ; 
This  lovely  bull  is,  sure,  of  gentlest  breed  : 
So  meek  his  manner,  so  benign  his  mind, 
He  wants  but  voice  to  equal  human  kind." 

So  spoke  the  fair,  and  up  she  rose  to  ride, 
And  call'd  her  lingering  partners  to  her  side: 
Soon  as  the  bull  his  pleasing  burden  bore, 
Vigorous  he  sprung,  and  hastened  to  the  shore. 
The  nymph,  dismay 'd,  invok'd  the  virgin  band 
For  help,  and  wav'd  her  unavailing  hand. 
On  the  soft  bosom  of  the  azure  flood 
With  his  fair  prize  the  bull  triumphant  rode: 
Up  rose  the  Nereids  to  attend  his  train, 
And  all  the  mighty  monsters  of  the  main. 
C.-i -rulean  Neptune  was  the  Thunderer's  guide, 
And  for  the  passing  pomp  he  smooth'd  the  tide : 
The  Tritons  hail'd  him  as  he  steer'd  along, 
And  sounded  on  their  conchs  the  nuptial  song. 
On  Jove's  broad  back  the  lovely  damsel  borne 
Grasp'd  with  her  iiiir  right  hand  his  polish'd  horn, 
Her  left  essay'd  her  purple  robe  to  save, 
That  lightly  brush'd  the  surface  of  the  wave: 
Around  her  head  soft  broath'd  the  gentle  gale, 
And  fill'd  her  garment  like  a  swelling  sail. 
Europa's  heart  throbb'd  quick  with  chiling  fear, 
Far  from  her  much-lov'd  home,  and  comrades 

dear ; 

No  sea-boat  shore  she  sa\v,  nor  mountain's  brow, 
Nor  aught  but  sky  above,  and  waves  below. 
Then  with  a  mournful  look  the  damsel  said: 

••  Ah!  whither  wiltthou  bear  a  wretched  maid? 
Who,  and  whence  art  thou,  wond'rous  creature, 

say? 
How  canst  thou  fearless  tread  the  wat'ry  way? 


On  the  broad  ocean  safely  sails  the  ship, 

But  bulls  avoid,  and  dread  the  stormy  deep. 

Say,  can  a  bull  on  sea-born  viands  feed  ? 

Or,  if  descended  from  celestial  breed, 

Thy  acts  are  inconsistent  with  a  god : 

Bulls  rove  the  meads,  and  dolphins  swim  the 

flood  ; 

But  earth  and  ocean  are  alike  to  thee, 
Thy  hoofs  are  oars  that  row  thee  through  the  sea. 
Perhaps,  like  airy  birds,  thou  soon  wilt  fly, 
And  soar  amidst  the  regions  of  the  sky. 
Ah !  wretched  maid,  to  leave  my  native  home, 
And  simply  dare  with  bulls  in  meads  to  roam ! 
And  now  on  seas  I  ride — ah!  wretched  maid  !— 
But,  0 !  I  trust,  great  Neptune,  in  thy  aid  ; 
Soon  let  my  eyes  my  great  conductor  hail, 
For  not  without  a  deity  I  sail." 

Thus  spoke  the  nymph,  and  thus  the  bull  re- 
plied : 

"  Courage,  fair  maid,  nor  fear  the  foaming  tide ; 
Though  now  a  bull  I  seem  to  mortal  eyes, 
Thou  soon  shalt  see  me  ruler  of  the  skies. 
What  shape  I  please,  at  will  I  take  and  keep, 
And  now  a  bull  I  cross  the  boundless  deep  ; 
For  thy  bright  charms  inspire  my  breast  with  love : 
But  soon  shall  Crete's  fair  isle,  the  nurse  of  Jove, 
Receive  Europa  on  its  friendly  strand, 
To  join  with  me  in  Hymen's  blissful  band : 
From  thee  shall  kings  arise  in  long  array, 
To  rule  the  world  with  delegated  sway." 

Thus   spoke    the   god ;    and    what   he   spoke 

prov'd  true, 

For  soon  Crete's  lofty  shore  appear'd  in  view : 
Jove  straight  assum'd  another  form  and  air, 
Then  to  his  bosom  clasp 'd  the  yielding  fair ; 
The  Hours  beneath  them  strew'd  the  couch  of  love, 
And  the  coy  maid  became  the  bride  of  Jove. 


CUPID  PROCLAIMED. 
OTEZ  !  cried  Love's  all-powerful  Queen — 
If  any  man  has  lately  seen 
My  scape-grace,  tell  me  where  he  is; 
The  sweet  reward  shall  be  a  kiss: — 
If  further  blisses  you  would  rifle, 
I  shall  not  stand  upon  a  trifle. 
The  boy's  so  notable,  no  doubt, 
Among  a  score  you'd  find  him  out. 
His  skin  glows  like  the  fiery  gleam ; 
His  eyes  flash  like  the  lightning's  beam  ; 
His  honied  tongue  distils  with  lies; 
His  heart  is  wrapt  in  dark  disguise ; 
When  passion  rankles  in  his  mind, 
To  savage  deeds  the  elf's  inclin'd ; 
And,  under  guise  of  harmless  jest, 
He  stings  the  unsuspecting  breast. 
Innumerous  curling  tresses  grace 
His  impudent  and  rakish  face. 
His  hands  are  tiny,  but  their  power 
Extends  to  Pluto's  gloomy  bower. 
The  peevish  urchin  carries  wings, 
With  which  from  heart  to  heart  he  springs, 
As  little  birds,  in  wanton  play, 
Fly  carelessly  from  spray  to  spray. 
A  trinket-bow  and  shafts  he  wears, 
Which  carry  to  the  furthest  stars. 


252 


MOSCHUS, 


His  golden  quiver  swings  behind, 
With  numerous  fatal  weapons  lin'd, 
Wherewith  he  deals  sharp  sorrows  round, 
And  dares  his  mother's  heart  to  wound. 
His  torch,  with  its  portentous  blaze, 
Consumes  the  very  solar  rays. 
If  thou  shalt  catch  the  vagrant  child, 
Ah,  be  not  by  his  tears  beguil'd ; 
Bind  fast  his  trickful  hands,  nor  heed 
Those  smiles  that  secret  treachery  breed ; 
Drag  him  along,  nor  thoughtless  stay 
To  fondle  with  him  on  the  way. 
Fly, — fly  his  kisses: — they  inflame 
With  every  poison  thou  canst  name ; 
And  if  he  cry,  "My  arms  I  yield," 
Try  not  those  deadly  arms  to  wield : 
Let  prudence  check  this  mad  desire, — 
They're  pregnant  with  celestial  fire. 


CUPID  TURNED  PLOUGHMAN. 

IMITATED. 

His  lamp,  his  bow,  and  quiver  laid  aside, 

A  rustic  wallet  o'er  his  shoulders  tied, 

Sly  Cupid  always  on  new  mischiefs  bent, 

To  the  rich  field  and  furrowed  tillage  went; 

Like  any  ploughman  toiled  the  little  god, 

His  tune  he  whistled,  and  his  wheat  he  sowed, 

Then  sat  and  laughed,  and  to  the  skies  above 

Raising  his  eye,  he  thus  insulted  Jove : 

"  Lay  by  your  hail,  your  hurtful  storms  restrain, 

And  as  I  bid  you,  let  it  shine  or  rain ; 

Else  you  again  beneath  my  yoke  shall  bow, 

Feel  the  sharp  goad,  or  draw  the  servile  plough ; 

What  once  Europa  was,  Nannette  is  now." 


LAMENT  FOR  BION. 

YE  mountain  valleys,  pitifully  groan ! 
Rivers  and  Dorian  springs,  for  Bion  weep ! 
Ye  plants  drop    tears ;  ye  groves,  lamenting 

moan! 
Exhale  your  life,  wan  flowers;  your  blushes 

deep 

In  grief,  anemonies  and  roses,  steep ; 
In  whimpering  murmurs,  Hyacinth !  prolong 
The  sad,  sad  woe  thy  lettered  petals  keep ; 
Our  minstrel  sings  no  more  his  friends  among — 
Sicilian  Muses !  now  begin  the  doleful  song. 

Ye    nightingales!    that  mid  thick  leaves  set 

loose 

The  gushing  gurgle  of  your  sorrow,  tell 
The  fountains  of  Sicilian  Arethuse 
That  Bion  is  no  more — with  Bion  fell 
The  song — the  music  of  the  Dorian  shell. 
Ye  swans  of  Strymon !  now  your  banks  along 
Your  plaintive  throats  with  melting  dirges  swell 
For  him,  who  sang  like  you  the  mournful  song; 
Discourse  of  Bion's  death  the  Thracian  nymphs 

among — 

The  Dorian  Orpheus,  tell  them  all,  is  dead. 
His  herds  the  song  and  darling  herdsman  miss, 
And  oaks,  beneath  whose  shade  he  propt  his 

head ; 
Oblivion's  ditty  now  he  sings  for  Dis ; 


The  melancholy  mountain  silent  is ; 
His  pining  cows  no  longer  wish  to  feed, 
But  moan  for  him ;  Apollo  wept,  I  wis, 
For  thee,  sweet  Bion !  and  in  mourning  weed 
The  brotherhood  of  Fauns,  and  all  the  Satyr  breed. 

The  tears  by  Naiads  shed  are  brimful  bourns; 
Afflicted  Pan  thy  stifled  music  rues ; 
Lorn  Echo  'mid  her  rocks  thy  silence  mourns, 
Nor  with  her  mimic  tones  thy  voice  renews ; 
The  flowers  their  bloom,  the  trees  their  fruit- 
age lose ; 

No  more  their  milk  the  drooping  ewes  supply; 
The  bees  to  press  their  honey  now  refuse ; 
What  need  to  gather  it  and  lay  it  by, 
When  thy  own  honey-lip,  my  Bion!  thine  is  dry? 

Sicilian  Muses !  lead  the  doleful  chant ; 

Not  so  much  near  the  shore  the  dolphin  moans ; 

Nor  so  much  wails  within  her  rocky  haunt 

The  nightingale ;  nor  on  their  mountain  thrones 

The  swallows  utter  such  lugubrious  tones ; 

Nor  Ceyx  such  for  faithful  Halcyon, 

Whose  song  the  blue  wave,  where  he  perished, 

owns; 

Nor  in  the  valley,  neighbour  to  the  sun, 
The  funeral  birds  so  wail  their  Memnon's  tomb 
upon — 

As  these  moan,  wail,  and  weep  for  Bion  dead, 
The    nightingales   and    swallows,   whom  he 

taught, 

For  him  their  elegiac  sadness  shed ; 
And  all  the  birds  contagious  sorrow  caught ; 
The  sylvan  realm  was  all  with  grief  distraught. 
Who,  bold  of  heart,  will  play  on  Bion's  reed, 
Fresh   from  his  lip,  yet  with  his  breathing 

fraught  ? 

For  still  among  the  reeds  does  Echo  feed 
On  Bion's  minstrelsy.    Pan  only  may  succeed 

To  Bion's  pipe ;  to  him  I  make  the  gift ; 
But,  "lest  he  second  seem,  e'en  Pan  may  fear 
The  pipe  of  Bion  to  his  mouth  to  lift. 
For  thee  sweet  Galatea  drops  the  tear, 
And  thy  dear  song  regrets,  which  sitting  near 
She  fondly  listed;  ever  did  she  flee 
The  Cyclops  and  his  song — but  ah !  more  dear 
Thy  song  and  sight  than  her  own  native  sea; 
On  the  deserted  sands  the  nymph  without  her  fee 

Now  sits  and  weeps,  or  weeping  tends  thy  herd. 
Away  with  Bion  all  the  muse-gifts  flew — 
The  chirping  kisses  breathed  at  every  word : 
Around  thy  tomb  the  Loves  their  playmate  rue ; 
Thee  Cypris  loved— more  than  the  kiss  she 

drew, 

And  breathed  upon  her  dying  paramour. 
Most  musical  of  rivers !  now  renew 
Thy  plaintive  murmurs ;  Meles !  now  deplore 
Another  son  of  song — as  thou  didst  wail  of  yore 

That  sweet,  sweet  mouth  of  dear  Calliope ; 
The  threne,  'tis  said,  thy  waves  for  Homer  spun, 
With  saddest  music  filled  the  refluent  sea ; 
Now  melting  wail  and  weep  another  son ! 
Both  loved  of  fountains ;  that  of  Helicon 
Gave  Melesigenes  his  pleasant  draught ; 
But  to  his  Arethuse  did  Bion  run, 


POLYSTRATUS. 


253 


And  from  her  urn  the  glowing  rapture  quaffed : 
Thy  elder  glory  sung  how  Helen  bloomed  and 
laughed ; 

On  Thetis'  mighty  son  his  descant  ran 
And  Menelaus  ;  but  our  Bion  chose 
Not  arms  and  tears  to  sing, but  Love  and  Pan; 
While  browsed  his  herd,  his  gushing  music  rose ; 
He  milked  his  kine  ;  did  pipes  of  reeds  com- 
pose; 

Taught  how  to  kiss ;  and  fondled  in  his  breast 
Young  Love,  and  Cypris  pleased.     For  Bion 

flows 

In  every  glorious  land  a  grief  confest ; 
Ascra  for  her  own  bard,  wise  Hesiod,  less  exprest ; 

Boeotian  Hylae  mourned  for  Pindar  less ; 
Teds  regretted  less  her  minstrel  hoar, 
And  Mitylene  her  sweet  poetess  ; 
Nor  for  Alcaeus  Lesbos  suffered  more  ; 
Nor  lovely  Paros  so  much  did  deplore 
Her  own  Archilochus.     Breathing  her  fire 
Into  her  sons  of  song,  from  shore  to  shore 
For  thee  the  pastoral  Muse  attunes  her  lyre 
To  woeful  utterance  of  passionate  desire. 

Sicelidas,  the  famous  Samian  star, 
And  he  with  smiling  eye  and  radiant  face, 
Cydonian  Lycidas,  renowned  afar, 
Lament  thee ;  where  quick  Hales  runs  his  race 
Philetas  wails ;  Theocritus,  the  grace 
Of  Syrcause,  thee  mourns ;  nor  these  among 
Am  I  remiss  Ausonian  wreaths  to  place 
Around  thy  tomb ;  to  me  doth  it  belong 
To  chant  for  thee,  from  whom  I  learnt  the  Dorian 
song; 

Me  with  thy  minstrel  skill  as  proper  heir — 
Others  thou  didst  endow  with  thine  estate. 
Alas  !  alas!  when  in  a  garden  fair 
Mallows,  crisp  dill,  and  parsley  yield  to  fate, 
These  with  another  year  regerminate; 
But  when  of  mortal  life  the  bloom  and  crown, 
The  wise,  the  good,  the  valiant,  and  the  great 
Succumb  to  death,  in  hollow  earth  shut  down, 
We  sleep,  for  ever  sleep — for  ever  lie  unknown. 

Thus  art  thou  squeezed,  while  frogs  may  croak 

at  will; 

I  envy  not  their  croak.     Thee  poison  slew — 
How  kept  it  in  thy  mouth  its  nature  ill? 
If  thou  didst  speak,  what  cruel  wretch  could 

brew 


The   draught?     He  did   of  course    thy   song 

eschew. 

But  Justice  all  o'ertakes.     My  tears  fast  flow 
For  thee,  my  friend.     Could  I,  like  Orpheus 

true, 

Odysseus  or  Alcides,  pass  below 
To  gloomy  Tartarus,  how  quickly  would  I  go ! 

To  see,  and  hear  thee,  haply,  sing  for  Dis ; 
But  in  the  nymph's  ear  warble  evermore, 
0  dearest  friend  !  thy  sweetest  harmonies : 
For  whilom,  on  her  own  Etnean  shore, 
She  sang  wild  snatches  of  the  Dorian  lore. 
Nor  will  thy  singing  unrewarded  be ; 
Thee  to  thy  mountain-haunts  she  will  restore, 
As  she  gave  Orpheus  his  Eurydice. 
Could  I  charm  Dis  with  songs,  I  too  would  sing 
for  thee. 

A  MOTHER  LAMENTING  HER  CHILDREN. 

BUT,  as  a  bird  bewails  her  callous  brood, 
While  in  the  brake  a  serpent  drains  their  blood, 
And,  all  too  weak  the  wished  relief  to  bring, 
Twittering  her  shrill  complaints,  on  feeble  wing 
At  distance  hovers,  nor  will  venture  near 
The  fell  destroyer,  chill'd  with  conscious  fear ; 
So  I,  all  frantic,  the  wide  mansion  o'er, 
Unhappy  mother,  my  lost  sons  deplore. 

CAPRICIOUS  LOVE. 

PAW  for  his  neighbour  Echo  sighs ; 

She  loves  the  dancing  Satyr : 
The  Satyr,  caught  by  Lyda's  eyes, 

Is  dying  to  be  at  her. 

As  Echo  fires  the  breast  of  Pan, 

Behold  the  Dancer  burn 
The  Nymph's  soft  heart — though  Lyda's  man  : 

Thus  each  is  scorched  in  turn. 

While  all  who  slight,  are  slighted  too, 

They  feel  alternate  pain  : 
Then  hear — Love  those  that  fancy  you, 

And  you'll  be  loved  again  !* 


*  The  modern  ballad  in  imitation  of  this  Idyl  must  be 
well  known  to  most  of  our  readers. 

"Tom  loves  Mary  passing  well, 

While  Mary  she  loves  Harrji, 
While  Harry  sighs  for  bonny  Bell, 
And  finds  his  love  miscarry,"  &.c.  &c. 


POLYSTRATUS. 


[About  146  B.  C.] 


ON  THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  CORIXTH. 


Acrocorinth,  the  bright  star 
Of  Hellas  with  its  narrow  Isthmian  bound, 
Lucius  o'ercame  ;  in  one  enormous  mound 
Piling  the  dead,  conspicuous  from  afar. 


Thus,  to  the  Greeks  denying  funeral  fires, 
Have  great  Eneas'  later  progeny 
Perform'd  high  Jove's  retributive  decree, 

And  well  avenged  the  city  of  their  sires.* 

•  The  Romans,  the  reputed  progeny  of  Troy,  are  here 
represented  as  the  avengers  of  their  parent  city. 
W 


ANTIPATER  OF  SIDON 


[About  127  B.  C.] 


OF  this  poet  we  know  nothing  more  than  that 
he  sprung  from  a  noble  and  wealthy  family  in 
Sidon,  was  the  friend  of  Quintus  Catulus,.  the 


Roman  consul,  and  lived  to  a  good  old  age. — 
Cicero  speaks  of  his  extraordinary  facility  in 
pouring  forth  extempore  verses. 


ON  A  POPLAR  NEAR  THE  WAYSIDE. 

THIS  plant  is  sacred.     Passenger,  beware ! 
From  every  wound  a  mortal  pang  I  bear, 
My  tender  limbs  support  a  virgin  rind, 
Not  the  rude  bark  that  shades  the  forest  kind ; 
And,  e'en  in  these  dark  glens  and  pathless  glades, 
Their  parent  sun  protects  his  poplar  maids. 


ON  WINE. 

THE  wizards,  at  my  first  nativity, 

Declared,  with  one  accord,  I  soon  should  die ; 

What  if  (o'er  all  impends  that  certain  fate) 

I  visit  gloomy  Minos  soon  or  late  ? 

Wine,  like  a  racer,  brings  me  there  with  ease, 

The  sober  souls  may  walk  it,  if  they  please. 


UNDER  THE  ROSE. 

NOT  the  planet  that,  sinking  in  ocean, 

Foretells  future  storms  to  our  tars ; 
Not  the  sea,  when  in  fearful  commotion, 

Its  billows  swell  high  to  the  stars; 
Not  the  thunder,  that  rolls  in  October, 

Is  so  hateful  to  each  honest  fellow, 
As  he,  who  remembers  when  sober, 

The  tales  that  were  told  him  when  mellow. 


EPITAPH  ON  A  MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER. 
HEBE  sleeps  a  daughter  by  a  mother's  side  ; 
Nor  slow  disease  nor  war  our  fates  allied ; 
When  hostile  banners  over  Corinth  waved, 
Preferring  death,  we  left  a  land  enslaved ! 
Pierced  by  a  mother's  steel,  in  youth  I  bled, 
She  nobly  joined  me  in  my  gory  bed  ; — 
In  vain  ye  forge  your  fetters  for  the  brave, 
Who  fly  for  sacred  freedom  to  the  grave. 


CONJUGAL  AFFECTION. 

SEE  yonder  blushing  vine-tree  grow, 

And  clasp  a  dry  and  withered  plane, 
And  round  its  youthful  tendril  throw, 

A  shelter  from  the  wind  and  rain. 
That  sapless  trunk,  in  former  time, 

Gave  covert  from  the  noontide  blaze, 
And  taught  the  infant  shoot  to  climb, 

That  now  the  pious  debt  repays. 
And  thus,  kind  powers,  a  partner  give 

To  share  in  my  prosperity ; 
Hang  on  my  strength,  while  yet  I  live, 

And  do  me  honour  when  I  die. 


ON  ERINNA. 

FEW  were  thy  notes,  Erinna, — short  thy  lay, — 

But  thy  short  lay  the  Muse  herself  hath  given ; 
Thus  never  shall  thy  memory  decay, 

Nor  night  obscure  the  fame,  which  lives  in 

heaven ; 
While  we,  the  unnumbered  bards  of  after-times, 

Sink  in  the  melancholy  grave  unseen, 
Unhonoured  reach  Avernus'  fabled  climes, 

And  leave  no  record  that  we  once  have  been. 


ON  THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  CORINTH. 
WHERE  has  thy  grandeur,  Corinth,  shrunk  from 

sight, 

Thine  ancient  treasures,  and  thy  rampart's  height, 
Thy  godlike  fanes  and  palaces  ? — 0  where 
Thy  mighty  myriads  and  majestic  fair? 
Relentless  war  has  poured  around  thy  wall, 
And  hardly  spared  the  traces  of  thy  fall. 
We  nymphs  of  Ocean  deathless  yet  remain, 
And  sad  and  silent,  sorrow  near  thy  plain. 


ON  SAPPHO. 

DOES  Sappho  then  beneath  thy  bosom  rest, 
JEolian  earth  ! — that  mortal  Muse  confest 
Inferior  only  to  the  choir  above, 
That  foster-child  of  Venus  and  of  Love, 
Warm  from  whose  lips  divine  Persuasion  came 
To  ravish  Greece  and  raise  the  Lesbian  name  ? 
0  ye  !•  who  ever  twine  the  threefold  thread, 
Ye  Fates,  why  number  with  the  silent  dead 
That  mighty  songstress,  whose  unrivall'd  powers 
Weave  for  the  Muse  a  crown  of  deathless  flowers. 


ON  HOMER'S  BIRTH-PLACE. 
FROM  Colophon  some  deem  thee  sprung, 

From  Smyrna  some,  and  some  from  Chios 
These,  noble  Salamis  have  sung, 

While  those  proclaim  thee  born  in  los; 
And  others  cry  up  Thessaly 
The  mother  of  the  Lapithse. 
Thus  each  to  Homer  has  assign'd 
The  birth-place  just  which  suits  his  mind. 
But,  if  I  read  the  volume  right, 

By  Phoebus  to  his  followers  given, 
I'd  say  they're  all  mistaken  quite, 

And  that  his  real  country's  heaven ; 
While  for  his  mother,  she  can  be 
No  other  than  Calliope. 


ANTIPATER  OF   SIDON. 


255 


ON  ORPHEUS. 

No  more,  sweet  Orpheus!  shalt  them  lead  along 
Oaks,  rocks,  and  savage  monsters  with  thy  song, 
Fetter  the  winds,  the  struggling  hail-storm  chain, 
The  snowy  desert  soothe,  and  sounding  main; 
For  thou  art  dead  ; — the  Muses  o'er  thy  bier, 
Sad  as  thy  parent,  pour  the  tuneful  tear. 
Weep  we  a  child  ? — Not  e'en  the  gods  can  save 
Their  glorious  offspring  from  the  hated  grave. 


ON  PINDAR. 

As  the  loud  trumpet  to  the  goatherd's  pipe, 

So  sounds  thy  lyre,  all  other  sounds  surpassing ; 
Since  round  thy  lips,  in  infant  fullness  ripe, 

Swarm  honied  bees,  their  golden  stores  amass- 
ing. 
Thine,  Pindar!  be  the  palm, — by  him  decreed 

Who  holds  on  Mienalus  his  royal  sitting; 
Who,  for  thy  love,  forsook  his  simple  reed, 

And  hymns  thy  lays  in  strains  a  god  befitting. 


I.  ON  ANACREON. 

GROW,  clustering  ivy,  where  Anacreon  lies ; 
There   may  soft   buds   from   purple    meadows 

rise; 

Gush,  milky  springs,  the  poet's  turf  to  lave, 
And,  fragrant  wine,  flow  joyous  from  his  grave ! 
Thus  charm'd,  his  bones  shall  press  their  narrow 

bed, 

If  aught  of  pleasure  ever  reach  the  dead. 
In  these  delights  he  soothed  his  age  above, 
His  life  devoting  to  the  lyre  and  love. 

The  Same  paraphrased. 
AROUND  the  tomb,  0  bard  divine, 

Where  soft  thy  hallowed  brow  reposes, 
Long  may  the  deathless  ivy  twine, 

And  summer  pour  her  waste  of  roses ! 
And  many  a  fount  shall  there  distil, 

And  many  a  rill  refresh  the  flowers ; 
Bat  wine  shall  gush  in  every  rill, 

And  every  fount  yield  milky  showers. 

Thus — shade  of  him  whom  nature  taught 
To  tune  his  lyre  and  soul  to  pleasure— 

Who  gave  to  love  his  warmest  thought, 
Who  gave  to  love  his  fondest  measure; 

Thus — after  death  if  spirits  feel — 

Thou  may'stfrom  odours  round  thee  streaming, 
A  pulse  of  past  enjoyment  steal, 

And  live  again  in  blissful  dreaming. 

II.  ON  ANACREON. 

AT  length  thy  golden  hours  have  winged  their 

flight, 

And  drowsy  Donth  thine  eye-lid  steepeth ; 
Thy  harp,  that  whispered  through  each  lingering 

night, 
Now  mutely  in  oblivion  sleepeth. 


She  too,  for  whom  that  heart  profusely  shed 

The  purest  nectar  of  its  numbers, 
She — the  young  spring  of  thy  desires — has  fled, 

And  with  her  blest  Anacreon  slumbers. 

Farewell !  thou  hadst  a  pulse  for  every  dart 
That  Love  could  scatter  from  his  quiver ; 

And  every  woman  found  in  thee  a  heart, 

Which  thou,  with  all  thy  soul,  didst  give  her ! 


THE  CURE  FOR  MISERY. 

fleecy  ewe,  one  heifer,  were  the  store 
That  drove  dire  want  from  Aristides'  door. 
He  lost  them  both:  his  teeming  heifer  died; 
His  single  ewe  the  ravening  wolf  descried, 
And  bore  away :  thus  all  he  had  was  gone. 
Retiring  to  his  silent  hut  alone, 
The  belt  that  bound  his  empty  scrip  he  takes, 
Fastens  the  noose,  and  wretched  life  forsakes. 


THE  HONEST  SHEPHERD. 


the 


WHEW   hungry  wolves   had   trespass'd   on 

fold, 

And  the  robb'd  shepherd  his  sad  story  told, 
"Call  in  Alcides,"  said  a  crafty  priest, 
"Give  him  one  half,  and  he'll  secure  the  rest." 
No,  said  the  shepherd,  if  the  Fates  decree, 
By  ravaging  my  flock,  to  ruin  me, 
To  their  commands  I  willingly  resign ; 
Power  is  their  character,  and  patience  mine : 
Though,  'troth,  to  me  there  seems  but  little  odds 
Who  prove   the   greatest   robbers, — wolves  or 

gods. 


AGAINST  WATER-DRINKERS. 
BACCHUS  found  me  yesterday, 
As,  at  my  full  length  stretch'd,  I  lay, 
Sated  with  the  crystal  tide — 
The  god  stood  frowning  at  my  side, 
And  said — "Such  sleep  upon  thee  waits 
As  those  attends  whom  Venus  hates. 
Say,  idiot !  didst  thou  never  hear 
Of  one  Hippolytus  ? — Beware ! 
His  destiny  may  else  be  thine." 
He  left  me  then — the  God  of  Wine; 
But  ever  since  this  thing  befell, 
I've  loathed  the  notion  of  a  well. 


THE  WIDOW'S  OFFERING. 
To  Pallas,  Lysistrata  offered  her  thimble 
And  distaff,  of  matronly  prudence  the  symbol : 
"Take  this  too,"  she  said;  "then  farewell,  mighty 

queen ! 

I'm  a  widow,  and  just  forty  winters  have  seen ; 
So  thy  yoke  I  renounce,  and  henceforward  decree 
To  live  with  Love's  goddess,  and  prove  that  I'm 

free. 


MELEAGER. 


[About  100  B.  C.] 


Or  Meleager  we  know  neither  the  country  nor 
parentage,  nor  indeed  anything  more  than  that 
he  was  the  first  collector  of  an  anthology,  and, 
(judging  of  him  from  those  specimens  of  his  own 


works,  which  have  escaped  the  ravages  of  time 
and  the  yet  more  sweeping  and  indiscriminate 
havoc  of  ignorance  and  bigotry,)  no  mean  poet 
himself. 


CUPID  WOUNDED. 

WHY  weep'st  thou,  Cupid — thou,  who  steal'st 

men's  hearts, 
And  with  their  hearts  their  reason  ?— Tell  me 

why 

Thou'st  flung  away  thy  cruel  bow  and  darts, 
And  doff 'd  thy  radiant  wings  ? — Has  Lesbia's 

eye, 

Which  beams  on  all  resistless,  pierced  thy  breast? 
'Tis  so— thy  cause  of  sorrow  stands  confest; 
And  thou  art  doomed  to  suffer  in  thy  turn, 
And  feel  what  torture  'lis  with  love  to  burn. 

THE  TYRANT  LOVE. 

AT — tread  on  my  neck,  tyrant  Cupid !  I  swear, 
Though  so  little,  your  weight  is  no  trifle  to  bear : 
But  I  laugh  at  your  darts  tipp'd  with  flaming 

desire, 
Since  my  heart,  burnt  to  ashes,  is  proof  against 

fire. 

'THE  KISS. 
TIMAEION'S  kiss,  like  bird-lime,  clings 

About  the  happy  lips  it  blesses ; 
Her  eye  its  sun-like  radiance  flings 

Beneath  her  dark  o'ershadowing  tresses. 
One  look,  fond  lover,  and  you're  burn'd ; 

One  touch,  and  all  your  strength  is  nought; 
And  Love  himself  this  lesson  learn'd, 

Late  in  her  nets,  a  captive  caught. 

THE  DIN  OF  LOVE. 
'Tis  love,  that  murmurs  in  my  breast, 

And  makes  me  shed  the  secret  tear ; 
Nor  day  nor  night  my  heart  has  rest, 

For  night  and  day  his  voice  I  hear. 

A  wound  within  my  heart  I  find, 

And  oh!  'tis  plain  where  Love  has  been, 

For  still  he  leaves  a  wound  behind, 
Such  as  within  my  heart  is  seen. 

0  bird  of  Love !  with  song  so  drear, 
Make  not  my  soul  the  nest  of  pain ! 

Oh,  let  the  wing  that  brought  thee  here, 
In  pity  waft  thee  hence  again. 
256 


BEAUTY  COMPARED  WITH  FLOWERS. 

'Tis  now  that  the  white  violet 

steals  out  the  spring  to  greet, 
And  that,  among  his  longed-for  showers, 

narcissus  smiles  so  sweet; 
'Tis  now  that  lilies,  upland-born, 

frequent  the  slopes  of  green, 
And  that  the  flower  which  lovers  love, 

of  all  the  flowers  the  queen, 
Without  an  equal  any  where, 

in  full-blown  beauty  glows — 
Thou  know'st  it  well,  Zenophile ! 

Persuasion's  flower,  the  rose ! 
Ah,  why,  ye  hills  and  meadows, 

should  laughter  thus  illume 
Your  leafy  haunts  ?  So  lavish  why, 

and  prodigal  of  bloom  ? 
Not  all  the  wreaths  of  all  the  flowers 

that  spring  herself  might  cull, 
As  mine  own  maiden  e'er  could  be 

one  half  so  beautiful ! 


THE  GIFTS  OF  THE  GRACES. 

THE  Graces,  smiling,  saw  her  opening  charms, 
And  clasped  Arista  in  their  lovely  arms. 
Hence  her  resistless  beauty;  matchless  sense; 
The  music  of  her  voice ;  the  eloquence, 
That,  e'en  in  silence  flashes  from  her  face ; 
All  strikes  the  ravished  heart — for  all  is  grace : 
List  to  my  vows,  sweet  maid !  or  from  my  view 
Far,  far  away,  remove  !     In  vain  I  sue  ; 
For,  as  no  space  can  check  the  bolts  of  Jove, 
No  distance  shields  me  from  the  shafts  of  Love. 

THE  GARLAND. 
A  FRESH  garland  will  I  braid 

Of  lilies  blithe  and  fair, 
Of  the  hyacinth's  blue  shade, 

And  the  crocus's  gold  hair, 
Of  narcissus  dewy-bright, 

Of  myrtle,  never  sere, 
With  the  violet  virgin  white, 

And  sweet  rose  to  lovers  dear. — 
—Thus,  for  Heliodora's  hair, 

Freshest,  fairest  flowers  I've  twin'd, 
But  none  half  so  sweet,  so  fair, 

As  the  dear,  dear  locks  they'll  bind. 


MELEAGER. 


257 


THE  LIGHT  OF  LOVE. 

GAZING  on  tliee,  sweet  maid  !  all  things  I  see — 
For  thou  art  the  whole  universe  to  me ; 
And,  when  thou'rt  absent,  to  iny  vacant  sight, 
Though  all  things  else  be  present,  all  is  night. 


PAN'S  LAMENTATION  FOR  DAPHNK 
FAREWELL,  ye  hills  ?  ye  sylvan  scene?,  farewell, 

Which  once  my  shaggy  feet  rejoiced  to  tread! 
No  more  with  goats  on  mountain  tops  I'll  dwell, 

Half  goat  myself — no  more  the  mazes  thread 
Of  forest  thicket,  or  of  bosky  dell: — 

Daphnis — loved  partner  of  my  sports — is  dead ; 
And  with  him,  all  the  joy  he  knew  so  well 

To  give  my  sylvan  reign,  for  ever  fled. 
Scenes  once  beloved !  I  quit  ye  ;  to  the  chase 
Let  others  hie — the  town  shall  be  Pan's  dwelling 
place. 


EPITAPH  OX  A  TAME  HARE. 
Tony  from  a  tender  mother's  breast, 

A  tiny,  prick-eared  thing, 
Me  lovely  Phaniou  ca 

And  fed  on  flowers  of  spring. 
Home,  kin,  forgot, — nor  want,  nor  pain, 

I  knew  beneath  her  care, 
But  over  kindness  was  my  bane 

I  died  of  dainty  fare! 
And  now,  beside  her  maiden  bower, 

Entombed  my  ashes  lie, 
That,  e'en  in  midnight's  dreamy  hour, 

She  still  might  have  me  nigh. 


THE  VICTIM. 

ppliant  bull,  to  Jove's  high  altar  led, 
Bellows  a  prayer  for  his  devoted  head. 
Spare  him,  Saturnius! — His  the  form  you  wore, 
When  fair  Europa  through  the  waves  you  bore. 


EPITAPH  ON  .KSK.F.NES. 
HAIL,  universal  mother!  lightly  rest 

On  that  dead  form, 
Which  when  with  life  invested,  ne'er  opprest 

Its  fellow  worm. 


THE   MORNING   M\\R. 
FAREWELL  bright  Phosphor,  herald  of  the  morn! 

:i.  in  Ilesjn-r's  name,  again  be  born — 
By  stealth  restoring,  with  thy 
The  charms  thine  early  radiance  drove  away. 


THE  GIFTS  OF  THE  GRA' 

G          I  fbl  my  fair 
A  triplf  garland  w 
When,  with  i-adi  other,  they  to  make 
A  perfect  mistress  strove. 

A  tint  to  mock  the  rose's  bloom ; 
A  form  like  young  Desire  ; 
33 


A  voice,  whose  melody  out-breathes 
The  sweetness  of  the  lyre. 

Thrice  happy  fair!  whom  Venus  arm'd 

With  Joy's  extatic  power, 
Persuasion,  with  soft  Eloquence, 

And  Love  with  Beauty's  flower. 


A  KISS  WITHIN  THE  CUP. 
BLEST  is  the  goblet— oh,  how  blest! 
Which  Heliodora's  lips  have  prest. — 
Oh,  might  those  lips  but  meet  with  mine. 
My  soul  should  melt  away  in  thine. 


THE  SAILOR'S  RETURN. 
HELP,  help,  my  friends ! — Just  landed  from  the 

main- 
New  to  its  toils,  and  glad  to  feel  again 
The  firm  rebounding  soil  beneath  my  feet, 
Love    marks    his  prey,  and   with   enforcement 

sweet 

Waving  his  torch  before  my  dazzled  eyes, 
Drags  me  to  where  my  queen  of  beauty  lies. 
Now  on  her  steps  I  tread — «and  if  in  air 
My  fancy  roves,  I  view  her  picture  there, 
Stretch  my  fond  arms  to  fold  her,  and  delight 
With  unsubstantial  joys  my  ravish'd  sprite. 
Ah!  vainly  'scaped  the  fearful  ocean's  roar, 
To  prove  a  fiercer  hurricane  on  shore. 


CUPID'S  PEDIGREE. 
ASK'ST  thou  why  Love's  eyes,  ev'n  in  laughter, 

lower  ? 
Or  whence  his  savage  thirst  for  flames  and 

sword  ? 

Was  not  fierce  Mars  his  mother's  paramour, 
And  Vulcan,  god  of  fire,  her  wedded  lord? 

The  boy's  his  mother's  son  ;  his  pedigree 
Explains  too  well  his  hate  of  human  kind. 

Who  gave  that  mother  birth  ? — The  foaming  sea, 
Whose  surge  rebellows  to  the  lashing  wind. 

Who  was  his  sire? — If  e'er  he  had  a  sire 
Is  doubtful; — but  for  this  I  will  engage: 

Mars  gave  him  biood-stain'd  arrows,  Vulcan  fire, 
And  Thetis  fill'd  him  with  her  billowy  rage. 


THE  CAPTIVE. 
LOVE  !  by  the  author  of  your  race, 

Of  all  your  sweetest  joys  the  giver, 
I  vow  to  burn  be  I'.- re  your  face, 

Your  arrows,  bow,  and  Scythian  quiver. 

Yes — though  you  point  your  saucy  chin, 
And  screw  your  nostrils  like  a  satyr, 

And  show  your  teeth,  and  pout,  and  grin, 
I'll  burn  them,  boy,  for  all  your  clatter. 

I'll  clip  your  wings,  boy,  though  they  be 
Heralds  of  joy;  your  legs  I'll  bind 

With  brazen  bolts ;  you  sha'nt  get  free— 
Alas !  I  have  but  caught  the  wind ! 
w2 


258 


MELEAGER. 


Oh !  what  had  I  with  Love  to  do — 

A  wolf  among  the  sheep-folds  roaming. 

There — take  your  wings — put  on  your  shoe, 
And  tell  your  playmates  you  are  coming. 


TO  CACCHUS. 

BACCHUS !  I  yield  me  to  thy  sway; 
Master  of  revels,  lead  the  way ! 
Conqueror  of  India's  burning  plain, 
My  heart  obeys  thy  chariot  rein. 

In  flames  conceiv'd,  thou  sure  wilt  prove 
Indulgent  to  the  fire  of  Love  ; 
Nor  count  me  rebel,  if  I  own 
Allegiance  to  a  double  throne. 

Alas !  alas !  that  power  so  high 
Should  stoop  to  treacherous  perfidy! 
The  mysteries  of  thy  hallowed  shrine 
I  ne'er  profan'd — Why  publish  mine  ? 


THE  LOVER'S  MESSAGE. 
HASTE  thee,  Dorcas!  haste  and  bear 
This  message  to  thy  lady  fair; 
And  say  besides; — nay,  pray  begone— 
Tell,  tell  her  all — run,  Dorcas,  run! 

Whither  so  fast?  a  moment  stay; 
Don't  run  with  half  your  tale  away; 
I've  more  to  tell — ah  me !  I  rave— 
I  know  not  what  I'd  do,  or  have. 
Go,  tell  her  all — whate'er  you  know, 
Whate'er  you  think — go,  Dorcas,  go ! 
But  why  a  message  send  before, 
When  we're  already  at  the  door. 


THE  VOW. 

IN  holy  night  we  made  the  vow  ; 

And  the  same  lamp,  which  long  before 
Had  seen  our  early  passion  grow, 

Was  witness  to  the  faith  we  swore. 

Did  I  not  swear  to  love  her  ever  ? 

And  have  I  ever  dared  to  rove  ? 
Did  she  not  vow  a  rival  never 

Should  shake  her  faith,  or  steal  her  love  ? 

Yet  now  she  says  those  words  were  air, 
Those  vows  were  written  all  in  water; 

And,  by  the  lamp  that  heard  her  swear, 
Hath  yielded  to  the  first  that  sought  her. 


LOVE  PROCLAIMED. 
OYEZ  !  Take  notice  ;  Love,  the  runaway, 
Fled  from  his  bed-chamber  at  break  of  day. 
The  boy  is  an  adept  at  wheedling,  crying ; 
Talks  much,  is  swift  of  foot,  and  given  to  lying. 
Audacious,  cunning,  and  with  malice  fraught, 
He   laughs    at  mischiefs  his  own    wiles    have 

wrought : 

With  wings  for  flight  equipp'd,  and  for  attack 
With  darts,  he  bears  a  quiver  at  his  back. 
Who  is  his  father  I  could  ne'er  discover — 
Earth,  sea,  and  air  alike  disown  the  rover. 


He's  every  body's  foe — ah,  maids,  beware ! 
Youths,  too,  take  heed!     For  you  he  spreads  the 

snare. 

But  look ! — Can  I  be  wrong  ? — No ;  there  I  spy 
The  truant  archer,  hid  in  Lesbia's  eye. 


SALE  OF  CUPID. 

WHO'LL  buy  a  little  boy  ?     Look,  yonder  is  he, 
Fast  asleep,  the  sly  rogue,  on  his  mother's  knee ; 
So  bold  a  young  imp  'tis  not  safe  to  keep, 
So  I'll  part  with    him  now,  while  he's  sound 

asleep. 

See  his  arch  little  nose,  how  sharp  it  is  curl'd, 
His  wings,  too,  even  in  sleep  unfurl'd  ; 
And  those  fingers,  which  still  ever  ready  are 

found 
For  mirth  or  for  mischief,  to  tickle  or  wound. 

He'll  try  with  his  tears  your  heart  to  beguile, 
But  never  you  mind — he's  laughing  all  the  while; 
For  little  he  cares,  so  he  has  his  own  whim, 
And  weeping  or  laughing,  'tis  all  one  to  him. 
His  eye  is  as  keen  as  the  lightning's  flash, 
His  tongue,  like  the  red  bolt,  keen  and  rash ; 
And  so  savage  is  he,  that  his  own  dear  mother 
Is  scarce,  in  his  hands,  more  safe  than  another. 

In  short,  to  sum  up  this  prodigy's  praise, 
He's  a  downright  pest  in  all  sorts  of  ways ; 
And  if  any  one  wants  such  an  imp  to  employ, 
He  shall  have  a  dead  bargain  of  this  little  boy. 
But  see,  the  boy  wakes — his  bright  tears  flow—- 
His eyes  seem  to  ask,  Could  I  sell  him?  Oh,  no; 
Sweet  child,  no,  no — though  so  naughty  you  be ; 
You  shall  live  evermore  with  my  Lesbia  and  me. 


TO  THE  BEE. 

WANDERING  bee,  who  lov'st  to  dwell 
In  the  vernal  rose-bud's  cell, 
Wherefore  leave  thy  place  of  rest 
To  light  on  Heliodora's  breast? 
Is  it  thus  you  mean  to  show, 
When  flies  the  shaft  from  Cupid's  bow, 
What  a  sweet  and  bitter  smart 
It  leaves  within  this  wounded  heart? 
Yes,  thou  friend  to  lovers,  yes— 
I  thy  meaning  well  can  guess — 
'Tis  a  truth  too  soon  we  learn ; — 
Go !  with  thy  lesson  home  return. 


TO  HIS  MISTRESS  SLEEPING. 
THOU  sleep'st,  soft  silken  flower !  Would  I  wero 

sleep, 

For  ever  on  those  lids  my  watch  to  keep ! 
So  would  I  have  thee  all  mine  own, — nor  he, 
Who  seals  Jove's  wakeful  eyes,  my  rival  be. 


LOVE,  THE  TENNIS-PLAYER. 
LOVE  acts  the  tennis-player's  part, 
And  throws  to  thee  my  panting  heart ; 
Heliodora !  ere  it  fall, 
Let  Desire  catch  swift  the  ball ; 


MELEAGER. 


259 


Let  her  in  the  ball-court  move, 
Follow  in  the  game  with  Love: 
If  thou  throw  me  back  again, 
I  shall  of  foul  play  complain 

TO  ZENOPHILE  PLAYING  ON  THE  LYRE. 

"i'rs  a  sweet  strain, — by  Pan  of  Arcady ! 

Which  warbles  from  thy  lyre  with  thrilling 

sound  : 
Zenophile,  oh !  how  can  I  be  free, 

When  loves  on  every  side  enclose  me  round, 
Forbidding  me  to  breathe  a.  single  hour 

In  peace, — since  first  thy  beauty,  then  thy  lyre, 
TLy  grace,  and  then  ....  Oh!  words  of  feeble 
power, 

Thy  perfect  all  has  set  me  all  on  fire. 


THE  RETURN  OF  SPRING  IN  GREECE. 
HUSH'D  is  the  howl  of  wintry  breezes  wild; 
The  purple  hour  of  youthful  spring  has  smiled: 
A  livelier  verdure  clothes  the  teeming  earth; 

Buds  press  to  life,  rejoicing  in  their  birth; 
The  laughing  meadows  drink  the  dews  of  night, 
And,  fresh  with  opening  roses,  glad  the  sight: 
In  song  the  joyous  swains  responsive  vie; 
Wild  music  floats,  and  mountain  melody. 

Adventurous  seamen  spread  the  enbosomed 

sail 

O'er  waves  light  heaving  to  the  western  gale; 
While  village  youths  their  brows  with  ivy  twine, 
And  hail  with  song  the  promise  of  the  vine. 

In  curious  cells  the  bees  digest  their  spoil, 
When  venial  sunshine  animates  their  toil, 
And  little  birds,  in  warblings  sweet  and  clear, 
Salute  thee,  Maia,  loveliest  of  the  year: 

on  their  deeps,  the  tuneful  halcyons  hail, 
In  streams  the  swan,  in  woods  the  nightingale. 

It' earth  rejoices,  with  ne\\-  verdure  gay, 
And  shepherds  pipe,  and  flocks  exulting  play, 
And  sailors  main,  and  Haechus  leads  his  throng, 
And  bees  to  ti>il,  and  birds  awake  to  song, 
Shall  the  glad  bard  be  mute  in  tuneful  spring, 
And,  warm  with  love  and  joy,  forget  to  sing? 

EPITAPH  ON  A  YOUNG  BRIDE. 

NOT  Hymen, — it  wa~  Ade<"  -elf  alone 

That  loosened  Clearista's  viririn  / 

And  now  the  evening  flutes  are  breathing  round 

iii'i  nuptial  doors  resound. 

The  morning  sponsii  ! — but,  oh! 

At  once  'twas  silenced  into  threnes  of  woe  ; 
And  the  same  torches,  which  the  bridal  bed 
Had  lit.  now  showed  the  pathway  to  the  dead. 

Another  translation  of  the  S 

I     •  her  virgin  / 

Found  in  the  nuptial  bed  : 

i  eluim'd   the   1;  i'f   right;  to  death 

alone 

The  treasure  guarded  (or  her  spouse  she  gave. 
To  sweetest  sounds  the  happy  evening  fled. 

The  Mute's  soft  strain  and  hymeneal  choir; 
At  morn  sad  bowlings  echo  round  the  bed. 
And  the  glad  hymns  on  quivering  lips  expire. 


The  very  torches  that  at  fall  of  night 

Shed  their  bright  radiance  o'er  the  bridal  room ; 

Those  very  torches,  with  the  morning's  light, 
Conduct  the  victim  to  her  silent  tomb.* 


EPITAPH  ON  CHARIXENUS. 
THEE,  poor  Charixenus  !  in  youth's  first  bloom, 
Thy  mother's  hands — an  offering  to  the  tomb — 
Deck'd  with  the  martial  stole.  The  very  stone 
Made  to  thy  moaning  friends  responsive  moan, 
As  with  the  houseless  corpse  they  sorrowing 

went — 

No  hymeneal  strain,  but  loud  lament. 
"Ah  me!  that  gentle  bosom's  bounteous  store, 
How  ill  repaid  ! — How  vain  the  pangs  she  bore!" 
O  Fate  unfruitful!  Maid  of  ruthless  mind! 
That  giv'st  a  mother's  yearnings  to  the  wind! 
Here  friends  can  only  wish,  and  parents  weep, 
And  pitying  strangers  sanctify  thy  sleep. 

SONG. 

STILL,  like  dew  in  silence  falling, 

Drops  for  thee  the  nightly  tear ; 

Still  that  voice,  the  past  recalling, 

Dwells,  like  echo,  on  mine  ear, 

Still,  still ! 

Day  and  night  the  spell  hangs  o;er  me ; 

Here,  for  ever  fixed  thou  art ; 
As  thy  form  first  shone  before  me, 

So  ;tis  graven  on  this  heart, 
Deep,  deep ! 

Love,  oh  love,  whose  bitter  sweetness 

Dooms  me  to  this  lasting  pain; 
Thou,  who  cam'st  with  so  much  fleetness, 

Why  so  slow  to  go  again  ? 
Why?  Why? 


EPITAPH  ON  HELIODORA. 
TEAUS,  Heliodora!  on  thy  tomb  I  shed, 

Love's  last  libation  to  the  shades  below ; 
Tears,  bitter  tears,  by  fond  remembrance  fed, 

Are  all  that  Fate  now  leaves  me  to  bestow. 
Vain  sorrows !  vain  regrets !  yet,  loveliest,  thee, 

Thee  still  they  follow  in  the  silent  urn, 
Retracing  hours  of  social  converse  free, 

And  soft  endearments  never  to  return. 


*  So  in  Shakspeare's  "  Romeo  and  Juliet :" — 

"All  things  Unit  we  ordain  for  festival, 
Turn  from  their  omYo  to  black  funeral: 
Our  instrument*  to  melancholy  bells; 
Our  weddiiiir  rhivr  tn  ;i  sad  burial  feast  ; 
Our  soli-inn  hymns  to  sullen  dir«es  change  ; 
Our  bridal  flowers  serve  for  a  buried  rorse." 

Act  iv.,  Scene  v. 

And  likewise  ITerrir.k,  in  liis  lines  "Upon  a  maid  that 
died  tlic  d:iy  she  was  miirricd." 

"That  morne  which  saw  me  made  a  bride, 
The  eveniri!:  witm^st  that  I  died. 
Those  holy  li'.'tits,  wherewith  they  guide 
Into  thf  In1:!  I  In-  liaslit'ul  bride. 
S'Tv'd  but  as  tapers  for  to  biirnn, 
And  IL'ht  my  rt-liques  to  their  urne." 
"Et  face  pro  thalami  fax  mini  mortis  adest." — Ovid. 


260 


MELEAGER. 


How  thou  art  torn,  sweet  flower,  that  smiled  so 
fair! 

Torn,  and  thy  honour'd  bloom  with  dust  defiled ; 
Yet,  holy  Earth,  accept  my  suppliant  prayer, 

And  in  a  mother's  arms  enfold  thy  child. 

Another  translation  of  the  Same. 
TEARS  o'er  my  Helidora's  grave  I  shed, 
Affection's  fondest  tribute  to  the  dead. 
Oh,  flow,  my  bitter  sorrows  o'er  her  shrine, 
Pledge  of  the  love  that  bound  her  soul  to  mine ! 
Break,  break,  my  heart,  o'ercharged  with  bursting 

woe, 

An  empty  offering  to  the  shades  below. 
Ah,  plant  regretted !  Death's  remorseless  power 
With    dust    ungrateful    choked    thy   full-blown 

flower ! 

Take,  Earth,  the  gentle  inmate  to  thy  breast, 
And,  soft  entombed,  bid  Heliotlora  rest. 

THE  DAUGHTERS  OF  LYCAMBES. 
BY  Pluto's  hand  we  swear — an  awful  sign — 
And  the  dark  bed  of  gloomy  Proserpine, 
Pure  went  we  to  our  graves,  whate'er  of  shame 
And  vile  reproach  against  our  virgin  fame 
That  bitter  bard  poured  forth,  in  strains  refined 
Cloaking  the  foulness  of  his  slanderous  mind. 
Muses,  in  our  despite  why  favour  thus 
The  false  Iambics  of  Archilochus  ?* 

THE  LOVER'S  MESSAGE. 
SEA-WANDERING  barks,  that  o'er  the  ^gean  sail, 
With  pennants  streaming  to  the  northern  gale, 
If,  in  your  course,  the  Coan  strand  ye  reach, 
And  see  my  Phanion  musing  on  the  beach, 
With  eye  intent  upon  the  placid  sea, 
And  constant  heart  that  only  beats  for  me, — 
Tell  the  dear  maid,  that  mindful  of  her  charms, 
Her  lover  hastens  to  her  longing  arms. 
<Gro,  heralds  of  my  soul!  to  Phanion's  ear 
tQitt  all  your  shrouds  the  tender  accents  bear ! 
So  Jove  shall  calm  with  smiles  the  wave  below, 
.And  bid  for- you  his  softest  breezes  blow. 

THE  COMPARISON. 
THE  staowdrop  peeps  from  every  glade, 

The  gay  narcissus  proudly  glows, 
The  lily  decks  the  mountain  shade, 

Where  blooms  my  fair — a  blushing  rose. 
Ye  meads!  why  vainly  thus  display 

The  buds  that  grace  your  vernal  hour? 
For  see  ye  not  my  Zoe  stray, 

Amidst  your  sweets,  a  sweeter  flower  ? 


EPITAPH  ON  MELEAGER  OF  GADARA.f 
TIRE  was  my  Island-nurse — an  Attic  race 
I  boast,  though  Gadara  my  native  place. — 

*  The  daughters  of  Lyeambes,  driven  to  suicide  by  the 
Iambics  of  Archilochue,  attest  the  falsity  of  the  charges 
alleged  against  them  by  the  malicious  poet ;  complaining, 
at  the  same  time,  of  the  assistance  given  him  by  the 
Muses  in  his  base  undertaking. 

|  Probably  an  ancestor  of  the  poet's. 


Herself  an  Athens.    Eucrates  I  claim 

For  sire,  and  Meleager  is  my  name. 

From  childhood,  in  the  Muse  was  all  my  pride : 

I  sang ;  and  with  Menippus,  side  by  side, 

Urged  my  poetic  chariot  to  the  goal. 

And  why  not  Syrian  ? — to  the  free-born  soul 

Our  country  is  the  world ;  and  all  on  earth 

One  universal  chaos  brought  to  birth. 

Now  old,  and  heedful  of  th'  approaching  doom  ; 

These  lines  in  memory  of  my  parted  bloom, 

I  on  my  picture  trace,  as  on  my  tomb. 


NIOBE. 

DAUGHTERS  of  Tantalus,  lorn  Niobe, 
Sad  are  the  tidings  which  I  bear  to  thee, — 
Words  fraught  with  woe  : — ay,  now  unbind  thy 

hair, 

The  streaming  signal  of  thy  wild  despair  : 
For  Phoebus'  darts,  grief-pointed,  reek  with  gore, 
Alas !  alas ! — thy  sons  are  now  no  more. 
But  what  is  this?  What  means  this  oozing  flood  ? 
Her  daughters,  too.  are  weltering  in  their  blood. 
One  clasps  a  mother's  knees ;  one  clings  around 
Her  neck;  and  one  lies  prostrate  on  the  ground ; 
One  seeks  her  breast;  one  eyes  the  coming  woe 
And  shudders ;  one,  in  tremor,  crouches  low  ; 
The  seventh  is  breathing  out  her  latest  sigh, 
And  life-in-death  seems  flickering  from  that  eye. 
She — the  woe-stricken  mother,  reft,  alone  ; 
Erst  full  of  words — is  now  mute,  stiffened,  stone. 


MUSIC  AND  BEAUTY. 

BY  the  God  of  Arcadia,  so  sweet  are  the  notes 
Which  tremulous  fall  from  my  Rhodope's  lyre  ; 

Such  melody  swells  in  her  voice,  as  it  floats 
On  the  soft  midnight  air,  that  my  soul  is  on  fire. 

Oh,  where  can  I  fly?  The  young  Cupids  around 

me 
Gaily  spread  their  light  wings,  all  my  footsteps 

pursuing; 
Her  eyes  dart  a  thousand  fierce  lustres  to  wound 

me, 
And  music  and  beauty  conspire  my  undoing.* 


TO  THE  CICADA. 

OH   shrill-voiced  insect!    that,   with   dew-drops 
sweet 

Inebriate,  dost  in  desert  woodlands  sing; 
Perch'd  on  the  spray-top  with  indented  feet, 

Thy  dusky  body's  echoings,  harp-like,  ring. 
Come,  dear  Cicada!  chirp  to  all  the  grove, 

The  nymphs,  and  Pan,  a  new  responsive  strain ; 
That  I,  in  noonday  sleep,  may  steal  from  love, 

Reclined  beneath  this  dark  overspreading  plane. 

*  Peace,  Chloris,  peace,  or  singing  die  ! 
That  together  you  and  I 
To  heaven  may  go  ; 
For  all  we  know 
Of  what  the  blessed  do  above, 
Is  that  they  sing,  and  that  they  love.—  Waller. 


ARCHIAS. 


[About  100  B.  C.] 

A  K ATIVE  of  Antioch  and  preceptor  and  friend  of  Cicero,  who  composed  one  of  his  most  cele- 
brated orations  in  his  defence. 


ON  A  GRASSHOPPER. 
ERST  on  the  fir's  green,  blooming  branch, 

O  grasshopper,  'twas  thine 
To  sit,  or  on  the  shady  spray 

Of  the  dusky,  tufted  pine  ; 
And  from  thy  hollow,  well-winged  sides 

To  sound  the  blithesome  strain, 
Sweeter  than  music  of  the  lyre 

To  the  simple  shepherd  swain. 
But  thee  alas  !  now  overcome 

By  ants  that  haunt  the  road, 
The  cave  of  Pluto  now  conceals, 

That  unforeseen  abode. 
Yet  still  thy  fate  may  be  forgiven, 

Since  the  vulgar  fisher-throng 
By  their  riddle  slew  Maeonides, 

The  very  prince  of  song.* 


*  Homer,  (according  to  the  absurd  story  here  alluded 
to.)  whilst  sitting  on  a  rock  by  the  sea-shore,  in  the 
island  of  lo,  observed  some  fisher-lads  in  a  boat,  and 
:  them  if  they  had  any  thing?    To  which  the  young 
\va.s.  (who,  h&ving  had  no  sport,  had  been  diligently 
c:iii-liniir.  and  killing  as  many  as  they  could  catch,  of  cer- 
tain personal  companions  of  a  race  not  even  yet  extinct,) 
ri-|'li«'d — "As  many  as  we  caught,  we  left;  and  as  many 
as  we  could  not  catch  we  carry  with  us"— 
"Or?'  iMyMr,  XiT^uurS*'  cW'  01^'  tho/uty,  ttp^trQsL. 
The  catastrophe  was,  thnt  Homer,  being  utterly  unable 
to  »r:isp  the  meaning  of  this  riddle,  broke  his  heart  out 
of  pure  vexation. 


ON  AN  OLD  RACE  HORSE. 
ME,  at  Alpha?us  wreath'd,  and  twice  the  theme 
Of  heralds,  by  Castalia?s  sacred  stream, — 
Me,  Isthmus'  and  Nemaa's  trumpet-tongue 
Hailed   fleet  as   winged   storms! — I  then   was 

young. 
Alas!  wreaths   loathe  me  now:   and  Eld  hath 

found 
An    outcast    trundling    mill-stones    round    and 

round. 


ON  A  SHIPWRECKED  MARINER. 
I,  THERIS,  wreck'd  and  cast  a  corse  on  shore, 
Still  shudder  at  old  Ocean's  ceaseless  roar. 
For  here,  beneath  the  clirTs  o'ershadowing  gloom, 
Close  by  its  waves  have  strangers  dug  my  tomb. 
Hence  still  its  roaring,  reft  of  life,  I  hear ; 
Its  hateful  surge  still  thunders  in  my  ear, 
For  me  alone,  by  Fate  unrespited, 
Remains  no  rest  to  soothe  me — even  though  dead. 


LIFE  AND  DEATH. 

THRACIASTS!  who  howl  around  an  infant's  birth, 
And  give  the  funeral  hour  to  songs  of  mirth 
Well  in  your  grief  and  gladness  are  exprest, 
That  Life  is  labour,  and  that  Death  is  rest. 


PHILODEMUS. 

[About  90  B.  C.] 

PHILODEMUS  was  by  birth  a  Gadareno,  but  I  nected  with  Piso,  and  is  particularly  men- 
mi-nued  in  early  life  to  Athens,  and  afterwards  tioned  by  Cicero  in  his  oration  against  that 
to  Rome.  Here  he  became  intimately  con- 1  nobleman. 


YOUTHFUL  BEAUTY. 
NOT  yet  the  blossoms  of  the  spring  decay'd, 

Nor  full  the  swelling  treasures  of  the  vine; 
But  the  young   loves  prepare   their  darts,  sweet 
maid, 

And  light  their  fires  upon  thy  virgin  shrine. 
Oh,  let  us  fly,  whilst  yet  unstrung  their  b<i\v>, 
And  yet  conceal'd,  the  future  splendour  glows. 


CONSTANCY. 

MY  Helen  is  little  and  brown ;  but  more  tender 
Than  the  cygnet's  soft  down,  or  the  plumage 

of  doves ; 
And    her    form,   like    the    ivy,  is    graceful   and 

slender, 

Like  the  ivy  entwined  round  the  tree  that  it 
loves. 

261 


262 


ZONAS  OF  SARDIS. 


Her  voice — not  thy  cestus,  0  goddess  of  plea- 
sure, 

Can  so  melt  with  desire  or  with  ecstasy  burn  ; 
Her    kindness    unbounded,    she    gives    without 


measure 


To  her  languishing  lover,  and  asks  no  return. 
Such  a  girl  is  my  Helen — then  never,  ah  never, 

Let  my  amorous  heart,  mighty  Venus,  forget 

her, 

Oh  grant  me  to  keep  my  sweet  mistress  for  ever, 
— For  ever — at  least,  till  you  send  me  a  better ! 

Jl  freer  paraphrase  of  the  Same. 
MY  Mopsa  is  little,  my  Mopsa  is  brown, 
But  her  skin  is  as  smooth  as  the  peach's  soft 

down, 

And,  for  blushing,  no  rose  can  come  near  her; 
In   short   she  has   woven  such  nets  round  my 

heart,— 
That   I   ne'er  from  my  dear  little   Mopsa  can 

part,— 

Unless  I  can  find  one  that's  dearer. 
Her  voice  has  a  music  that  dwells  on  the  ear, 
And  her  eye  from  its  orb  gives  a  day-light  so 

clear, 

That  I'm  dazzled  whenever  I  meet  her ; 
Her  ringlets  so  curly,  are  Cupid's  own  net, 
And  her  lips,-— oh !  their  sweetness  I  ne'er  shall 

forget — 
Till  I  light  upon  lips  that  are  sweeter. 

But  'tis  not  her  beauty  that  charms  me  alone, 
'Tis  her  mind,  'tis  that  language,  whose  eloquent 

tone 
From  the  depths  of  the  grave  could  revive  one ; 


In  short,  here  I  swear,  that  if  death  were  my 

doom, 
I  would    instantly  join   my  dead    love   in   the 

tomb, — 
Unless  I  could  meet  with  a  live  one. 


INVITATION  TO  THE  ANNIVERSARY  OF 
EPICURUS. 

TO-MORROW,  Piso,  at  the  evening  hour, 
Thy  friend  will  lead  thee  to  his  simple  bower, 
To    keep    with    feast   our    annual    twentieth 

night : 

If  there  you  miss  the  flask  of  Chian  wine, 
Yet  hearty  friends  you'll  meet,  and,  while  you 

dine, 

Hear  strains,  like  those  in  which  the  gods  de- 
light. 

And,  if  you  kindly  look  on  us  the  while, 
We'll  reap  a  richer  banquet  from  thy  smile. 


ON  A  FRIEND. 

STILL  bloom  my  roses,  still  my  garden  bears 
Its  ripening  load  of  plums  and  juicy  pears ; 
Herbs  and  young  shrubs  put  forth  their  vigorous 

shoots, 
And  mingled  fragrance  breathes   from  flowers 

and  fruits. 

But  in  yon  much-loved  bower  I  sit  no  more, 
Yon  bower  of  myrtles  that  o'erlooks  the  shore- 
There    sat    my  friend    and    laughed    his   cares 

away 
But  yesternight — a.  senseless  corse  to-day. 


ZONAS  OF  SARDIS. 

STRABO  mentions  two  of  this  name  and  country;  one  distinguished  for  his  military  talents  in  the 
war  of  Mithridates;  the  other,  a  contemporary  and  friend  of  his  own,  in  the  reign  of  Tiberius. 


ON  A  SHIPWRECKED  MARINER. 
ACCEPT  a  grave  in  these  deserted  sands, 
That  on  thy  head  I  strew  with  pious  hands ; 
For  to  these  wintry  crags  no  mother  bears 
The  decent  rites,  or  mourns  thee  with  her  tears. 
Yet,  on  the  frowning  promontory  laid, 
Some  pious  dues,  Alexis,  please  thy  shade ; 
A  little  sand  beside  the  sounding  wave, 
Moisten'd  with  flowing  tears,  shall  be  thy  grave. 


TO  THE  BEES. 
YE  nimble,  honey-making  bees, 

the  flowers  are  in  their  prime ; 


Come  now  and  taste  the  little  buds 

of  sweetly-breathing  thyme ; 
Or  tender  poppies  all  so  fair, 

or  bits  of  raisins  sweet, 
Or  down  that  decks  the  apple-tribe, 

or  fragrant  violet: 
Come  nibble  on,  your  vessels  store 

with  honey  while  you  can, 
In  order  that  the  hive-protecting, 

bee-preserving  Pan 
May  have  a  tasting  for  himself; 

and  that  the  hand  so  rude, 
That  cuts  away  the  combs,  may  leave 

for  yourselves  a  little  food. 


ANTIPATER  OF  THESSALONICA 

A  DISTINGUISHED  court-poet,  in  the  reigns  of  Augustus,  Tiberius,  and  Caligula. 


THE  SEPARATION. 

0  HATEFUL  bird  of  morn,  whose  harsh  alarms 
Drive  me  thus  earlv  from  Chrysilla's  arms. 
Old  age  has  sprinkled  Tithon's  brow  with  snow, 
No  more  his  veins  in  ruddy  currents  flow ; 
How  cold  his  sense,  his  withered  heart  how  dead, 
Who  drives  so  soon  a  goddess  from  his  bed. 

A  WISH. 

O  THAT  we  had  the  art  to  know 
Each  man  by  more  than  outward  show  ; 
To  ope  the  door  of  every  breast 

And  see  the  soul's  most  secret  place, — 
Then  close  it  fast,  and,  thus  possest, 

Cling  to  our  friends  with  strict  embrace. 


GREEK  POETESSES. 
THESE  the  maids  of  heavenly  tongue, 
Reard  Pierian  cliffs  among : 
Anyte,  as  Homer  strong, 
Sappho,  star  of  Lesbian  song; 
Erinna,  famous  Telesilla, 
Myro  fair,  and  fair  Praxilla; 
Corinna, — she,  that  sang  of  yore, 
The  dreadful  shield  Minerva  bore. — 
Myrtis  sweet,  and  Nossis,  known 
For  tender  thought  and  melting  tone ; 
Framers  all  of  deathless  pages, 
Joys,  that  live  for  endless  ages — 
Nine  the  muses  famed  in  heaven, 
And  nine  to  mortals  earth  has  given. 


CRINAGORAS. 

A  NATIVE  of  Mitylene,  and  a  court-poet  and  client  in  the  family  of  Augustus  and  his  successor. 


ON  AN  IMAGE  OF  CUPID  BOUND. 
PERFIDIOUS  wretch!  well  may  you  cry, 
And  wring  your  hands,  and  sob  and  sigh: 
For  who  your  advocate  will  be  ? 
Who  now  from  chains  will  set  you  free? 
You  oft,  by  causeless  doubts  and  fear-;. 
From  other  eyes  have  forced  the  tears, 
And  by  your  bitter-biting  darts, 
Instill'd  love's  poison  in  our  hearts. 
You  oft  have  laugh'd  at  human  bale; 
But  now  your  arts,  elusive,  fail, 
And  justice  will  at  last  prevail. 

TO  HIS  MISTRESS. 
LET'S  fly,  my  love,  from  noonday's  beam, 
And  plunge  us  in  yon  t-n.-tling  stream; 
Then,  hastening  to  the  festal  bower, 
We'll  pass  in  mirth  the  evening  hour  : 
Tis  thus  our  age  of  bliss  shall  ily, 
As  sweet,  though  passing,  as  that 
Which  seems  to  whisper  o'er  your  lip;— 
"Come,  while  you  may,  of  rapture  sip." 
For  age  will  steal  the  gracefid  form, 
Will  chill  the  pulse,  while  throbbing  warm, 


And  death — alas !  that  hearts  which  thrill 
Like  yours  and  mine,  should  e'er  be  still. 


THE  BRIDAL  OFFERING. 

CHILDREN  of  spring,  but  now  in  wintry  snow, 
We  purple  roses  for  Calista  blow, 
Duteous  we  smiled  upon  her  natal  mornj 
Her  bridal  bed  to-morrow  we  adorn. 
Oh,  sweeter  far  to  bloom  our  little  day, 
Wreathed  in  her  hair,  than  wait  the  sunny  May. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  SOLDIER, 

IX   THE   ARMY  OF  GERMAKICUS. 

LET  Cynegeirus'  name,  renowned  of  yore, 
And  brave  Othryades  be  heard  no  more ! 
By  Rhine's  swoln  wave  Italian  Arrius  lay 
Translix'd   with  wounds,  and    sobb'd    his    soul 

away. 

But  seeing  Rome's  proud  eagle  captive  led, 
He  started  from  the  ghastly  heaps  of  dead, 
The  captor  slew,  the  noble  prize  brought  home, 
And  found  death  only  not  to  be  o'ercome. 

263 


ANTIPHILUS. 

A  NATIVE  of  Byzantium,  who  flourished  under  Nero,  and  from  his  time  to  that  of  Domitian. 


ON  AN  ANCIENT  OAK. 
HAH,  venerable  boughs,  that  in  mid  sky, 
Spread  broad  and  deep  your  leafy  canopy ! 
Hail,  cool,  refreshing  shade,  abode  most  dear 
To  the  sun-wearied  traveller,  wand'ring  near ! 
Hail,  close  inwoven  bow'rs,  fit  dwelling  place 
For  insect  tribes,  and  man's  imperial  race ! 
Me  too  reclining,  in  your  green  retreat, 
Shield  from  the  blazing  day's  meridian  heat. 


ON  THE  PICTURE  OF  MEDEA, 

BY  TIMOMACHUS. 

WHEN  bold  Timomachus  essay'd  to  trace 

The  soul's  emotions  in  the  varying  face, 

With   patient    thought,   and    faithful    hand,  he 

strove 

To  blend  with  jealous  rage  maternal  love. 
Behold  Medea!  Envy  must  confess 
In  both  the  passions  his  complete  success. 
Tears  in  each  threat — a  threat  in  every  tear, 
The  mind  with  pity  warm,  or  chill  with  fear. 


The  dread  suspense  I  praise,  the  critic  cries; 
Here  all  the  judgment,  all  the  pathos,  lies ; 
To  stain  with  filial  blood  the  guilty  scene, 
Had  marr'd  the  artist,  but  became  the  queen. 

ON  A  BEE'S  NEST. 
0  beautiful  Bee-homestead 

with  many  a  waxen  cell, 
Self-built— for  hanging,  so  it  seems, 

that  airy  citadel ! 
An  unbought  blessing  to  man's  life, 

which  neither  plough,  nor  hoe, 
Nor  axe,  nor  crooked  sickle, 

is  needed  to  bestow  ; 
A  tiny  vessel — and  no  more — 

wherein  the  busy  bee 
From  its  small  body,  liquid  sweets 

distilleth  lavishly. 
Rejoice,  ye  blessed  creatures ! 

regaling  while  ye  rove, 
Winged  workers  of  Nectareous  food, 

on  all  the  flowers  ye  love. 


LEONIDAS  OF  ALEXANDRIA. 

A  POET,  who  flourished  under  the  emperor  1  youth  to  study,  and  spent  his  after  years  in  habits 
Nero,  and  from  his  times  to  those  of  Hadrian,  of  intimacy  with  the  first  literary  characters  of 
He  speaks  of  himself  as  having  devoted  his  |  Rome. 


ON  THE  PICTURE  OF  AN  INFANT 

PLAYING  NEAR  A  PRECIPICE. 

WHILE  on  the  cliff  with  calm  delight  she  kneels, 
And  the  blue  vales  a  thousand  joys  recall, 

See,  to  the  last,  last  verge  her  infant  steals  ! 
0  fly — yet  stir  not,  speak  not,  lest  it  fall. — 

Far  better  taught,  she  lays  her  bosom  bare, 

And  the  fond  boy  springs  back  to  nestle  there. 

THE  DYING  SOLDIER  TO  HIS  FRIENDS. 
THAT  soul,  which  vanquish'd  war  could  never 

win, 

Now  yields  reluctant  to  a  foe  within. 
Oh,  seize  the  sword !  grant  me  a  soldier's  due, 
And  thus  Disease  shall  own  my  triumph  too. 
264 


ON  THE  VENUS  ANADYOMENE  OF 

APELLES. 

WHEN  from  the  bosom  of  her  parent  flood 
She  rose,  refulgent  with  the  encircling  brine, 
Apelles  saw  Cythera's  form  divine, 
And  fix'd  her  breathing  image  where  it  stood. 

Those  graceful  hands,  entwined,  that  wring  the; 

spray 

From  her  ambrosial  hair,  proclaim  the  truth ; 
Those  speaking  eyes,  where  amorous  lightnings 

play, 
Those    swelling   heavens,  the  harbingers  of 

youth ; 

The  rival  powers  behold  with  fond  amaze, 
And  yield  submission  in  the  conscious  gaze. 


PHILIP   OF  THESSALONICA.— PARMENION. 


205 


ON  THE  VOTIVE  IMAGE  OF  A  LION. 

lie  the  dark  winter's  night,  while  all  around 
The  furious  hail-storm  clatters  on  the  ground, 
Wnile  every  field  is  deep  in  drifted  snow, 
And  Boreas  bids  his  bitterest  tempests  blow, 
A  solitary  lion,  gaunt  and  grim, 
Ravenous  with  cold,  and  numb'd  in  every  limb, 
Stalks  to  the  goat-herd's  miserable  shed, 
From  the  rude  air  to  shield  his  storm-beat  head. 
The  astonish'd  natives  of  this  lonely  spot 
With  cries  of  stifled  horror  fill  the  cot; 


No  more  their  numerous  herds  demand  their  care, 
While  for  themselves  they  pour  the  broken  prayer, 
And  call  the  Saviour  Jove,  as  fix'd  they  stand, 
Together  press'd,  a  trembling,  shuddering  band, 
while  the  lordly  savage,  safe  and  warm, 
through  the  pelting  of  the  wintry  storm, 
Then  calmly  quits  the  whole  affrighted  horde, 
And  leaves  their  meal  untouch'd  upon  the  board. 
In  grateful  memory  of  so  rare  a  fate, 
The  swains  to  Jove  this  offering  consecrate, 
And  still,  suspended  from  the  oak-tree  show, 
This  faithful  image  of  their  generous  foe. 


PHILIP  OF  THESSALONICA. 

THE  second  collector  of  epigrams,  flourished  about  150  years  after  Meleager,  and  the  60th  year 

of  the  Christian  era. 


ON  A  VINE. 
rHo  has  that  unripe  cluster  torn, 

And  thrown,  with  wrinkled  lip,  away, 
And  left  the  parent  vine  to  mourn 

Her  fruit  to  barbarous  hands  a  prey  ? 
May  Bacchus  on  the  spoiler  turn 

His  fiercest  rage,  and  bitterest  smart ; 
His  head  with  fever'd  frenzy  burn, 

With  agony  distract  his  heart. 
For  hence  some  transitory  pleasure 

The  child  of  misery  might  have  found ; 
Burst  into  song  of  wildest  measure, 

And  quaff'd  oblivion  of  his  wound. 

ON  A  BRONZE  STATUE 

OP    THK     IUVKH    ECHOTAS. 

* 

PLTTXOBD  by  the  sculptor  in  a  bath  of  flame, 
Yet  in  his  native  bed  the  god  appears : 


The  watery  veil  yet  hangs  o'er  all  his  frame, 
And  every  pore  distils  the  crystal  tears. 
How  great  the  victory  of  art  that  gave 
To  brass  the  trembling  moisture  of  the  wave ! 


ON  A  YOUNG  MAID, 

WHO   DIED  THE   DAT  OF  HER  MARRIAGE. 

THE  flute  now  sounded  in  the  bridal  room 
Of  fair  Nicippus,  and  the  joyous  throng 

Danced  to  the  Hymenean,  when,  sad  doom ! 
Loud  lamentation  drowned  the  spousal  song.— 

The  wedded  maiden  lies — a  stricken  corse. 
Grim    Ades,    while    the    widowed    husband 

sheds 

Those  bitter  tears,  oh !  hast  thou  no  remorse, — 
Pleased  though  thou  be  with  weeping  bridal 
beds? 


PARMENION. 


[About  60  A.  D.] 
A  MACEDONIA*  by  birth,  and  a  contemporary  of  Philip,  the  second  collector  of  the  Anthology 


ON  THE  DEFEAT  OF  XERXES  AT 
THERMOPYLAE. 

IIH.  who  reversed  the  laws  fjreat  nature  gave, 
Sail'd  o'er  the  continent,  and  walk'd  the  wave, 


Three  hundred  spears  from  Sparta's  iron  plain, 
Have  stopp'd— oh  blush,  ye  mountains,  and  thou 
main. 


XENOCRITUS  OF  RHODES. 


ON  A  DAUGHTER  DROWNED  AT  SEA. 

COLD  on  the  wild  wave  floats  thy  virgin  form, 
Drench'd  are  thine  auburn  tresses  by  the  storm, 
Poor  lost  Eliza !  in  the  raging  sea, 
Gone  was  my  ev|ry  joy  and  hope  with  thee ! 


These  sad  recording  stones  thy  fate  deplore, 
Thy  bones  are  wafted  to  some  distant  shore ; 
What  bitter  sorrows  did  thy  father  prove, 
Who  brought  thee,  destined  for  a  bridegroom's  love! 
Sorrowing  he  came — nor  to  the  youth  forlorn 
Consign'd  a  maid  to  love,  or  corpse  to  mourn. 


MARCUS  ARGENTARIUS. 


"Perhaps,"  says  Mr.  Merivale,  "  the  Greek  rhetorician  mentioned  by  Seneca ;  or  perhaps,  the  Marcus 
Byzantinus  noticed  by  Philostratus  in  the  life  of  Apollonius." 


ON  A  SON  DROWNED  AT  SEA. 

HER  hapless  son,  now  buried  in  the  deep, 
Along  the  shore  Ly  si  dice  must  weep 
With  wailing  multitudinous,  while  she 
Eyes  this  vain  cenotaph,  and  thinks  of  me, 
Pythagoras  whose  corpse  the  gods  ordain 
To  float  with  sea-fowl  on  the  heaving  main, 
The  blue  ^Egean,  where  my  doom  was  pass'd, 
While  striving  to  resist  the  northern  blast. 
But  not  e'en  thus  were  all  my  wanderings  o'er, 
My  bark  I  left  for  that  which  seeks  the  Stygian 
shore. 

THE  LEAN  LOVERS. 
DEAR  Lyce,  thou  art  wond'rous  thin, 
And  I'm  a  bag  of  bones  and  skin  ; 


Yet  thou'rt  to  me  a  Venus ! 
Fat  lovers  have  not  half  our  bliss ; 
Our  very  souls  each  other  kiss, 

For  there's  no  flesh  between  us. 

THE  TEST  OF  LOVE. 

CALL  it  not  a  test  of  love 
If  sun-like  beauty  lights  the  flame. 

Beauty  every  heart  can  move  5 

It  delights  the  gods  above, 
And  is  to  all  the  same. 

But  if  thy  fond  doting  eye 
Has  taught  thy  heart  a  different  creed ; 

If  for  wrinkled  age  you'll  sigh, 

Or  adore  deformity. 
Then  you  must  love  indeed. 


^EMILIANUS  NIC^US. 

ON  THE  PICTURE  OF  AN  INFANT 

SUCKING  AT  THE   BREAST  OF  ITS  DYING  MOTHER. 

"Pictura  est,  oppido  capto,  ad  Matris  morientis  e  viilnere  mammam  adrepens  infans:  intelligiturque  sentire  mater, 
et  jimere  ne  emortuo  lacte  sanguinem  infans  lambat.— Plin. 

SUCK,  little  wretch,  while  yet  thy  mother  lives ! 
Suck  the  last  drop  her  fainting  bosom  gives ! 
She  dies — her  tenderness  survives  her  breath, 
And  her  fond  love  is  provident  in  death. 


TULLIUS  GEMINUS. 


ON  THEMISTOCLES. 


GREECE  be  the  monument :  around  her  throw 
The  broken  trophies  of  the  Persian  fleet ; 

Inscribe  the  gods  that  led  the  insulting  foe, 
And  mighty  Xerxes  at  the  tablet's  feet. 


There  lay  Themistocles — to  spread  his  fame 
A  lasting  column  Salamis  shall  be  ; 

Raise  not,  weak  man,  to  that  immortal  name 
The  little  records  of  mortality. 


ONESTUS. 


Called  a  Corinthian  in  the  titles  to  his  epigrams.     Reiske  supposes  his  true  name  to  have  been 

Onesias. 


THE  DIFFICULTY  AND  REWARD  OF 
SCIENCE. 

'Trs  hard  Parnassus  to  ascend, 
But  at  the  top  there  is  a  fount 

Shall  well  reward  you  at  the  end 
For  all  the  pains  you  took  to  mount. 

'Tis  hard  to  reach  the  top  of  science, 
But,  when  arrived,  securely  breathe ; 


To  pride  and  envy  bid  defiance, 

Nor  heed  the  storm  that  growls  beneath. 

HELICON. 

As  nectar,  welling  from  the  holy  fount 
Of  Hippocrene,  doth  the  spirit  cheer 

Of  him,  who  up  the  Heliconian  mount 

Hath  toil'd,  until  its  crest  at  length  is  near ; 

Such  is  the  steep  of  song ;  but  gain  that  height, 

And  every  muse  will  grace  thee  with  delight. 


LUCIAN. 


[Born  alx>ut  9O-Died  190,  A.  D.] 


A  WELL-KXOWX  Greek  writer,  born  at  Samo- 
sata  in  Syria.  He  was  bred  a  sculptor,  but 
nfterwards  devoting  himself  to  literature,  and 
becoming  an  author,  acquired  by  his  writings 


TO  A  WORN-OUT  BELLE. 

YES,  you  may  change  your  luiir,  but  not  your  age, 
Nor  smoothe  alas!  the  wrinkles  of  your  face; 

a  may  varnish  o'er  the  tell-tale  pa-e 
And  wear  a  mask  f«r  every  vanish'd  grace: 
But  there's  an  end.     No  Hecuba  by  aid 
Of  rouge  and  ceruse  is  a  Helen  made. 


such  favour  with  the  emperor  Marcus  Au- 
relius,  as  to  be  appointed  by  him  to  the  Re- 
gistrarship  of  Egypt.  He  died  at  the  age  of 
ninety. 


THE  PHYSICIAN  AND  HIS  SON. 
His  darling  son  a  certain  doctor  brought, 
To  be  by  me  in  the  belles  lettres  taught. 
The  lad  began — "Achilles'  wrath,  the  spring 
Of  woes  unnumbered,  heavenly  goddess,  sing''- 
When  to  the  following  line  he  ownward  went- 
"  Of  souls  to  Hades  prematurely  sent." 

267 


268 


DIONYSIUS. 


"Hold,"  said  the  leech,  "no  use  in  this  I  see; 
Such  lesson  he  may  learn  as  well  of  me, 
Who  souls  to  Hades  prematurely  send 
Without  the  aid  of  grammar-rules,  my  friend." 

TO  A  LONG-BEARDED  COXCOMB. 

IF  beards  long  and  bushy  true  wisdom  denote, 
Then  Plato  must  bow  to  a  hairy  he-goat ! 

PLEASURE  AND  PAIN. 

Ix  pleasure's  bowers  whole  lives  unheeded  fly; 
But  to  the  wretch  one  night's  eternity. 

AN  ENIGMA. 

HATER  of  poverty  and  scourge  of  those 
Who  live  in  wealth  and  indolent  repose  ; 
Borne  on  another's  feet  and  not  thine  own, 
Thou  sittest  where  the  poor  are  never  known ; 


Wreath'd  and  perfum'd,  the  all-delighted  guest 
Art  thou  where  Mirth  and  Bacchus  rule  the  feast, 
And  hovering  ever  at  the  rich  man's  door, 
Thou  shunn'st  the  humble  dwelling  of  the  poor.* 


EPITAPH  ON  A  CHILD. 
WEEP  not,  though  thus,  in  life's  fifth  year, 

I  fall,  Death's  early  due : 
If  few  the  joys  allow'd  me  here, 

My  sorrows  were  as  few. 


*  The  gout  is  treated  in  much  the  same  way  by  Mar- 
tial. Ixii.  17:  —  "Quare  tarn  multis  a  te,  Lentine,  diebus," 
&.C.,  and  its  parentage  is  not  unphilosophically  given  in 
the  following  distich  by  Hedylus  :  — 


Aun/u.t\ov?t'Bdx.%ou 

I  '  e/va-TOLi  Buy-amp, 
Says  limb-relaxing  Bacchus  to  limb-relaxing  Venus, 
A  daughter,  limb-relaxing  Gout,  is  now  begot  between  us. 


DIONYSIUS. 


TO  HIS  MISTRESS. 
1  WISH  I  could,  like  Zephyr,  steal 

To  wanton  o'er  thy  mazy  vest ; 
And  thou  wouldst  ope  thy  bosom-veil, 

And  take  me  panting  to  thy  breast ! 
I  wish  I  might  a  rose-bud  grow, 

And  thou  wouldst  cull  me  from  the  bower, 
To  place  me  on  that  breast  of  snow, 

Where  I  should  bloom,  a  wintry-flower. 
I  wish  I  were  the  lily's  leaf, 

To  fade  upon  that  bosom  warm  ; 
Content  to  wither,  pale  and  brief, 

The  trophy  of  thy  fairer  form. 


HYMN  TO  APOLLO. 

KEEP  silence  now,  with  reverential  awe, 
Wide  sether,  and  ye  mountains,  and  ye  meads, 
With    earth,  and   sea,  and    every  breeze,  and 

sound, 

And  voice  of  tuneful  bird — be  silent  all ; 
For  Phoebus,  with  his  beaming  locks  unshorn, 
Descends  among  us — on  a  stream  of  song. 
Sire  of  Aurora, — her  whose  eyelids  fair 
Are  of  the  braided  snow — her  rosy  car, 
Along  the  boundless  ridge  of  heaven's  expanse, 
Drawn    by    those   winged  steeds,   thou   urgest 


Exulting  in  thy  curls  of  flaming  gold. 

Thy  coronal  are  rays  of  dazzling  light 
Revolving  much,  and  pouring  on  the  earth, 
From    their    blest    fountains,    splendours    ever 

bright : 

While  of  thy  rivers  of  immortal  fire 
DAY,  the  beloved,  is  born. 

For  thee,  the  choirs 

Of  tranquil  stars  perform  their  mystic  round 
O'er   heaven's    imperial    pavement; — with   thy 

lyre, 

Oh !  Phoebus,  warbling  forth  its  ceaseless  notes — 
Delighted  :— 

While  the  Moon  serenely  clear, 
Borne  onward  in  her  steer-drawn  team  of  light, 
Heralds  the  changeful  seasons — and  her  heart 
With  pleasure  glows — while  clothing  daedal  earth 
With  beauteous  vestments  of  a  various  hue. 

THE  KISS. 
THE  kiss,  that  she  left  on  my  lip, 

Like  a  dew-drop,  shall  lingering  lie ; 
'Twas  nectar  she  gave  me  to  sip, 

'Twas  nectar  I  drank  in  her  sigh. 
From  the  moment  she  printed  that  kiss, 

Nor  reason  nor  rest  has  been  mine, 
My  soul  has  been  drunk  with  the  bliss, 

And  feels  a  delirium  divine. 


PHILOSTRATUS. 


[About  200  A.  D.] 

THIS  writer,  who  lived  at  the  court  of  the  I  following  popular  song  of  Ben  Jonson's ;  of 
emperors  Septimius  Severus  and  Alexander,  is  which  Cumberland  was  the  first,  I  believe,  to 
mentioned  here  from  his  connection  with  the  [  discover  the  origin.  See  Observer,  No.  cix. 


TO  CELIA. 
DRIJTK  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine ; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  within  the  cup, 

And  I'll  not  ask  for  wine. 
The  thirst,  that  from  my  soul  doth  rise, 

Demands  a  drink  divine  : 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sip, 

I  would  not  change  for  thine. 


I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath, 

Not  so  much  honouring  thee, 
As  giving  it  a  hope  that  theie 

It  might  not  withered  be. 

But  thou  thereon  didst  only  breathe, 

And  sent  it  back  to  me, 
Since  when  it  grows  and  smells,  I  swear, 

Not  of  itself,  but  thee. 


STRATO. 


A  NATIVE  of  Sardis,  and  supposed  to  have 
f  ourished  early  in  the  third  century.    His  poems 


LOVE  NOT  EXTINGUISHED  BY  AGE. 
OH  how  I  loved,  when,  like  the  glorious  sun, 
Firing  the  orient  with  a  blaze  of  light, 
Thy  beauty  every  lesser  star  outshone ! — 


(says  Mr.  Merivale,)  though  elegant  in  language, 
are,  for  the  most  part,  disgraceful  in  sentiment 


Now  o'er  that  beauty  steals  the  approach  of 

night — 

Yet,  yet  I  love !  Though  in  the  western  sea 
Half  sunk,  the  day-star  still  is  fair  to  me ! 


RUFINUS. 


MAIDEX  RESERVE. 
WHEV  blest  I  met  my  Rhodoclee  alone, 
On  the  c«>ld  earth  a  timid  suppliant  thrown, 
1  clasp'd  her  beauteous  knees,  and  bade  her  save 
A  wretch,  at  her  disposal,  from  t 
Listening   she   wept — too   soon   her   tears  were 

dried, 
And  with  soft  hand  she  moved  me  from  her  side. 

THE  GAIILAM). 
A.  WREATH  to  thee,  my  Rhodoclee, 

Twined  by  these  hands.  I  send, 
Where  the  lily's  snow,  and  the  rose-cup's  glow, 

In  rival  beauty  blend  ; 
Where  the  violet's  hue  of  freshest  blue 

With  jonquil  pale  you  see, 


And,  fragrant  yet  with  morning  dew, 

The  soft  anemone. 
Then  wear  them,  love ;  but  not  elate, 

For  soon  such  charms  are  flown ; 
And  in  the  flowerets'  changing  fate 

Thou  dost  but  read  thine  own. 


ENJOYMENT  OF  LOVE. 

THE  queen  of  heaven's  bright  eyes  illume  thy  face, 
Great  Pallas  lends  thine  arms  her  polish'd  grace  ; 
Thetis  thine  ancles'  slender  strength  bestows, 
And  Venus  in  thy  swelling  bosom  glows: 
Happy  the  lover  of  thy  sight  possest, 
Who  listens  to  thy  melting  voice,  thrice  blest; 
Almost  a  irod.  whose  love  is  met  by  thine, 
Who  folds  thee  in  his  arms,  indeed  divine ! 
x2  260 


270 


CARPHYL1DES.  — LUCILLIUS. 


EXHORTATION  TO  PLEASURE. 
Now,  as  we  rise  from  the  reviving  wave, 

Braid  we  our  locks,  my  Prodice,  with  flowers ; 
Drain  we  deep  bowls  of  wine,  and  wisely  save 

From  slow-paced  care  youth's  transitory  hours. 
For  withering  age  upon  our  path  attends, 
Joys  drop  by  joys,  and  death  the  picture  ends. 


THE  WARNING. 
DID  I  not  warn  thee,  Prodice,  that  time 

Would    soon  divide  thee  from  the  youthful 

throng, 
Feed  on  the  blooming  damask  of  thy  prime, 

And  scatter  wrinkles  as  he  pass'd  along1? 
The  hour  is  come — for  who  with  amorous  song 

Now  woos  thy  smile,  or  celebrates  thy  bloom  7 
See,  from  thy  presence  how  the  gay  and  young 

Retiring  turn,  and  shrink  as  from  the  tomb  I 


THE  DENIAL  OF  LOVE. 

WHY  will  Melissa,  young  and  fair, 

Still  her  virgin  love  deny, 
When  every  motion,  every  air, 
The  passion  of  her  soul  declare, 
And  give  her  words  the  lie? 


That  panting  breath,  that  broken  sigh, 
Those  limbs  that  trembling  fail, 

And  that  dark  hollow  round  her  eye, 

(The  mark  of  Cupid's  archery,) 
Too  plainly  tell  the  tale. 

But,  oh  thou  god  of  soft  desire, 

By  thy  mother  throned  above, 
Oh,  let  not  pity  quench  thine  ire, 
Till,  yielding  to  thy  fiercest  fire, 
She  cries,  at  length,  "I  love." 

THE  CURE  OF  DISDAIN. 
COLD  Rhodope,  of  beauty  vain,  replies, 
Whene'er  I  greet  her,  with  disdainful  eyes: 
The  wreath  I  wove,  and  on  her  door-post  bound, 
Scornful  she  tore,  and  trampled  on  the  ground. 
Remorseless  age  and  wrinkles,  to  my  aid 
Fly,  swiftly  fly,  and  Rhodope  persuade. 


ENJOYING  LIFE. 
LET  us,  my  friend,  in  joy  refine, 
Bathe,  crown  our  brows,  and  quaff  our  wine : 
Short  is  the  space  of  human  joys, 
What  age  prevents  not,  death  destroys. 


CARPHYLIDES. 


ON  A  HAPPY  OLD  MAN. 


THINK  not,  whoe'er  thou  art,  my  fate  severe ; 
Nor  o'er  my  marble  stop  to  shed  a  tear ! 
One  tender  partner  shared  my  happy  state, 
And  all  that  life  imposes,  but  its  weight. 
Three  lovely  girls  in  nuptial  ties  I  bound, 
And  children's  children  smiled  my  board  around. 


And,  often  pillow'd  on  their  grand  sire's  breast, 
Their  darling  offspring  sunk  to  sweetest  rest. 
Disease  and  death  were  strangers  to  my  door, 
Nor  from  my  arms  one  blooming  infant  tore. 
All,  all  survived,  my  dying  eyes  to  close, 
Arid  hymn  my  spirit  to  a  blest  repose. 


LUCILLIUS 


[About  375  A.  D.] 


THE  GOOD  PHYSICIAN. 

WHEN  Magnus  sought  the  realms  of  night, 
Grim  Pluto  trembled  for  his  right. 
"That  fellow  comes,"  he  said,  "'tis  plain, 
To  call  my  ghosts  to  life  again." 


ENVY. 
Poon  Cleon  out  of  envy  died, 

His  brother  thief  to  see 
Nail'd  near  him  to  be  crucified 

Upon  a  higher  tree. 


FORTUNE. 

FORTUNE  reverses  with  a  smile  or  frown. 
Exalts  the  poor,  and  pulls  the  mighty  down. 
Though  rich  in  golden  ore  thy  rivers  flow, 
Her  pow'r   shall  curb  thy  pride   and  haughty 

brow. 
The  wind  that  sweeps  tempestuous  through  the. 

sky, 

Howls  o'er  the  bending  broom,  and  passes  by; 
But   the    broad    oak    uproots,    and    planes    Mat 

waved 
Their  royal  branches  and  its  fury  braved. 


GREGORY   OF   NAZIANZEN.— PALLADAS. 


271 


ON  LONG  NOSES. 

HEAVEXS,  what  a  nose!  Forbear  to  look, 
Whene'er  you  drink,  in  fount  or  brook  : 
For,  as  the  fair  Narcissus  died, 
When  hanging  o'er  a  fountain's  side, 
You  too,  the  limpid  water  quailing, 
May  die,  my  worthy  sir,  with  laughing. 

FALSE  FRIENDSHIP. 

AKT  thou  my  friend — forbear  to  do  me  guile, 
Nor  clothe  a  secret  grudge  in  friendship's  smile  : 
For  traitorous  friendship  wounds  th'  unguarded 

breast 
With  surer  aim  than  enmity  profess'd ; 


And  more  on  shoals  the  sailor  fears  to  wreck, 
Than  where  the  rocks  hang  frowning  o'er  his  deck. 

THE  FEAR  OF  DEATH. 

I  MOTTRW  not  those,  who,  banish'd  from  the  light, 
Sleep  in  the  grave  through  Death's  eternal  night; 
But  those  whom  Death,  for  ever  near,  appals, 
Who  see  the  blow  suspended  ere  it  falls.* 


-Despair 


Tended  the  sick,  busiest  from  couch  to  couch; 
And  over  them  triumphant  Death  his  dart 
Shook,  but  delayed  to  strike,  though  oft  invok'd 
With  vows,  as  their  chief  good  and  final  hope. 

Milton. 


GREGORY  OF  NAZIANZEN. 


[Born  about  325 -Died  389,  A.  D.] 


GREGORY  was  born  in  Cappadocia,  and  be- 
came, first,  bishop  of  Sasima,  and  afterwards,  of 
Nazianxen.  "  The  title  of  Saint"  says  Mr.  Gib- 
be  n,  "has  been  added  to  his  name;  but  the 


tenderness  of  his  heart  and  the  elegance  of  his 
genius  reflect  a  more  pleasing  lustre  on  his  me- 
mory." In  taste,  eloquence,  and  learning,  he  was 
inferior  to  none  of  his  age. 


ON  A  YOUTH  OF  FAIR  PROMISE. 

EUPHEMIUS  slumbers  in  this  hallowed  ground, 
Son  of  Amphilocus,  by  all  renown'd  : 
H'>,  whom  the  Graces  to  the  Muses  gave, 
Tuneful  no  more,  lies  mouldering  in  the  grave  : 


The  minstrels  came  to  chaunt  his  bridal  lay, 
But  swifter  Envy  bore  the  prize  away. 

Another  on  the  Same. 

ECPHEMIUS  flash'd,  then  veil'd  his  dazzling  beam, 
As  bright  and  transient  as  the  lightning's  gleam. 


PALLADAS. 


[About  370  or  380,  A.  D.] 


SUPPOSED  to  be  the  same  with  Palladia*,  the 
author  of  >ev<-ral  epistles  in  the  collection  of 
Libaniu-.  11.'  \v  a<  (-ay>  Mr.  Merivale)  a  mode- 


rate nnd  philosophical  pagan;  and,  in  one  of  his 
epigrams,  lamented  the  overthrow  of  the  worship 
of  his  fathers  by  the  emperor,  Theodosius. 


ALL  THE  WORLD'S  A  STAGE. 

THIS  life  a  theatre  \ve  well  may  call, 

Where  every  actor  must  perform  with  art. 

Oi  laugh  it  through,  and  make  a  farce  of  all, 
Or  learn  to  bear  with  grace  his  tragic  part. 


MARRIAGE 

Iv  marriage  are  nv<>  hnppy  things  allow'd, 
A  wife  in  we'ldinur  Lrarb.  and  in  her  shroud: 
Who  then  dares  say  that  state  can  be  accurst, 
Where  the  last  day's  as  happy  as  the  first? 


272 


JULIAN,  PREFECT  OF  EGYPT. 


ON  THE  SHORTNESS  AND  EVILS  OF  LIFE. 
DARK  are  our  fates — to-morrow's  sun  may  peer 
From  the  flush'd  east  upon  our  funeral  bier ; 
Then  seize  the  joys  that  wine  and  music  give, 
Nor  talk  of  death  while  yet  'tis  giv'n  to  live ; 
Soon  shall  each  pulse  be  still,  closed  every  eye, 
One  little  hour  remains  or  ere  we  die. 

On  the  Same. 

Is-  tears  I  drew  life's  earliest  breath, 
In  tears  shall  give  it  back  to  death ; 
And  all  my  past  quick  fleeting  years 
Have  been  one  varied  scene  of  tears. 
Oh  race,  for  ever  doom'd  to  mourn, 
To  weakness,  pain,  and  misery  born ; 
Then  driven  to  unknown  shades  away, 
To  ashes  burnt  or  turn'd  to  clay ! 

On  the  Same. 

WAKING,  we  burst,  at  each  return  of  morn, 
From  death's  dull  fetters  and  again  are  born ; 
No  longer  ours  the  moments  that  have  past : 
To  a  new  remnant  of  our  lives  we  haste. 
Call  not  the  years  thine  own  that  made  thee  gray, 
That  left  their  wrinkles,  and  have  fled  away ; 
The  past  no  more  shall  yield  thee  ill  or  good, 
Gone  to  the  silent  times  beyond  the  flood. 

SPARTAN  VIRTUE. 
FROM  the  dire  conflict  as  a  Spartan  fled, 
His  mother  cross'd  his  path,  and  awful  said, 

Pointing  her  sword  against  his  dastard-heart, 
"  If  thou  canst  live,  the  mark  of  scorn  and  shame, 
Thou  liv'st,  the  murderer  of  thy  mother's  fame, 

The  base  deserter  from  a  soldier's  part. 
If  by  this  hand  thou  diest,  my  name  must  be 
Of  mothers  most  unblest ;  but  Sparta's  free." 


ANACREONTIC. 

THE  laughing  women  call  me  old, 
And  bid  me  in  the  glass  behold 

The  ruins  of  my  former  state  ; 
But  let  the  locks  my  temples  bear 
Be  gray  or  black,  I  little  care, 

And  leave  it  to  the  will  of  Fate. 

Yet  this  I  know — though  Nature's  call 
Subjects  me  to  the  lot  of  all, 

Still,  as  my  ebbing  days  decline, 
I'll  make  the  most  of  my  short  hours, 
Be  bathed  in  odours,  crown 'd  with  flowers, 

And  drown  old  care  in  floods  of  wine. 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  AGE. 
THE  brazen  image  of  Jove's  patient  son 
Alcides, — prostrate  and  dishonoured  lay, 
Where  worshippers  their  vows  were  wont  to 

Pa7> 
And  moved  with  grief  I  cried — «  Thee,  mighty 

One, 

With  triple  toil  begot,  filth  now  begrimes, 
The  plague-subduer,  ne'er  before  subdued." 
"  Friend,"  said  the  smiling  god,  who  near  me 

stood, 
"  We  gods  must  serve  the  spirit  of  the  times." 

ON  A  CELEBRATED  ACTOR.* 
ONCE,  in  a  fearful  vision  of  the  night, 
Lothario  seem'd  Rowe's  frowning  ghost  to  see. 
"I  never  wrong'd  thee,"  cried  the  laurell'd  sprite, 
"Oh  why,  Lothario,  dost  thou  murder  me?" 


*  In  the  original,  Menander  is  the  poet  for  whom  the 
name  of  Rovve  is  here  substituted;  and  as  for  Lothario, 
he  may  be  any  actor  the  reader  cljooses  to  fancy. 


JULIAN,  PREFECT  OF  EGYPT 


[About  360  A.  D.] 


ON  DEMOCRITUS. 
PLUTO,  receive  the  Sage,  whose  ghost 

Is  wafted  to  thy  gloomy  shore. 
One  laughing  spirit  seeks  the  coast, 

Where  never  smile  was  seen  before. 

LOVE  AND  WINE. 
ONCE  on  a  time,  as  for  my  fair 

a  wreath  I  chanced  to  twine, 
I  caught  young  Love  amongst  the  flowers, 

and  plunged  him  in  rny  wine ; — 
I  plunged  him  in,  and  drank  him  up, 

with  such  delicious  glee, 
And  now  the  urchin,  with  his  wings, 

is  always — tickling  me. 


ON  A  YOUNG  BRIDE. 

THINE,  Laura, — thou  of  every  grace  the  bloom, — 
Were  timely  spousal  and  untimely  tomb. 
Tears,  bitter  tears,  thy  sire,  thy  husband,  shed  • 
Tears,  that  might  melt  the  boatman  of  the  dead- 
Scarce  one  short  year  to  marriage  joys  allow'd, 
Thy  sixteenth  summer  wraps  thee  in  thy  shroud. 

OFFERING  OF  LAIfc  TO  VENUS. 
LAIS,  when  time  had  spoiled  her  wonted  grace, 
Abhorred  the  look  of  age  that  ploughed  her  face ; 
Her  glass,  sad  monitor  of  charms  decay 'd, 
Before  the  queen  of  lasting  bloom  §he  laid : 
"The  sweet  companion  of  my  youthful  years 
Be  thine  (she  said);  no  change  thy  beauty  fej',rs." 


MUS.EUS. 


THE  author  of  the  following  poem  was  not 
the  ancient  Musseus,  (as  some  have  conjectured 
him  to  be,)  but  a  grammarian  of  that  name, 
who  lived  in  the  fifth  century.  "Nor  let  the. 
English  reader"  says  the  translator,  "look  upon 
the  title  of  grammarian  as  a  term  of  reproach, 


THE  LOVES  OF  HERO  AND  LEANDER. 
Sure,  Muse  !  the  conscious  torch,  whose  nightly 

ray 

Led  the  bold  lover  through  the  watery  way, 
To  share   those  joys   which   mutual   faith  hath 

seal'd, 

Joys  to  divine  Aurora  unreveal'd. 
Abydos,  Sestos,  ancient  towns,  proclaim, 
Where  gentlest  bosoms  glow'd  with  purest  flame. 
1  hear  Leander  dash  the  foaming  tide! 
Fix'd  high  in  air,  I  see  the  glimmering  guide! 
The  genial  flame,  the  love-enkindling  light, 
Signal  of  joy  that  burn'cl  serenely  bright; 
Whose  beams,  in  fair  effulgency  display'd, 
A.loni'd  the  nnpiials  of  the  Sestian  maid: 
Which  Jove,  its  friendly  oflice  to  repay, 
Should  plant,  all-glorious,  in  the  realms  of  day, 
To  blaze  for  ever  'midst  the  stars  above, 
And  style  it  gentle  harbinger  of  Love. 

Against  Abydos  sea-beat  Sestos  stood, 
Two  neighb'ring  towns,  divided  by  the  flood: 
Here  Cupid  prov'd  his  bow's  unerring  art. 
And  gain'd  two  conquests  with  a  single  dart: 
On  two  fond  hearts  the  sweet  infection  prey  d. 
A  youth  engaging,  find  a  beauteous  maid: 
Of  Sestos  she,  fair  Hero  was  her  name ; 
The  youth,  Leander.  fmm  Abydos  came. 
Their  forms  divine  a  bright  resemblance  bore, 
Each  was  the  radiant  star  of  either  shore. 

Thou,  whom    the  Fates  commission  here  to 

stray, 

Awhile  the  turret's  eminence  survey; 
Thence  Hero  held  the  bla/ing  torch,  to  guide 
Her  lover  rolinir  on  the  h<>i>terous  tide ; 
The  rorirmu  Hellespont,  whose  wave-worn  strait 
Still  in  loud  murmurs  mourns  Le;mder's  fate. 

•lenv'nly  Mu-c.  hud  Hero  charms  to  move, 
And  melt  the  Abydinian  into  love  < 
Say,  with  what  wiles  the  amorous  youth  inspir'd. 
Obtain'd  the  virgin  whom  his  soul  admir'd? 

Fair  Hero,  priestess  to  th'  Idalian  queen, 
Of  birth  illustrious,  as  of  graceful  mein, 
Dwelt  on  a  high  sequester'd  tower,  that  stood 
Firm  on  the  ramparts,  and  o'erlook'd  the  flood: 
Chaste,  and  unconscious  of  Love's  ph-a.-ing  pain, 
She  seem'd  a  new-born  Venus  of  the  main  ; 
But,  nice  of  conduct,  prudently  withdrew 
Far  from  the  follies  of  the  female  crew  : 


though  now  frequently  used  as  such.  The  pro- 
fession, styled  by  the  ancients  rpo^uaT'weJf,  was 
the  same  as  that  of  Belles  Lettres  among  the 
moderns;  and  the  appellation  of  grammarian 
was  particularly  applied  to  those  who  excelled 
in  every  kind  of  polite  learning." 


Blest  in  retreat,  she  shunn'd  the  vain  delight 

Of  daily  visits,  and  the  dance  at  night, 

Content  in  sweet  tranquillity  to  screen 

Her  blooming  beauty  from  malignant  spleen; 

For  where  superior  beauty  shines  confest, 

It  kindles  envy  in  each  female  breast. 

To  soften  Venus  oft  with  prayer  she  strove, 

Oft  pour'd  libations  to  the  God  of  Love  ; 

Taught  by  th'  example  of  the  heavenly  dame, 

To  dread  those  arrows  that  were  tipp'd  with 

flame. 

Vain  all  her  caution,  fruitless  prov'd  her  prayer; 
Love  gains  an  easy  conquest  o'er  the  fair. 

For  now  the  sacred  festival  appeared, 
By  pious  Sestians  annually  rever'd, 
At  Venus'  fane  to  pay  the  rites  divine, 
And  offer  incense  at  Adonis'  shrine. 
Vast  crowds  from  all  the  sea-girt  isles  repair, 
The  day  to  rev'rence,  and  the  feast  to  share. 
From  flowery  Cyprus,  circled  by  the  main, 
And  high  Hfpmonia,  hastes  the  youthful  train; 
Not  one  remain'd  of  all  the  female  race 
Thy  towns,  Cythera.  and  thy  groves  to  grace ; 
Afar  from  spicy  Libanus  advance 
The    throngs   unnumber'd,    skill'd   to   lead   the 

dance ; 

From  Phrygian  plains  they  haste  in  shoals  away, 
And  all  Abydos  celebrates  the  day. 
To  Sestos  nil  the  mirthful  youths  repair, 
All  that  admire  the  gay,  the  young,  the  fair; 
For  amorous  swains,  when  rmnour'd  feasts  in- 
vite, 

Joy  at  the  nevs,  and  follow  with  delight, 
Not  to  the  gods  to  pay  the  rites  divine, 
Or  orler  incense  at  some  sacred  shrine; 
Few  are  their  nilerirgs,  and  concise  their  prayer, 
Who  give  their  whole  devotion  to  the  fair. 

As  through  the  temple  pass'd  the  Sestian  maid, 
Her  face  a  sofi.-u'd  dignity  display'd; 
Thus  silver  Cynthia's  milder  glories  rise, 
To  glad  the  pale  dominion  of  the  skies. 
Her  lovely  cheeks  a  pure  vermilion  shed, 
Like  roses  beautifully  streak'd  with  red; 
A  flowery  mead  her  well-turn'd  limbs  disclose, 
I'raught  with  the  blushing  beauties  of  the  rose: 
But  when  she  mov'd.  in  radiant  mantle  drest, 
Flowers  half  unveil'd  adorn'd  her  flowing  vest, 
And  numerous  graces  wanton'd  on  her  breast. 

273 


274 


MUS^US. 


The  ancient  sages  made  a  false  decree, 
Who  said,  the  Graces  were  no  more  than  three ; 
When  Hero  smiles,  a  thousand  graces  rise, 
Sport  on  her  cheek,  and  revel  in  her  eyes. 
Such  various  beauties  sure  conspir'd  to  prove 
The  priestess  worthy  of  the  Queen  of  Love. 
Thus  as  she  shone  superior  to  the  rest, 
In  the  sweet  bloom  of  youth  and  beauty  drest, 
Such  softness  temper'd  with  majestic  mien, 
The  earthly  priestess  match'd  the  heav'nly  queen. 
The  wondering  crowds  the  radiant  nymph  ad- 
mire, 

And  every  bosom  kindles  with  desire ; 
Eager  each  longs,  transported  with  her  charms, 
To  clasp  the  lovely  virgin  in  his  arms ; 
Where'er  she  turns,  their  eyes,  their  thoughts  pur- 
sue, 

They  sigh,  and  send  their  souls  at  every  view. 
Then  thus  some  ardent  youth  bespoke  the  rest, 
Cast  a  fond  look,  and  open'd  all  his  breast: 

"  I  oft  at  Sparta  wondering  have  beheld 
Young  maids  contending  in  the  listed  field, 
Sparta,  that  boasts  the  emulated  prize 
Of  fairest  virgins,  and  of  brightest  eyes; 
Yet  ne'er  till  now  beheld  a  nymph  so  fair, 
Such  beauty  blended  with  such  graceful  air : 
Perhaps  (for  sure  immortal  is  her  race) 
Beneath  the  priestess  Venus  hides  a  Grace. 
My  dazzled  eyes  with  constant  gazing  tire, 
But  my  fond  fancy  ever  could  admire. 
O !  make  me,  Venus,  partner  of  her  bed, 
Though  Fate  that  instant  strike  the  lover  dead : 
Let  but  my  love  the  heavenly  Hero  crown, 
I  on  the  gods  will  look  superior  down. 
Should  you  this  boon  deny,  O  queen !  decree, 
To  bless  my  days,  a  nymph  as  fair  as  she!" 

Thus  spoke  the  general  voice ;  the  train  apart 
Conceal  the  wound  deep  rankling  in  the  heart. 
But  when  Leander  saw  the  blooming  fair, 
Love  seiz'd  his  soul  instead  of  dumb  despair; 
Resolv'd  the  lucky  moments  to  improve, 
He  sought  occasion  to  reveal  his  love ; 
The  glorious  prize  determined  to  obtain, 
Or  perish  for  those  joys  he  could  not  gain. 
Her  sparkling  eyes  instilling  fond  desire 
Entranc'd  his  soul,  and  kindled  amorous  fire. 
Such  radiant  beauty,  like  the  pointed  dart, 
With  piercing  anguish  stings  th'  unguarded  heart : 
For  on  the  eye  the  wound  is  first  imprest, 
'Till  by  degrees  it  rankles  in  the  breast. 
Now  hope  and  confidence  invade  his  soul; 
Then  fear  and  shame  alternately  control : 
Fear    through  his  bosom  thrill'd  ;    a  conscious 

shame 

Confess'd  the  passion  which  it  seem'd  to  blame : 
Her  beauties  fix'd  him  iu  a  wild  amaze ; 
Love  made  him  bold,  and  not  afraid  to  gaze. 
With  step  ambiguous,  and  affected  air, 
The  youth  advancing  fac'd  the  charming  fair : 
Each  amorous  glance  he  cast,  though  forrn'd  by 

art, 

Yet  sometimes  spoke  the  language  of  his  heart ; 
With  nods  and  becks  he  kept  the  nymph  in  play, 
And  tried  all  wiles  to  steal  her  soul  away. 
Soon  as  she  saw  the  fraudful  youth  beguil'd, 
Fair  Hero,  conscious  of  her  beauty,  smil'd ; 


Oft  in  her  veil  conceal'd  her  glowing  face, 
Sweetly  vermilion'd  with  the  rosy  grace ; 
Yet  all  in  vain  to  hide  her  passion  tries, 
She  owns  it  with  her  love-consenting  eyes. 
Joy  touch 'd  the  bosom  of  the  gentle  swain, 
To  find  his  love  was  not  indulg'd  in  vain. 
Then,  while  he  chid  the  tedious  lingering  day, 
Down  to  the  west  declin'd  the  solar  ray ; 
And  dewy  Hesper  shone  serenely  bright, 
In  shadowy  silence  leading  on  the  night. 
Soon  as  he  saw  the  dark  involving  shade, 
Th'  embolden'd  youth  approach'd  the  blooming 

maid ; 

Her  lily  hand  he  seiz'd,  and  gently  prest, 
And  softly  sigh'd  the  passion  of  his  breast: 
Joy  touch'd  the  damsel,  though  she  seem'd  dis- 

pleas'd, 

And  soon  withdrew  the  lily  hand  he  seiz'd. 
The  youth    perceiv'd,   through  well-dissembled 

wiles, 

A  heart  just  yielding  by  consenting  smiles  ; 
Then  to  the  temple's  last  recess  convey'd 
The  unreluctant,  unresisting  maid  : 
Her  lovely  feet,  that  seem'd  to  lag  behind, 
But  ill  conceal'd  her  voluntary  mind. 
She  feign'd  resentment  with  an  angry  look, 
And,  sweetly  chiding,  thus  indignant  spoke : 

"Stranger,  what  madness  has   possess'd   thy 

brain, 

To  drag  me  thus  along  the  sacred  fane  ? 
Go — to  your  native  habitation  go— 
'Tis  quite  unkind  to  pull  my  garments  so. 
Rich  are  my  parents — urge  not  here  your  fate, 
Lest  their  just  vengeance  you  repent  too  late  : 
If  not  of  me,  of  Venus  stand  afraid, 
In  her  own  fane  soliciting  a  maid : 
Hence  speed  your  flight ;  and  Venus'  anger  dread ; 
'Tis  bold  aspiring  to  a  virgin's  bed." 

Thus  chid  the  maid,  as  maids  are  wont  to  do, 
And  show'd  her  anger,  and  her  fondness  too  : 
The  wily  youth,  as  thus  the  fair  complain'd, 
Too  well  perceiv'd  the  victory  was  gain'd : 
For  nymphs  enrag'd  the  more  complying  prove, 
And  chiclings  are  the  harbingers  of  love. 
He  kiss'd  her  snowy  neck,  her  fragrant  breast : 
And  thus  the  transport  of  his  soul  exprest : 

"  0  lovely  fair,  in  whom  conibin'd  are  seen 
The  charms  of  Venus,  and  Minerva's  mien! 
For  sure  no  virgin  of  terrestrial  race 
Can  vie  with  Hero  in  the  bloom  of  face  : 
I  deem  your  lineage  from  the  gods  above, 
And  style  you  daughter  of  Saturnian  Jove. 
Blest  is  the  father  from  whose  loins  you  sprung, 
Blest  is  the  mother  at  whose  breast  you  hung, 
Blest,  doubly  blest,  the  fruitful  womb  that  bore 
This  heavenly  form  for  mortals  to  adore. 

"  Yet,  beauteous  Hero,  grant  a  lover's  prayer. 
Arid  to  my  wishes  prove  as  kind  as  fair : 
As  Venus'  priestess,  just  to  Venus  prove, 
Nor  shim  the  gentle  offices  of  love. 
O  let  us,  while  the  happy  hour  invites, 
Propitious,  celebrate  the  nuptial  rites. 
No  maid  can  serve  in  Cytherea's  fane ; 
Her  eyes  delight  not  in  the  virgin-train. 
Then  as  you  fear  the  Goddess  to  offend, 
In  me  behold  your  husband  and  your  friend, 


MUS^US. 


275 


<Qrdain'(l  by  Cupid,  greatest  God  above, 
!i  you  all  the  mysteries  of  love : 
As,  willed  Mercury,  with  golden  wand, 
Made  Hercules,  with  distail'in  hi.s  hand, 
To  every  task  of  Omphale  submit; 
Tims  Love,  more  powerful  than  the  God  of  Wit, 

me  to  you.      'Tis  needless  to  relate 
T  ie  chaMe  Areadian  Atalanta's  fate; 
\\  ho  from  th'  embraces  of  Milanion  fled, 
Her  faithful  lover,  and  the  nuptial  bed: 
But  vengeful  Venus  caus'd  the  nymph  to  burn 
With  equal  flame,  and  languish  in  her  turn. 
O  let  example  warn  you  to  revere 
The  wrathful  Goddess,  and  your  lover  hear!" 
Thus  spoke  the  youth — his  magic  words  con- 
trol 

Her  wavering  breast,  and  soften  all  her  soul. 
S:lent  she  stood,  and,  rapt  in  thought  profound, 
Her  modest  eyes  were  fix'd  upon  the  ground: 
HIT  checks  she  hid.  in  rosy  blushes  drest, 
And  veil'd  her  lily  shoulders  with  her  vest: 
On  the  rich  floor,  with  Parian  marble  laid, 
Her  nimble  foot  involuntary  play'd. 

-  .:ns  a  yielding  mind  is  meant; 
A  nd  silence  speaks  the  willing  maid's  consent. 
?*ow  had  the  wily  God's  envenom'd  dart 
I'ilfus'd  the  pleasing  poison  to  her  heart; 

let's  form,  instilling  soft  desire, 
Woo'd  her  pleas'd  eyes,  and  set  her  soul  on  fire. 
While  on  the  irround  fair  Hero  fix'd  her  sight, 

M  view'd,  with  exquisite  delight, 
Her  swelling  breast,  and  neck  as  ivory  white. 
At  length  her  face  with  lovely  blushes  spread 
She  rais'd.  and  thus  in  sweet  confusion  said: 

•r.  thy  words  -uch  ma_ic  sounds  convey 
With  soft  compasMon  rucks  would  melt  away. 
Who  torm'd  thy  tongue  with  such  persuasive  art 
To  pour  delightful  ruin  on  the  heart? 
Ah  !   tell  me.  who  Thus  taught  thee  to  explore 
My  lone  retirement  on  the  Thraei;ui  shore? 
Thy  speech, though  plea>incr.  llow'd  to  me  in  vain: 
H(,v,  i:iger  Hero's  love  obtain? 

Should  I  in  public  give  to  thee  my  hand, 
Mv  parents  would  forbid  the  nuptial  ban  1. 
And  should'st  thou  here  in  close  concealment  stay 
Our  secret  pa.--ion  would  itself  betray  : 
For  soon  the  voice  of  scandal-spreading  fame 
The  ii'  •  '"id  aioiid  proclaim. 

.tli-  youth,  thy  name,  thy  country  tell; 
For  mine,  alas!  by  thee  are  known  too  well. 
In  yon  high  tower,  which  •  SettOt  stands, 

An  1  all  the  roaring  Hellopont  commands, 
With  one  attending  damsel  I  remain  ; 
For  M)  my  parents  and  the  Fates  ordain! 
\o  nymphs,  coeval,  to  sweet  mu-ic's  sound 
Lead  the  smooth  dance. or  lightly  beat  the  ground  ; 
But  stormy  winds  eternal  di.-cord  keep, 
And    blistering    bellow    through    the    bom 

deep." 

Thus  spoke  the   priestess,  and,  with  modest 

grace, 

1  il'd  the  new-born  beauties  of  her  face; 

For  on  her  cheeks  the  m-eate  blush  that  hung 

I'd  to  condemn  the  language  of  her  tonj 

Meanwhile  Leander  feeds  the  hidden  lire. 

Glows  in  each  vein,  and  burns,  with  fierce  desire  : 


But  anxious  doubt  his  musing  breast  alarms; 
How  shall  he  gain  admittance  to  her  charms? 
Nor  long  he  paus'd.  for  Love  in  wiles  abounds, 
Well-pleas'd    to    heal    the    bosoms    which    he 

wounds : 

'Twas  he,  whose  arrows  men  and  gods  control, 
That  heal'd  Leander's  love-afflicted  soul; 
Who  thus,   while    sighs    upheav'd    his  anxious 

breast, 
The  nymph  with  artfid  eloquence  addrest: 

"  For  thee,  dear  object  of  rny  fond  desire, 
I'll  cross  the  ocean,  though  it  flame  with  fire : 
Nor  would  I  fear  the  billows'  loud  alarms, 
While  every  billow  bore  me  to  thy  arms; 
Uncheck'd,  undaunted  by  the  boisterous  main, 
Tempestuous  winds  should  round  me  roar  in  vain : 
But  oft  as  night  her  sable  pinions  spread, 
1 1  through  the  storm  would  swim  to  Hero's  bed : 
For  rich  Abydos  is  the  home  I  boast, 
Not  far  divided  from  the  Thracian  coast. 
Let  but  my  fair  a  kindly  torch  display, 
From  the  high  turret,  to  direct  my  way ; 
Then  shall  thy  daring  swain  securely  glide, 
The  bark  of  Cupid,  o'er  the  yielding  tide, 
Thyself  my  haven,  and  thy  torch  my  guide : 
And  while  I  view  the  genial  blaze  afar, 
I'll  swim  regardless  of  Bootes'  car, 
Of  fell  Orion,  and  the  Northern  Wain 
That  never  bathes  his  brightness  in  the  main : 
Thy  Star,  more  eminently  bright  than  they, 
Shall  lead  the  lover  to  his  blissful  bay. 
But  let  the  torch,  O  nymph  divinely  fair! 
My  only  safety,  be  thy  only  care ; 
Guard  well  its  li^ht,  when  wintry  tempests  roar, 
And  hoarse  waves  break  tumultuous  on  the  shore, 
Lest  the  dire  storms,  that  blacken  all  the  sky, 
The  flame  extiniaiish,  and  the  lover  die. 
More  would'st  thou  know?   Leander  is  my  name, 
The  happiest  husband  of  the  fairest  dame;" 

Thus  mutual  vow'd  the  lovers  to  employ 
The  nights  in  raptures  of  mysterious  joy ; 
Her  task,  secure  th'  extended  torch  to  keep, 
And  his,  to  cross  th'  unfathomable  deep : 
Leander,  ere  he  left  his  lovely  bride, 
Mark'd  well  the  station  of  the  blazing  guide, 
Then  sought  Abydos  cross  the  sounding  tide. 

What  now  but  amorous  scenes  their  thoughts 

employ, 

Confus'd  ideas  of  the  genial  joy? 
Slow  rose  on  leaden  wings  tin-  morning  light, 
Slow  noon  came  on — the  lovers  wish'd  it  night. 
At  length  dark  gloom  a  dusky  mantle  spread  ; 
Sleep  o'er  the  world  his  balmy  inlluence  shed. 
All  but  Leander  lay  dissolv'd  in  re-t. 
Love  kejc  -  vi'_ril  in  his  breast. 

Silent  he  wander'd  on  the  winding  shore. 
The  deep  resounded  with  tremendous  roar: 
Wide  o'er  the  foaming  waves  his  anxious  sight 
Kxplor'd  the  torch's  !ovc-|>roc!aiming  light: 
HJ  little  deem'd.  alas!    ils  flame  would  prove 
The  blaze  of  Death,  though  meant  the  torch  of 

Love. 

Soon  as  fair  Hero  from  her  tower  survey'd 
Th'  horizon  darken'd  in  the  sable  shade, 
jThe  torch  on  hi-h  she  fix'd  ;    its  llames  inspire 
Leander's  bosom  with  the  kindred  fire: 


276 


MUS^EUS. 


Quick  through  his  frame  the  bright  contagion  ran, 
And  with  the    glowing    signal    glow'd    th'   en- 

amour'd  man. 

But  when  he  heard  the  hoarse-resounding  roar 
Of  thundering  billows  breaking  on  the  shore, 
Aghast  he  stood,  he  shrunk,  and  thus  addrest 
These  words  of  courage  to  his  trembling  breast : 

"  Ah  cruel  Love !  whose  woe  the  waves  con- 
spire ! 

The  waves  are  water,  but  I  burn  with  fire : 
Be  bold  my  heart,  the  foaming  billows  brave, 
Nor  fear  the  threat'nings  of  the  wintry  wave. 
Fair  Venus  rose  propitious  from  the  main ; 
She  calms  the  ocean's  rage,  and  soothes  the  lover's 
pain." 

He  spoke,  and  straight  his  lovely  limbs  undrest, 
And  folded  round  his  head  the  various  vest ; 
Then  dauntless  plunging  in  the  foaming  tide, 
Dash'd  with  his  arms  th'  intruding  waves  aside : 
Full  in  his  view  he  kept  the  shining  mark, 
Himself  the  pilot,  passenger,  and  bark. 
While  faithful  Hero,  to  her  promise  true, 
Watch'd  on  the  turret  every  wind  that  blew ; 
Oft  with  her  robe  she  screen'd  the  torch's  blaze 
From  dangerous   blasts  that  blew  a  thousand 

ways : 

Till  the  tir'd  youth,  on  rolling  surges  tost, 
Securely  landed  on  the  Sestian  coast. 
Soon  as  she  saw  her  lover  safe  on  shore, 
Eager  she  ran,  and  led  him  to  her  tower, 
Welcom'd  with  open  arms  her  panting  guest, 
And,  sweetly  smiling,  to  her  bosom  prest : 
Then  dumb  with  joy  the  shivering  youth  she  led, 
Still  wet  and  weary,  to  the  genial  bed, 
Wip'd  his  fair  limbs,  and  fragrant  oils  applied, 
To  cleanse  his  body  from  the  oozy  tide  ;* 
Then  elasp'd  him  close,  still  panting,  to  her  breast, 
And  thus  with  fond,  endearing  words  addrest : 

"  My  life,  my  lover,  thou  hast  surfer'd  more 
Than  fondest  bridegroom  e'er  endur'd  before; 
Destin'd,  alas!  dread  troubles  to  sustain 
On  the  rough  bosom  of  the  briny  main : 
Now  let  sweet  joy  succeed  in  sorrow's  place, 
And  lull  thy  labours  in  my  warm  embrace." 

She  spoke  :  He  loos'd  her  virgin  zone,  to  prove 
The  secret  rites,  and  mysteries  of  love. 
No  youths   with  rneasur'd   dance   the    nuptials 

crown'd, 

Nor  tuneful  hymn's  congratulating  sound  : 
No  bard  invok'd  the  heavenly  queen  with  prayer, 
To  smile  propitious  on  the  wedded  pair : 
No  nuptial  torch  its  golden  lustre  sited, 
Bright  torch  of  Love,  to  grace  the  bridal  bed ! 
No  16  paeans  musically  rung; 
No  greeting  parents  hymemeals  sung : 
But  all  was  gloom,  and  silence  all  around, 
Instead  of  music's  love-inspiring  sound. 


*  Thus  in  the  Third  Book  of  the  Odyssey,  Polycaste,  the 
daughter  of  Nestor,  bathes  and  anoints  Telemachus  : 
Sweet  Polycaste  took  the  pleasing  toil 
To  bathe  the  prince,  and  pour  the  fragrant  oil. 
On  which  Dr.  Broome  remarks,  that  the  practice  of  wo- 
men bathing  and  anointing  men  frequently  occurs  in  the 
Odyssey  :  neither  is  this  done  by  women  of  inferior  qua- 
lity, but  we  have  here  a  young  princess  bathing,  anoint- 
ing, and  clothing  the  naked  Telemachus. 


j  Beneath  the  covert  of  the  night  conceal'd, 
They  tasted  pleasures  mutual  faith  had  seal'd : 
In  close  embraces  all  entranc'd  they  lay, 
In  raptures  never  usher'd  to  the  day: 
Till  the  fond  youth  reluctant  left  his  bride, 
Still  breathing  love,  and  cross'd  the  foaming  tide. 
Thus  Hero  liv'd  unnoted,  unbetray'd, 
Each  night  a  woman,  and  each  day  a  maid. 
Both  wish'd  the  hours  on  swiftest  wings  would  fly, 
And  hail'd  the  evening,  not  the  morning  sky. 

Thus  rapt  in  hidden  joys,  each  blissful  night 
They  pass'd  in  ecstasies  of  full  delight: 
But  soon,  alas !  those  dear-bought  pleasures  fled, 
And  short  the  transports  of  that  bridal  bed  ! 

For  now  relentless  winter,  that  deforms 
With  frost  the  forest,  and  the  sea  with  storms, 
Bade  the  wild  winds  o'er  all  the  ocean  reign, 
And  raise  the  rapid  whirlpools  of  the  main; 
The  hoarse  wild  winds  obey,  and,  with  harsh 

sound, 

Roar  o'er  the  surface  of  the  vast  profound, 
Rouse  from  their  beds  the  scatter'd  storms  that 

sleep 

In  the  dark  caverns  of  the  dreary  deep : 
The  trembling  sailor  hears  the  dreadful  roar, 
Nor  dares  the  wintry  turbulence  explore, 
But  drags  his  vessel  to  the  safer  shore. 

But  thee,  bold  youth,  no  wintry  storms  restrain, 
Nor  all  the  dcathful  dangers  of  the  main  : 
For  when  thou  saw'st  the  torch's  blaze  from  far, 
(Of  nuptial  bliss  the  bright  prophetic  star) 
Thee  not  the  furious  tempest  could  control, 
Nor  calm  the  glowing  raptures  of  thy  soul. 
Yet  sure  fair  Hero,  when  the  gloomy  sky 
With   gathering  clouds  proclaim'd  rough  winter 

Mgbi 

Without  her  lover  should  have  pass'd  the  night, 
Nor  from  the  tower,  ill-omen'd,  shown  the  light. 
But  she,  ah  hapless!  burns  with  fond  desire, 
;Tis  Love  inflames  her,  while  the  Fates  conspire: 
The  torch  of  Death  now  glimmer'd  from  above, 
No  more  the  gentle  harbinger  of  Love. 

'Twas  night,  and  angry  ^Eolus  had  hurl'd 
The  winds  tempestuous  o'er  the  watery  world ; 
The  bellowing  winds  with  rage  impetuous  roar 
And  dash  the  foaming  billows  on  the  shore: 
Ev'n  then  the  youth,  with  pleasing  visions  fed, 
Glows  with  remembrance  of  the  bridal  bed  ; 
And,  while  fierce  tempests  howl  on  every  side, 
Floats  on  the  bosom  of  the  briny  tide. 
Waves,  roll'd  on  waves,  in  hideous  heaps  are 

driven, 

Swell'd  into  mountains,  and  upheav'd  to  heaven: 
Bleak  blasts,  loud-roaring,  the  vex'd  ocean  sweep, 
Foam  the  dash'd  billows,  and  resounds  the  deep. 
From  every  part  the  blustering  terrors  fly, 
Rage  o'er  the  main,  and  battle  in  the  sky : 
The  growling  thunder  of  the  vast  profound 
The  rocks  rebellow,  and  the  shores  rebound. 
Amidst  the  watery  war,  -with  toils  oppress'd 
O'erwhelm'd   with    billows,   and    in   gulfs    dis- 

tress'd, 

Leander  oft  with  suppliant  prayer  implor'd 
The  sea-sprung  Goddess,  and  old  Ocean's  Lord  : 
But  prayers  are  fruitless,  and  petitions  vain 
Love  must  submit  to  what  the  Fates  ordain. 


AGATHIAS. 


277 


From  wave  to  wave  the  hapless  youth  is  tost, 
New  heav'd  on  high,  and  now  in  whirlpools  lost. 
His  wearied  feet  no  more  his  will  obey, 
His  arms  hang  useless,  and  forget  to  play. 
Borne  on  the  surge  supine,  and  void  of  breath, 
He  drinks  the  briny  wave,  and  draws  in  death. 
Thus  while  in  fatal  rage  each  wind  conspires, 
Extinct  at  once  the  flame,  and  lover's  lires, 
F<  inting  he  sinks,  and  with  the  torch  expires. 

While  on  the  turret  Hero  mourn'd  his  stay, 
And  fondly  sighing,  chid  his  long  delay, 
Perplexing  anguish  in  her  bosom  rose, 
Nor  knew  her  eyes  the  blessings  of  repose. 

Now  rose  the  morn,  in  russet  vest  array 'd, 
Still  from  th'  impatient  fair  the  lover  stay'd : 


Watchful  she  stood,  and  cast  her  eyes  around 
O'er  the  wide  beach,  and  o'er  the  depths  profound, 
Haply  to  spy  her  lover,  should  he  stray, 
The  light  extinguish'd,  'midst  the  watery  way: 
But  when  she  saw  him  breathless  on  the  sand, 
Stretch'd,  ghastly-pale,  by  Death's  relentless  hand, 
She  shriek'd  aloud;  and  from  her  throbbing  breast 
Rent  the  gay  honours  of  her  flowery  vest; 
Then  from  the  tower  her  beauteous  body  cast, 
And  on  her  lover's  bosom  breath'd  her  last : 
Nor  could  the  Fates  this  faithful  pair  divide ; 
They  liv'd  united,  and  united  died.* 


*  They  lic'd  united,  and  united  died.] — "  They  were 
lovely  and  pleasant  in  their  lives,  and  in  their  death  they 
were  not  divided."—//.  Sam.  chap.  i.  ver.  23. 


AGATHIAS. 


[About  550  A.  D.] 


A  WATIVE  of  ^Eolis,  in  Asia  Minor ;  known  to  us  as  a  collector  and  writer  of  epigrams,  and  as  the 
historian  to  whom  we  are  indebted  for  six  years  of  the  reign  of  Justinian. 


ADDRESS  OF  ANCHISES  TO  VENUS. 
OFT  luist  thou  left  the  realms  of  air 
To  dwell  with  me  on  Ida's  shore; 
But  now  gay  youth  is  mine  no  more 
And  age  has  mark'd  my  brows  with  care. 
Oh  Queen  of  Love,  my  youth  restore, 
Or  take  my  offering  of  gray  hair. 

ON  DEATH. 

WHT  fear  ye  Death,  the  parent  of  repose, 
Who  numbs  the  sense  of  penury  and  pain? 

He  comes  but  only  once,  nor  ever  throws, 
Triumphant  once,  his  painful  shaft  again. 

ON  A  YOUNG  BRIDE  DROWNED  IN  THE 
BOfiPHORUa 

STRANGER!  shouldst  thou  to  Thessaly  return, 
Say  to  my  heart's  dear  lord  that  here  I  lie. 
Here,  where  the  Bosphoi  >niing 

high, 

And  bid  him  near  our  bower  my  name  inurn, — 
So  to  preserve  his  young  bride's  memory. 

MAinr.x  i' VISION. 

Go,  idle  amorous  1" 

What  are  your  cares  and  joys 
To  love,  that  swells  the  longing  virgin's  breast? 

A  tlaine.  half-hid  in  doubt, 

Soon  kindled,  soon  burnt  out, 
A  blaze  of  momentary  heat  at  best ! 


Haply  you  well  may  find, 

(Proud  privilege  of  your  kind,) 
Some  friend  to  share  the  secret  of  your  heart ; 

Or,  if  your  inbred  grief 

Admit  of  such  relief, 

The  chase,  the  dance,  the   play,  assuage  your 
smart. 

Whilst  we,  poor  hapless  maids, 

Condemn'd  to  pine  in  shades, 
And  to  our  dearest  friends  our  thoughts  deny, 

Can  only  sit  and  weep, 

While  all  around  us  sleep, 
Unpitied  languish,  and  unheeded  die. 


THE  LOVER'S  DEVICE. 
Iw  wayward  mood  by  artifice  I  strove 
To  test  the  fervour  of  my  Helen's  love ; 
And  "Oh,  farewell,  my  dearest  girl!''  I  cried 
"Forget  me  not  when  seas  and  lands  divide."— 
Pale  at  the  news,  she  wept,  and  in  despair 
Her  forehead  struck,  and  tore  her  silken  hair, 
And  sighed  -'Forsake  me  not!" — By  sorrow  prest 
I  nod  compliance  with  her  fond  request; 
I  yield  by  generous  selfishness  inspir'd, 
And  hardly  grant  her  what  I  most  desir'd. 


THE  TORMENTS  OF  LOVE. 
ALL  night  I  wept,  and  when  the  morning  rose 
Anil  short  oblivion  o'er  my  senses  crept, 
The  swallows,  twittering  round  me  as  I  slept, 
Drove  from  my  couch  the  phantom  of  repose. 
Y 


278 


AGATHIAS. 


Be  silent,  envious  bir'ds !     It  was  not  I, 

Who  stopp'd  the  voice  of  tuneful  Philomel. 
Go, — and  again  your  plaintive  descant  swell 

With  Itylus,  among  the  mountains  high. 

Leave  me,  oh  leave  me  for  a  while,  "  to  steep 
My  senses  in  a  sweet  forgetfulness !" 
Perchance  my  dreams  Rhodanthes'  form  may 
bless, — 

Her  lovely  image  fill  my  arms  in  sleep. 


CLIENT  AND  LAWYER. 

A  PLAINTIFF  thus  explain'd  his  cause 

To  counsel  learned  in  the  laws: 

"  My  bondmaid  lately  ran  away, 

And  in  her  flight  was  met  by  A, 

Who,  knowing  she  belonged  to  me, 

Espoused  her  to  his  servant  B. 

The  issue  of  this  marriage,  pray, 

Do  they  belong  to  me,  or  A?" — 

The  lawyer,  true  to  his  vocation, 

Gave  sign  of  deepest  cogitation, 

Look'd  at  a  score  of  books  or  near, 

Then  hemm'd,  and  said:  "Your case  is  clear. 

Those  children,  so  begot  by  B 

Upon  your  bondmaid  must,  you  see, 

Be  yours  or  A's.— .-Now,  this  I  say, 

They  can't  be  yours,  if  they  to  A 

Belong.     It  follows  then,  of  course, 

That  if  they  are  not  his,  they're  yours. 

Therefore,  by  my  advice,  in  short, 

You'll  take  the  opinion  of  the  court." 


THE  PHILOSOPHER. 

NICOSTRATTJS,  that  second  Stagirite, 

Who  sits,  like  Plato,  perched  on  Wisdom's  height, 

A  simple  scholar  thus  address'd  one  day : 

"What  is  the  soul,  0  sage  illumin'd,  say — 

Mortal  or  deathless?    Substance  or  mere  shade? 

Of  reasoning  sense,  or  naked  feeling  made, 

Or  both  alike  ?     Resolve  my  doubts'' — he  said. 

The  sage  his  books  of  meteors  'gari  unroll, 

And  Aristotle's  treatise  on  the  soul, 

And  Plato's  Phsedon  to  its  source  explor'd, 

Where    truth    from   heaven's    eternal    fount   is 

pour'd ; 

Then  waved  his  hand,  applied  it  to  his  chin, 
And  uttered  thus  the  oracle  within : 
"  If  all  the  world  be  soul — and  if  'tis  so 
Or  not,  I  must  confess  I  do  not  know — 
But  if,  I  say,  all  nature  spirit  be, 
It  must  be  mortal  or  from  death  be  free ; 


Must  be  substantial,  or.  if  not,  mere  shade ; 
Of  reasoning  sense,  or  naked  feeling  made, 
Or  both  or  neither : — But,  my  friend,"  he  said, 
"  If  more  you  wish  to  learn,  to  Hades  go, 
And  there,  as  much  as  Plato,  soon  you'll  know ; 
Or,  if  you  choose,  ascend  the  rampart's  height, 
Mimic  Cleombrotus,  and  plunge  to  night ; 
Quit  this  encumbering  vest  of  mortal  clay, 
And  then  return  and  teach  me,  if  you  may." 


ON  A  WAX  IMAGE  OF  EUSTATHIUS. 
SWEET,  dear  Eustathius,  is  the  form  I  see ; 
Yet  'tis  of  wax — no  phrase  of  boyish  glee 
Sits  on  those  lips :  thy  tender  prime  is  fled, 
And  dust,  mere  dust,  remains  to  us  instead 
Of  all  thou  wert !  Scarce  of  thy  fifteenth  year 
Four  little  weeks  had  run  their  brief  career; 
Nor  aught  avail'd  thee,  or  thy  gxandsire's  throne, 
Or  wealth  paternal.     All,  to  whom  is  shown 
This  thy  mere  bust," tax  Fate's  unjust  decree, 
Which  merciless  could  crush  such  grace  in  thee ! 


LOVE  AND  WINE. 

FAREWELL  to  wine!  or,  if  thou  bid  me  sip, 
Present  the  cup  more  honour 'd  from  thy  lip 
Pour'd  by  thy  hand,  to  rosy  draughts  I  fly, 
And  cast  away  my  dull  sobriety; 
For,  as  I  drink,  soft  raptures  tell  my  soul 
That  lovely  Glycera  has  kissed  the  bowl. 


THE  REVENGE  OF  LOVE. 

SHE  who  but  late  in  beauty's  flower  was  seen, 
Proud  of  her  auburn  curls,  and  noble  mien, 
Who  froze  my  hopes,  and  triumph'd  in  my  fears, 
Now  sheds  her  graces  to  the  waste  of  years. 
Changed  to  unlovely  is  that  breast  of  snow, 
And  dimm'd  her  eye,  and  wrinkled  is  her  brow, 
And  querulous  the  voice  by  time  repress'd, 
Whose  artless  music  stole  me  from  my  rost; 
Age  gives  redress  to  love;  and  silvery  hair, 
And  earlier  wrinkles,  brand  the  haughty  fair. 


THE  MOTHER'S  OFFERING. 

VEXUS,  this  chaplet  take!  Callirhoe  pray'd, 
The  youth  I  loved,  thy  power  hath  made  him 
mine; 

This  lock  to  thee  I  vow,  Athenian  maid! 
By  thee,  I  holy  kept  my  virgin  shrine ; 

To  Artemis  my  zone  ;  a  mother's  joy 

She  gave  me  to  possess,  my  beauteous  boy. 


MACEDONIUS. 

[About  550  A.  D.] 
A  contemporary  of  Agathias,  surnamed  'Trtaf  oj,  or  the  Consul.     Nothing  more  is  known  of  him. 


THE  POET'S  OFFERING. 
THERK    hang,    my   lyre!     This    aged    hand    no 

more 

Shall  wake  the  strings  to  rapture  known  before. 
Farewell,  ye  chords!    Ye  verse-inspiring  powers, 
Accept  the  solace  of  my  former  hours ! 
Be  gone  to  youths,  ye  instruments  of  song! 
For  crutches  only  to  the  old  belong. 


ANACREONTIC. 

I  ASK  not  gold ;  I  ask  not  power; 
I  never  prayed  great  Jove  to  shower 
On  me  the  wealth  that  Homer  sings, 
The  grandeur  of  the  Theban  kings. 
I  shall  be  well  contented,  so 
My  cup  with  ceaseless  bumpers  flow, 


And  my  moist  lips  for  ever  shine 

In  honour  of  the  God  of  Wine, 

And  friends,  who  share  my  inmost  soul, 

Share  also  in  the  fragrant  bowl. 

Let  the  grave  and  dull  possess 

Their  toil-worn  wealth  (short  happiness !) 

These  are  my  riches,  which  I'll  love 

As  long  as  I'm  allow'd  by  Jove. 

For  while  the  sparkling  bowl  I  drain, 

The  boasts  of  pride  and  pomp  are  vain. 

REMEMBRANCE  AND  FORGETFULNESS. 

ALL  hail,  remembrance  and  forgetfulness ! 

Trace,  Memory,  trace   whatever  is  sweet  or 

kind— 
When  friends  forsake  us,  or  misfortunes  press, 

Oblivion,  raze  the  record  from  our  mind. 


PAUL,  THE  SILENTIARY 


[About  550  A.  D.] 

So  called  from  an  office  which  he  held  in  the  I  prostituting  his  muse  in  celebration  of  the  infa- 
court  of  Justinian,  corresponding  to  that  of  gentle-  mous  Theodora,  and  freely  indulging  himself  in 
man  u?l"  r.  lit  was  a  courtier  and  voluptuary —  |  all  the  debasing  pleasures  of  the  age. 


WHY  DOES  SHE  SO  LONG  DELAY? 

WHT  iIi.--<  -lie  so  IDIIIT  delay? 
Night  is  waning  fast  away; 
Thrice  have  I  my  lamp  renew'd, 

.ing  here  in  solitude. 
Where  can  -lie  so  lofig  delay  ? 
Where  so  long  d 

Vainly  now  have  two  lamps  shone; 
See  the  third  is  nearly  gone: 
Oh.  that  love  would,  like  the  ray 
Of  that  weary  lamp.  <!••« -ay  ! 
But  no,  alas!  it  burns  still  on, 
Still,  still,  burns  on. 


Gods,  how  oft  the  traitress  dear 
Swore  by  Venus,  she'd  be  here ! 
But  to  one  so  false  as  she, 
What  is  man  or  deity  ? 
Neither  doth  this  proud  one  fear, 
No,  neither  doth  she  fear. 


TO  WEAVE  A  GARLAND  FOR  THE  ROSE. 
To  weave  a  garland  for  the  Rose, 

And  think,  thus  crown'd  'twould  lovelier  be, 
Were  far  less  vain  than  to  suppose, 

That  silks  and  gems  add  grace  to  thee. 

279 


280 


PAUL,  THE  SILENTIARY. 


Where  is  the  pearl,  whose  orient  lustre 

Would  not,  beside  thee,  look  less  bright? 
What  gold  could  match  the  glossy  cluster 

Of  those  young  ringlets  full  of  light? 
Bring  from  the  land,  where  fresh  it  gleams, 

The  bright  blue  gem  of  India's  mine, 
And  see  how  soon,  though  bright  it  beams, 

'Twill  pale  before  one  glance  of  thine; 
Those  lips,  too,  when  their  sounds  have  blest  us, 

With  some  divine,  mellifluous  air, 
Who  would  not  say  that  beauty's  cestus 

Had  let  loose  all  its  witcheries  there? 
Here,  to  this  conquering  host  of  charms 

I  now  give  up  my  spell-bound  heart, 
Nor  blush  to  yield  e'en  reason's  arms 

When  thou  her  bright-eyed  conqueror  art. 
Thus  to  the  wind  all  fears  are  given ; 

Henceforth  those  eyes  alone  I  see, 
Where  Hope,  as  in  her  own  blue  heaven, 

Sits  beck'ning  us  to  bliss  and  thee. 

THE  VICTORY  OF  VENUS. 
IN  my  green  and  tender  age, 

I  the  Queen  of  Love  defied, 
Steel'd  my  heart  against  her  rage, 

And  her  arts  repell'd  with  pride. 
Inaccessible  before, 
Now,  almost  grey,  I  burn  the  more. 

Venus,  laughing  he'ar  the  vow 
By  your  slave  repentant  made ! 

Greater  far  your  triumph  now 
Than  of  old  in  Ida's  shade. 

There  a  boy  adjudged  the  prize — 

Here  Pallas  from  the  contest  flies. 


ABSENCE  INSUPPORTABLE. 
WHEN  I  left  thee,  love,  I  swore 

Not  to  see  that  face  again, 
For  a  fortnight's  space,  or  more. 

— But  the  cruel  oath  was  vain : 
Since,  the  next  day  I  spent  from  thee 
Was  a  long  year  of  misery. 
Oh,  then,  for  thy  lover  pray 

Every  gentler  deity, 
Not  in  too  nice  scales  to  weigh 

His  constrained  perjury— 
Thou  too,  oh  pity  his  despair ! 
Heaven's  rage,  and  thine,  he  cannot  bear. 

ON  A  DAUGHTER  WHO  DIED  YOUNG. 
SWEET  maid,  thy  parents  fondly  thought 

To  strew  thy  bride-bed,  not  thy  bier  5 
But  thou  hast  left  a  being  fraught 

With  wiles,  and  toils,  and  anxious  fear. 
For  us  remains  a  journey  drear, 

For  thee  a  blest  eternal  prime, 
Uniting,  in  thy  short  career, 

Youth's  blossom,  with  the  fruit  of  time. 


GARDEN  SCENERY. 
THIS  lovely  spot  old  Ocean  laves, 
And  woody  coverts  fringe  the  waves  ; 


Happy  the  art  that  could  dispose 
Whate'er  in  sea  or  garden  grows, 
And  summon'd  to  the  enchanted  land 
The  Naiad's  and  the  Nereid's  band. 

On  the  Same. 

HERE  strive  for  empire,  o'er  the  happy  scene, 
The  Nymphs   of  fountain,   sea,  and   woodland 

green ; 

The  power  of  grace  and  beauty  holds  the  prize 
Suspended,  even  to  her  votaries ; 
And  finds  amazed,  where'er  she  casts  her  eye, 
Their  contest  forms  the  matchless  harmony. 


TWIN'ST  THOU  WITH  LOFTY  WREATH 
THY  BROW? 

TWIN'ST  thou  with  lofty  wreath  thy  brow  ? 

Such  glory  then  thy  beauty  sheds, 
I  almost  think,  whil'st  aw'd  I  bow, 

'Tis  Rhea's  self  before  me  treads. 
Be  what  thou  wilt, — this  heart 
Adores  whate'er  thou  art ! 

Dost  thou  thy  loosen'd  ringlets  leave, 
Like  sunny  waves,  to  wander  free  ? 

Then  such  a  chain  of  charms  they  weave, 
As  draws  mine  inmost  soul  from  me. 

Do  what  thou  wilt, — I  must 

Be  charmed  by  all  thou  dost! 

E'en  when  enwrapt  in  silvery  veils, 
Those  sunny  locks  elude  the  sight, — 

Oh,  not  e'en  then  their  glory  fails 
To  haunt  me  with  its  unseen  light 

Change  as  thy  beauty  may, 

It  charms  in  every  way ! 

For  thee  the  graces  still  attend, 

Presiding  o'er  each  new  attire, 
And  lending  every  dart  they  send 

Some  new,  peculiar  touch  of  fire. 
Be  what  thou  wilt, — this  heart 
Adores  whate'er  thou  art! 


WHEN  THE  SAD  WORD. 

WHEN  the  sad  word  "Adieu,"  from  my  lip  is  nigh 
falling, 

And,  with  it,  hope  passes  away, 
Ere  the  tongue  has  half  breathed  it,  my  fond  heart 
recalling 

That  fated  farewell,  bids  me  stay. 
For  oh !  'tis  a  penance  so  weary, 

One  hour  from  thy  presence  to  be, 
That  death  to  this  soul  were  less  dreary, 

Less  dark,  than  long  absence  from  thee. 

Thy  beauty,  like  day,  on  the  dull  world  breaking, 

Brings  life  to  the  heart  it  shines  o'er, 
And,  in  mine,  a  new  feeling  of  happiness  waking, 

Made  light  what  was  darkness  before. 
But  mute  is  the  day's  sunny  glory, 

While  thine  has  a  voice,  on  whose  breath, 
More  sweet  than  the  syren's  sweet  story, 

My  hopes  hang  through  life  and  through  death 


MARIANUS   SCHOLASTICUS. 


281 


AN  EPITAPH. 
OH  !  many  a  tear,  from  hearts  by  anguish  torn, 

Around  thy  tomb  our  streaming  eyelids  pour'd; 
A  common  son,  a  common  friend,  we  mourn, 

In  thee  too  much  belov'd,  so  much  deplor'd. 
Harsh,  heartless  fate,  nor  pity  had,  nor  ruth — 
Alas !  alas ! — nor  spared  thy  tender  youth. 

THE  OFFERING  OF  A  DESERTED  LOVER. 
To  thee  the  relics  of  a  thousand  flowers, 
Torn  from  the  chaplet  twined  in  gayer  hours ; 
To  thee  the  goblet  carved  with  skill  divine, 
Erewhile  that  foam'd  with  soul-subduing  wine ; 
The  locks,  now  scatter'd  on  tho  dusty  ground, 
Once  dropping  odours,  and  with  garlands  crown'd, 
Outcast  of  pleasure,  and  of  hope  bereft, 
Lais !  to  thee,  thy  Corydon  has  left. 
Oft  on  thy  threshold  stretch'd,  at  close  of  day, 
He  wept  and  sigh'd  the  cheerless  night  away, 
Nor  dared  invoke  thy  name,  nor  dared  aspire 
To  melt  thy  bosom  with  his  amorous  fire, 
Or  plead  a  gracious  respite  to  his  pain, 
Or  speak  the  language  of  a  happier  swain. — 
Alas!  alas!  "now  cold  and  senseless  grown," 
These  last  sad  offerings  make  his  sorrows  known, 
And  dare  upbraid  those  scornful  charms  that  gave 
His  youth  unpitied  to  the  cheerless  grave. 

LOVE  NOT  EXTINGUISHED  BY  AGE. 
FOR  me  thy  wrinkles  have  more  charms, 

Dear  Lydia,  than  a  smoother  face ! 
I'd  rather  fold  thee  in  my  arms, 

Than  younger,  fairer  nymphs  embrace. 
To  me  thy  autumn  is  more  sweet, 

More  precious,  than  their  vernal  rose ; 
Their  summer  warms  not  with  a  heat 

So  potent,  as  thy  winter  glows. 


THE  DRENCHED  LOVER. 

THE  voice  of  the  song  and  the  banquet  was  o'er, 
And  I  hung  up  my  chaplet  at  Glycera's  door, 
When  the  mischievous  girl  from  a  window  above, 
Who  look'd  down  and  laugh'd  at  the  offering  of 

love, 
Fill'd  with  water  a  goblet  whence  Bacchus  had 

fled, 

And  pour'd  all  the  crystal  contents  on  my  head. 
So  drench'd  was  my  hair,  three  whole  days  it 

resisted 

All  attempts  of  the  barber  to  friz  it  or  twist  it; 
But  the  water  (so  whimsical,  Love,  are  thy  ways !) 
While  it  put  out  my  curls,  set  my  heart  in  a  blaze. 


THE  CHAIN  OF  LOVE. 

Iir  wanton  sport,  my  Doris  from  her  fair 
And  glossy  tresses,  tore  a  straggling  hair, 
And  bound  my  hands,  as  if  of  conquest  vain, 
And  I  some  royal  captive  in  her  chain. 
At  first  I  laugh'd — "This  fetter,  lovely  maid, 
Is  lightly  worn,  and  soon  dissolved,"  I  said. 
I  said— but  ah,  I  had  not  learned  to  prove 
How  strong  the  fetters  that  are  forged  by  Love. 
That  little  thread  of  gold  I  strove  to  sever, 
Was  bound,  like  steel,  about  my  heart  for  ever, 
And,  from  that  luckless  hour,  my  tyrant  fair 
Has  led,  and  turn'd  me  by  a  single  hair. 


THE  PICTURE. 

OH  how  unequal  is  the  painter's  art, 

To  reach  the  glowing  picture  of  the  heart, 

To  catch  the  roseate  graces  of  my  fair, 

"Her  eyes'  blue  languish,  and  her  golden  hair!" 

First  paint  the  gorgeous  day-star's  beam  divine, 

Then  may  your  imaged  Lydia  equal  mine. 


MARIANUS  SCHOLASTICUS 


[About  650  A.  D.] 

INSCRIPTION  ON  A  BATH. 

As,  in   this   fount,    Love    wash'd   the    Cyprian 

darne, 

His  tounh  the  water  ting'd  with  subtle  flame  j 
And,  while  his  busy  hands  his  mother  lave, 
AmbrnMiil  dews  enrich  the  silver  wave, 
And  all  the  undulating  bason  fill; 
Sueh  dews  as  her  celestial  limbs  distill. 
Hence  how  delicious  float  these  tepid  streams ! 
What  rosy  odours !  what  nectareous  steams ! 
So  pure  the  water,  and  so  soft  the  air, 
It  seems  as  if  the  Goddess  still  were  there. 


Y2 


DEMOCHARIS. 

[About  560  A.  D.] 
A  GRAMMARIAN,  and  disciple  of  Agathias. 


ON  THE  PICTURE  OF  SAPPHO. 
NATURE  herself  this  magic  portrait  drew, 
And,  Painter !  gave  thy  Lesbian  Muse  to  view. 
Light  sparkles  in  her  eyes ;  and  Fancy  seems 
The  radiant  fountain  of  those  living  beams  : 


Through  the  smooth  fullness  of  the  unclouded 

skin 

Looks  out  the  clear  ingenuous  soul  within; 
Joy  melts  to  fondness  in  her  glistening  face, 
And  Love  and  Music  breathe  a  mingled  grace. 


FROM  UNCERTAIN  AUTHORS. 


THE  HYMN  OF  ARION. 
HAIL,  Neptune,  greatest  of  the  gods! 
Thou  ruler  of  the  salt-sea  floods ; 
Thou  with  the  deep  and  dark-green  hair, 
That  dost  the  golden  trident  bear : 
Thou  that,  with  either  arm  outspread, 
Embosomest  the  earth  we  tread  : 
Thine  are  the  beasts  with  fins  and  scales, 
That,  round  thy  chariot,  as  it  sails, 
Plunging  and  tumbling,  fast  and  free, 
All  reckless,  follow  o'er  the  sea. 
Thine  are  the  gentle  dolphin  throng, 
That  love  and  listen  to  the  song ; 
With  whom  the  sister  Nerei'ds  stray, 
And  in  their  crystal  caverns  play. 
They  bore  me  well  to  Pelops'  isle, 
And  Lacedsemon's  rocky  pile  ; 
And  through  the  deep  Sicilian  sea 
The  briny  champaign  ploughed  for  me ; 
When  wicked  men  had  cast  me  o'er 
Our  vessel's  side,  into  the  roar 
Of  clashing  waters,  and  a  grave 
Yawned  for  me  in  the  purple  wave. 


EPITAPH. 

THOU  art  not  dead,  my  Prote,  though  no  more 
A  sojourner  on  earth's  tempestuous  shore ; 
Fled  to  the  peaceful  islands  of  the  blest, 
Where  youth  and  love,  for  ever  beaming,  rest; 
Or  joyful  wandering  o'er  Elysian  ground, 
Among  sweet  flowers,  where  not  a  thorn  is  found. 
No  Winter  freezes  there,  no  Summer  fires, 
No  sickness  weakens,  and  no  labour  tires; 
No  hunger,  poverty,  or  wants  oppress, 
Nor  envy  of  man's  boasted  happiness  ; 
But  Spring  for  ever  glows,  serenely  bright, 
And  bliss  immortal  hails  the  heavenly  light. 
282 


ON  A  CORPSE  WASHED  ASHORE. 

NOT  rugged  Trachis  hides  these  whitening  bones, 
Nor   that  black  isle   whose  name  its  colour 

shows, 
But  the  wild  beach,  o'er  which,  with  ceaseless 

moans, 

The  vexed  Icarian  wave,  eternal,  flows, 
Of  Drepanus — ill-famed  promontory — 

And  there,  instead  of  hospitable  rites, 
The    long   grass    sweeping  tells  his  fate's    sad 

story 

To  rude  tribes  gathered  from  the  neighbouring 
heights. 


ULYSSES  ON  HIS  RETURN. 
HAIL  Ithaca,  my  loved  paternal  soil ! 
How,  after  years  of  travel,  war,  and  toil, 
How,  after  countless  perils  of  the  sea, 
My  heart,  returning,  fondly  clings  to  thee ! 
Where  I  shall  once  more  bless  my  father's  age, 
And  smooth  the  last  steps  of  his  pilgrimage; 
Again  embrace  my  wife,  again  enjoy 
The  sweet  endearments  of  mine  only  boy. 
Now,  from  my  soul,  I  feel  how  strong  the  chain 
That  binds  the  passions  to  our  native  plain. 

ON  A  STATUE  OF  NIOBE. 
THIS  female  (so  the  poets  sing) 

Was  changed  to  stone  by  Dian's  curse. 
The  sculptor  did  a  better  thing — 

He  did  exactly  the  reverse. 

On  the  Same. 

RELENTING  Heaven  had  given  the  mourner  rest, 
And  hushed  in  stone  the  terrors  of  her  breast; 
What  cruel  hand  renews  the  sense  of  pain, 
And  bids  the  marble  live  to  weep  again? 


FROM   UNCERTAIN   AUTHORS. 


283 


ON  A  SHIPWRECKED  PERSON. 

PEUISH  the  hour — that  dark  and  starless  hour — 
Perish  the  roaring  main's  tempestuous  power, — 
That  whelm'd  the  ship,  where  loved  Abdera's 

son 

Prayed  to  unheeding  heaven,  and  was  undone. 
Yes — all  were  wrecked  ;  and,  by  the  stormy  wave 
To  rough  Serlphos  borne,  he  found  a  grave, — 
Found,  from  kind  stranger  hands,  funereal  fires, 
Yet  reached,  inurned,  the  country  of  his  sires. 


ON  ERINNA,  THE  POETESS. 
SCARCE  nineteen  summer  suns  had  shed 
Youth's  roses  o'er  the  virgin's  head, 
While  by  a  guardian  mother's  side, 
Her  customary  tasks  she  plied, 
Bade  the  rich  silks  her  loom  prepare, 
Or  plied  the  distaff's  humbler  care; — 
Her  modest  worth  the  Muses  knew, 
Brought  her  bright  genius  forth  to  view, 
And — ah,  too  soon! — from  mortal  eyes — 
Bore  her,  their  handmaid,  to  the  skies. 


BIS  DAT,  QUI  CITO  DAT. 
SWIFT  favours  charm,  but  when  too  long  they 

stay, 
They  lose  the  name  of  kindness  by  delay. 


FUNERAL  HONOURS. 

SEEK  not  to  glad  these  senseless  stones 

With  fragrant  ointments,  rosy  wreaths  ; 
No  warmth  can  reach  our  mouldering  bones 

From  lustral  fire,  that  vainly  breathes. 
No\v  let  me  revel  whilst  I  may: 

The  wine,  that  o'er  my  grave  is  shed, 
Mixes  with  earth,  and  turns  to  clay — 

No  honours  can  delight  the  dead. 

On  the  Same. 
On.  think  not  that  with  garlands  orown'd, 

Inhuman  near  thy  grave  we  tread; 
Or  blushing  roses  scatter  round, 

To  mock  the  paleness  of  the  dead! 
What  though  we  drain  the  fragrant  bowl, 

In  flowers  adorn'd,  and  silken  vest, 
Oh.  think  not,  brave  departed  soul, 

We  revel  to  disturb  thy  rr.-t. 
Feigu'd  is  the  pleasure  that  appears, 

And  false  the  triumph  of  our  eyes; 
Each  draught  of  joy  is  dash'd  with  tears, 

And  all  our  songs  but  echo  sighs. 


ON  A  POOR  MAX 

BECOMING    HK  II    IV    HIS   OLD   AGE. 

POOR  and  destitute  at  twenty — • 
Now— at  three-score — I  have  plenty. 

What  a  miserable  lot! 
Now,  that  I  have  hoarded  treasure, 
I  no  more  can  taste  of  pleasure  : 

When  I  could,  I  had  it  not. 


ON  DEATH. 

THE  bath,  obsequious  beauty's  smile, 

Wine,  fragrance,  music's  heavenly  breath, 

Can  but  our  hastening  hours  beguile, 
And  slope  the  path  that  leads  to  Death. 


ON  A  MURDERED  CORPSE. 
THOUGH  here  thou'st  laid  my  corpse,  when  none 

were  nigh  ; 
One  saw  thee,  murderer ! — One  all-seeing  Eye. 

ON  THE  NINE  LYRIC  POETS. 
0  SACRED  voice  of  the  Pierian  choir, 

Immortal  Pindar !  O  enchanting  air 
Of  sweet  Bacchylides !  O  rapturous  lyre, 

Majestic  graces,  of  the  Lesbian  fair. 

Muse  of  Anacreon,  the  gay,  the  young, 
Stesichorus,  thy  full  Homeric  stream! 

Soft  elegies  by  Cea's  poet  sung ! 

Persuasive  Ibycus,  thy  glowing  theme  ! 

Sword  of  Alcaeus,  that,  with  tyrant's  gore 
Gloriously  painted,  lift'st  thy  point  so  high! 

Ye  tuneful  nightingales,  that  still  deplore 
Your  Alcrnan,  prince  of  amorous  poesy ! 

Oh  yet  impart  some  breath  of  heav'nly  fire 

To  him  who  venerates  the  Grecian  lyre ! 


ON  ONE  WHO  SLEW  HIS  MOTHER. 

0  BURY  not  the  dead,  but  let  him  lie 

A  prey  for  dogs  beneath  th'  unpitying  sky  ! 
Our   common    mother,  Earth,  would   grieve    to 

hide 
The  hateful  body  of  the  Matricide. 

ON  A  HAPPY  OLD  MAN. 
TAKE  old  Amyntor  to  thy  breast,  dear  Soil, 
In  kind  remembrance  of  his  former  toil, 
Who  first  enrich'd  and  ornamented  thee 
With  many  a  lovely  shrub  and  branching  tree, 
And  lured  the  stream  to  fall  in  artful  showers 
Upon  thy  thirsting  herbs  and  fainting  flowers. 
First  in  the  spring  he  knew  the  rose  to  rear, 
First  in  the  autumn  cull  the  ripen'd  pear; 
His  vines  were  envied  all  the  village  round, 
And  favouring  heaven   showered  plenty  on  his 

ground, 

Therefore,  O  Earth,  lie  lightly  on  his  head, 
And  with  thy  choicest  spring-flowers  deck   his 

bed. 

ON  A  MISERABLE  OLD  MAN. 
BT  years  and  misery  worn,  no  hand  to  save 
With  some  poor  pittance  from  a  desperate  grave ; 
With  the  small   strength  my  wretched  age  sup- 
plied, 

1  crawled  beneath  this  lonely  pile  and  died. 
Screened  from  the  scoff  of  pride  and  grandeur's 

frown, 

tn  this  sad  spot  I  laid  my  sufferings  down, 
Reversed  the  doom  of  nature,  and  instead 
Of  "  dead  and  buried,"  buried  was  and  dead. 


284 


FROM  UNCERTAIN   AUTHORS. 


ON  FRIENDSHIP. 

How  sweet  is  life  when  passed  with  those 

Whom  our  own  hearts  approving  chose  ; 

When  on  some  few  surrounding  friends 

Our  all  of  happiness  depends ! 

It  is  not  life  to  drag,  alone, 

A  miserable  being  on, 

Without  one  kindred  soul  to  share 

Our  pleasure  or  relieve  our  care. 

O  welcome  falls  the  stroke  of  fate, 

That  frees  us  from  so  sad  a  state. 


EPITAPH  ON  AN  INFANT. 

Too  soon,  grim  monarch,  with  unholy  hand, 
Thou'st  snatch'd  this  infant  to  thy  dreary  land, 
Like   some   fair  rose-bud,  plucked  from  mortal 

sight, 

Ere  all  its  beauties  opened  into  light. 
Cease,  wretched   parents,  cease  your  waitings 

wild, 

Nor  mourn  for  ever  your  departed  child ! 
Her  youthful  graces,  and  her  form  so  fair, 
Deserved  a  dwelling  in  the  realms  of  air.      ^ 
As  Hylas  once  (believe  the  soothing  lay  !)— 
The  Nymphs — not  Death — have  borne  your  child 

away. 

Another. 

FIVE  years  I  lived  with  lightsome  heart  and  gay, 
Then,  tranquil,  mingled  with  my  fellow  clay. 
Mourn  not  my  fate !     My  days  of  life  were  few; 
My  pleasures  brief,— but  brief  my  sorrows  too. 


INSCRIPTION  ON  A  FIGURED  GEM, 

REPRESENTING  A  GOAT  GIVING  BUCK  TO  A  YOUNG 
WOLF. 

A  WOLF  with  my  own  milk  I  feed, 

Obedient  to  a  master's  will ; 
By  him,  I  nourish,  doomed  to  bleed, 

For  nature  will  be  nature  still. 


THE  GRASSHOPPER'S  REMONSTRANCE. 

WHY,  shepherds,  from  the  dewy  spray, 
Chase  me  thus  spitefully  away, — 
Me,  the  Nymphs'  bard, — who,  summer  long, 
Cheer  vale  and  upland  with  my  song? 
The  thrush,  the  blackbird,  and  the  stare, — 
'Tis  they  have  laid  your  gardens  bare ; 
Such  thieves  'twere  justice  to  pursue, 
But  why  grudge  me  my  leaves  and  dew  ? 


ON  A  GRASSHOPPER  IN  A  SPIDER'S  WEB. 

WHILE,  with  lithe  feet  his  task  the  spider  plied, 
Within  his  snares  a  grasshopper  he  drew  ; 

Under  its  slender  chains  the  captive  sigh'd, 
And  to  release  the  child  of  song  I  flew. 

"  Save  thee,"  I  cried,  "  thy  chains  are  off, — be 
free, — 

And  now  indulge  thy  sweetest  minstrelsy." 


TO  THE  LOCUST. 

THOU,  Locust,  soother  of  my  love, 

whose  music  slumber  brings  ; 
Thou,  Locust,  minstrel  of  the  fields, 

endowed  with  shrilly  wings; 
Thou  artless  mimic  of  the  lyre, 

some  song  of  beauty  sing, 
By  striking,  with  thy  pliant  feet, 

each  music-speaking  wing. 
Thou,  Locust,  trill  me  from  thy  chords 

a  love-releasing  strain, 
That  thus  thou  may'st  remove  my  care, 

my  ever-wakeful  pain ; 
And  I'll  the  evergreens  to  thee, 

as  morning  gifts,  assign, 
And  the  dew-drops  split  in  parts  to  fit 

that  little  mouth  of  thine. 


ON  MENANDER. 

THE  bees,  Menander,  who  with  active  wing 
Sport  midst  the  flowers  that  deck  the  Muses' 

spring, 

Around  thy  lips  in  thickening  clusters  hung, 
And  tipp'd  with  honey-drops  thine  infant  tongue  ; 
The  Graces,  too,  on  thee  their  gifts  bestow, 
And  teach  thy  strains  with  elegance  to  flow. 
Celestial  Bard ! — immortal  as  thy  lays, 
Thy  native  Athens  shares  thy  meed  of  praise. 


ON  THE  STATUE  OF  MENANDER. 

BEHOLD  Menander  !  Siren  of  the  stage, 
Who  charm'd,  with  Love  allied,  a  happier  age; 
Light  wanton  wreaths,  that  never  shall  be  dead, 
Are  curl'd  luxuriant  round  the  poet's  head, 
Who  dress'd  the  scene  in  colours  bright  and  gay, 
And  breathed  enchantment  o'er  the  living  lay. 


ON  THE  STATUE  OF  THE  SAME  POET, 

PLACED    BY  THE  SIDE   OF  THE  FIGURE  OF   CUPID. 

MENANDER,  sweet  Thalia's  pride, 

Well  art  thou  placed  by  Cupid's  side  ; 

Priest  to  the  god  of  soft  delights, 

Thou  spread's!  on  earth  his  joyous  rites; 

And  sure  the  boy  himself  we  see 

To  smile,  and  please,  and  breathe  in  thee. 

For,  musing  o'er  yon  imaged  stone, 

To  see  thee,  and  to  love,  are  one. 


THE  GARDENER'S  OFFERING. 

To  Pan,  the  guardian  of  my  narrow  soil, 
Who  gave  my  fruits  to  grow,  and  blest  my  toil, 
Pure  water  and  a  votive  fig  I  bear, 
A  scant  oblation  from  the  teeming  year  : 
The  fruit  ambrosial  in  thy  garden  blush'd, 
And  from  thy  rock  the  living  water  gush'd : 
Receive  the  tribute  from  my  niggard  urn, 
Nor  with  thy  bounty  weigh  my  poor  return. 


FROM  UNCERTAIN  AUTHORS. 


285 


OFFERING  TO  VENUS. 

GODDESS  of  surf  and  shore,  these  cakes  receive — 
'Tis  all  thy  humble  votary  has  to  give : 
To-morrow  o'er  the  broad  Ionian  main 
I  haste  to  clasp  my  Chloe's  charms  again. 
My  love,  my  canvass,  ask  thy  favouring  breeze, 
Venus,  bright  queen  of  spousals  and  of  seas. 


SOXG  OF  THE  CROW.* 

LORDS  and  ladies,  for  your  ear 
We  have  a  petitioner 
Name  and  lineage  would  ye  know? 
'Tis  Apollo's  child,  the  Crow  ; 
Waiting  till  your  hands  dispense, 
Gift  of  barley,  salt,  or  pence. 
He's  not  one,  who  picks  and  chuses ; 
N<  .ug!it  that's  proffered,  he  refuses. 
Who,  to-day,  gives  salt,  he  knows 
Next  day  fig  or  honey  throws. 
Open,  open,  gate  and  door  : 
Mark  !  the  moment  we  implore, 
Comes  the  daughter  of  the  squire 
With  such  figs  as  wake  desire. 
Maiden  for  this  favour  done, 
May  thy  fortunes,  as  they  run, 
Ever  brighten  : — Be  thy  spouse 
Rich,  and  of  a  noble  house  ; 
May  thy  sire,  in  aged  ease, 
Nurse  a  boy  who  calls  thee  mother ; 
And  his  grandam,  on  her  knees, 
Rock  a  girl,  who  calls  him  brother; 
Kept  as  bride,  in  reservation, 
For  some  favoured  near  relation. 
But  enough  now ;  I  must  tread, 
Where  my  feet  and  eyes  are  led ; 
Dropping  at  each  door  a  strain, 
Let  me  lose  my  suit  or  gain. 

Then  search,  worthy  gentles,  the  cupboard's  close 

nook; 

To  the  lord,  and  still  more  to  the  lady,  we  look : 
Custom  warrants  the  suit;— let  it  still  then  bear 

sway ; 
And  your  Crow,  as  in  duty  most  bounden,  shall 

pray. 

*  All  persons  and  all  thin.--  in  (Jreece  seem  to  have 
had  their  own  peculiar  songs, — ploughmen,  reapers, 
millers,  weavers,  shepherds,  &.c..,  as  may  be  seen  in 
Athenteus,  xiv.  619.  Even  the  poor  unpopular  crow 
could  boast  of  one,  and  persons  went  about  hewing  in 
his  name,  and  piping  in  strains  smriM.-  to  hi*  h:il>iis  and 
disposition.  "The  rrows,"  says  Mr.  Mitchell,  "appear 
to  have  been  in  great  disfavour  with  the  Athenians ;  they 
had  the  fee-simple  of  all  that  society  wished  to  eject  from 
iisi'll';  and  thus  stood  to  the  Greeks  somewhat  in  the  re- 
lation of  that  malignant  person,  who,  according  to  Ra- 
belais, breakfasts  on  the  souls  of  serjeant-at-arms  fri- 
casseed. This  son:?  will  show  that  the  dislike  to  the 
crow  did  not  prevail  universally  amonp  the  Greeks,  but 
that  the  same  use  was  made  of  him  in  some  parts,  at  in 
others  was  made  of  the  swallow." 

In  like  manner,  (as  we  learn  from  Scripture,)  the  He- 
brews also  had  their  songs,  adapted  to  different  occupa- 
tions and  employments.  The  trrimk-r  at  the  mill,  the 
harvest-man  in  the  field,  tin?  vintacer  on  his  hill-side,  all 
beguiled  their  labours  with  sonp.— See  Isaiah  ix,  3; 
Jeremiah  xxv,  10;  xlviii,  33;  Ecclesiasticus  xxxii,5,  9. 


SONG  OF  THE  SWALLOW.* 

THE  Swallow  is  come  ! 
The  Swallow  is  come! 
He  brings  us  the  season  of  vernal  delight 
With  his  back  all  of  sable,  and  belly  of  white. 

Have  you  nothing  to  spare 

That  his  palate  would  please 

A  fig,  or  a  pear, 

Or  a  slice  of  rich  cheese  ? 

Mark,  he  bars  all  delay : 

At  a  word,  my  friend,  say, 

Is  it  yes — is  it  nay  ? 

Do  we  go?  Do  we  stay? 

One  gift,  and  we're  gone : 

Refuse,  and  anon 

On  your  gate  and  your  door 

All  our  fury  we  pour. 

Or  our  strength  shall  be  tried 

On  your  sweet  little  bride  ; 

From  her  seat  we  will  tear  her, 

From  her  home  we  will  bear  her; 

She  is  light,  and  will  ask 

But  small  hands  to  the  task. 

Let  your  bounty  then  lift 

A  small  aid  to  our  mirth ; 

And  whatever  the  gift, 

Let  its  size  speak  its  worth. 

The  Swallow,  the  Swallow, 

Upon  you  doth  wait ; 

An  alms-man  and  suppliant, 

He  stands  at  your  gate : — 

Let  him  in  then,  I  say. 

For  no  greybeards  are  we 

To  be  foiled  in  our  glee ; 

But  boys,  who  will  have  our  own  way. 


THE  ROSE. 

DID  Jove  a  queen  of  flowers  decree, 
The  Rose  the  queen  of  flowers  should  be. 
Of  flowers  the  eye,  of  plants  the  gem  ; 
The  meadow's  blush,  earth's  diadem : 
Glory  of  colours  on  the  gaze, 
Lightning  in  its  beauty's  blaze  : 
It  breathes  of  love :  it  blooms  the  guest 
Of  Aphrodite's  fragrant  breast : 
In  gaudy  pomp  its  petals  spread : 
Light  foliage  trembles  round  its  head  : 
With  vermeil  blossoms  fresh  and  fair, 
It  laughs  to  the  voluptuous  air. 


LAIS. 

,  once  the  nurse  of  generous  hearts, 
.Mistress  of  nations,  Queen  of  arts, 
No  longer  great,  no  longer  free, 
Yields  to  a  willing  slavery. 
A  girl  of  Corinth  holds  the  chain 
Which  circled  once  the  Ionian  main. 


*  The  swallow,  as  the  herald  of  spring,  was  an  univer- 
sal favourite  amongst  the  Greeks,  and  was  welcomed  by 
the  children  in  their  little  songs.  The  one  presented 
here,  was  that  usually  sung  by  the  children  of  Rhodes, 
who  ran  about  in  troops,  carrying  a  live  swallow  with 
them,  and  choiring  its  praises  from  door  to  door.— See 
Hase's  public  and  private  life  of  the  ancient  Greeks. 


286 


FROM  UNCERTAIN  AUTHORS. 


ON  ERINNA. 

THOTJ  who  hadst  lately  birth  to  music  given 
Of  bee-engender'd    hymns,  and   swan-voiced 
lays, 

Art  now  o'er  Acheron's  dark  waters  driven 
By  Fate, — the  spindle  of  man's  life  that  sways. 

Yet  still,  Erinna,  will  the  Muse  proclaim 

Thy  labours — deathless  in  the  choirs  of  Fame. 


INSCRIPTION  ON  A  BATH. 

OR  from  this  fount,  a  joyous  birth, 
The  Queen  of  Beauty  rose  to  earth, 
Or  heavenly  Venus,  bathing,  gave 
Her  own  quintessence  to  the  wave. 


THE  OLIVE  TO  THE  VINE. 
I  AM  Minerva's  sacred  plant ; 

Press  me  no  more,  intruding  vine ! 
Unwreathe  your  wanton  arms!  A  vaunt! 

A  modest  maiden  loves  not  wine. 


EPITAPH. 

FORTUNE  and  Hope,  adieu !  I've  found  my  port ; 
You've    done    with   me ;    be   others   now    your 
sport. 

The  Same  paraphrased. 

AT  length  to  Fortune,  and  to  you, 
Delusive  Hope,  a  last  adieu  ! 
The  charm,  that  once  beguiled,  is  o'er, 
And  I  have  reached  my  destined  shore. 
Away,  away !  your  flattering  arts 
May  now  betray  some  simpler  hearts ; 
And  you  will  smile  at  their  believing, 
And  they  shall  weep  at  your  deceiving. 

ON  A  FRIEND. 

How  often,  Lycid,  shall  I  bathe  with  tears 
This  little  stone,  which  our  great  love  endears! 
Thou,  too,  in  memory  of  the  vows  we  made, 
Drink  not  of  Lethe  in  the  realms  of  shade.* 


*  Imitated  by  Jortin  in  the  following  beautiful  lines. 
"Qu^E  te  sub  tenera  rapuerunt,  Preta,  juventa, 

O,  utinam  me  crudelia  Fata  vocent: 
TJt  linquam  terras,  invisaque  lumina  solis; 

Utque  tuus  rursum  corpore  sim  posito. 
Te  sequar ;  obscurum  per  iter  dux  ibit  eunti 
Fidus  Amor,  tenebras  larnpade  discutiens; 
Tu  cave  Lethaeo  continguas  ora  liquore; 
Et  cito  venturi  sis  memor,  oro,  Viri." 
OH  !  had  the  Fate  that  cut  thy  tender  age, 
Made  me  companion  of  thy  pilgrimage, 
That  I  might  say,  Farewell  to  earth  and  sky, 
And  once  again  beside  my  Po3ta  lie ! 
Thee  will  I  follow — on  the  darksome  road 
Love  lights  me  onward  to  thy  calm  abode : 
Refrain  thy  lip  from  that  oblivious  wave, 
And  think  of  him  who  hastens  to  thy  grave. 

Bland. 

In  the  same  spirit  the  ghost  of  Julia  addresses  Pompey. 
"Non  me  LethaefR,  conjux,  oblivia  vitae 
Immemorem  fecere  tui." 


THE  LOVES  OF  SAPPHO  AND  ANACREON.* 
jlnac.  SPIRIT  of  Love !  whose  tresses  shine 
Along  the  breeze,  in  golden  twine, 
Come  !  within  a  fragrant  cloud, 
Blushing  with  light,  thy  votary  shroud ; 
And,  on  those  wings  that  sparkling  play, 
Waft,  oh  !  waft  me  hence  away ! 
Love  !  my  soul  is  full  of  thee, 
Alive  to  all  thy  luxury : 
But  she,  the  Nymph,  for  whom  I  glow, 
The  pretty  Lesbian  mocks  my  woe ; 
Smiles  at  the  hoar  and  silver  hues 
Which  Time  upon  my  forehead  strews. 
Alas !  I  fear,  she  keeps  her  charms 
In  store  for  younger,  happier  arms. 

Sapph.  O  Muse,  who  sitt'st  on  golden  throne  ! 
Full  many  a  hymn  of  dulcet  tone 

The  Teian  Sage  is  taught  by  thee. 
But,  Goddess  !  from  thy  throne  of  gold, 
The  sweetest  hymn  thou'st  ever  told, 

He  lately  learn'd  and  sang  for  me. 


THE  LOVES  OF  SAPPHO  AND  ALCJEUS. 

Me.  I  FAIN  would  speak — I  fain  would  tell — 
But  shame  and  fear  my  utterance  quell. 

Sapph.  If  aught  of  good,  if  anght  of  fair, 
Thy  tongue  were  labouring  to  declare, 
Nor  shame  should  dash  thy  glance,  nor  fear 
Forbid  thy  suit  to  reach  my  ear. 


ON  SAPPHO. 

COME,  Lesbian  maids,  to  Juno's  royal  dome ! 
With    steps    that   hardly   press    the    pavement, 

come ! 

Let  your  own  Sappho  lead  the  lovely  choir, 
And  to  the  altar  bear  her  golden  lyre. 
Then  first,  in  graceful  order,  slow  advance, 
Weaving  light  mazes  of  the  joyous  dance, 
While  from  on  high  the  heav'n-rapt  Maid  shall 

pour 
Such  strains,  that  men  shall  wonder  and  adore. 

DIOGENES  TO  CROESUS. 
WHEN  now  the  Cynic  in  dark  Pluto's  reign, 

His  earthly  task  of  snarling  wisdom  clos'd; 
Laughing  he  heard  the  Lydian  king  complain, 
And    spread    his  cloak  and   near  the  prince 

repos'd. 
"Dreamer,"  he  cried,  "of  streams,  that  flowed 

with  gold, 

My  higher  dignity  in  hell  behold  ! 
For  all  I  had  on  earth  this  nether  sphere 
Receives  with  me, — but  thou  hast  nothing  here.'' 


A  FRAGMENT. 

JOT  follow  thee ;  if  joy  can  reach  the  dead, 
And — or  my  mind  misgives — it  surely  will ; 

For  when  the  miseries  of  life  are  fled, 
How  sweet  the  deep  forgetfulness  of  ill ! 

*  "Mais,  par  malheur,"  as  Bayle  says,  "Sappho  vint 
au  monde  environ  cent  ou  six  vingt  ans  avant  Anacre- 
on." 


FROM  UNCERTAIN  AUTHORS.                                         287 

TO  A  FRIEND. 

FLOWERS. 

QUAFF  with  me  the  purple  wine, 

THE  Zephyrs  and  the  Graces  wove  her  garment, 

And  in  youthful  pleasures  join; 

And   deck'd   it  with   the  sweetest  flowers  that 

Crown  with  me  thy  flowing  hair  ; 

Spring, 

Love  with  me  the  blooming  fair  ; 

Exuberant  with  gentle  showers,  brings  forth  ; 

When  secret  madness  fires  my  soul, 

Such  as  adorn  the  hours,  the  yellow  crocus, 

Thou  sh,alt  rave  without  control  ; 

The  purple  hyacinth,  violet  fresh  and  moist, 

When  I'm  sober,  sink  with  me 

Sweet-scented  rose,  the  lily's  fragrant  cup, 

Into  dull  sobriety. 

Narcissus,  too,  whose  odours  fill  the  air. 



Venus  preserve  with  never-fading  grace 

LOVE. 

A  garment  so  divinely  wrought. 

'Tis  Love  that  murmurs  in  my  breast, 
And  makes  me  shed  the  secret  tear  ; 

REASON 

Nor  day  nor  night  my  soul  hath  rest, 

NOT  PROOF  AGAINST  CUPID  AND  BACCHUS  UNITED. 

For  night  and  day  his  voice  I  hear. 

WITH  Reason  I  cover  my  breast  as  a  shield, 

A  wound  within  my  heart  I  find, 

And  fearlessly  meet  little  Love  in  the  field  ; 

And  oh  !  'tis  plain  where  Love  has  been  ; 
For  still  he  leaves  a  wound  behind, 

Thus  fighting  his  Godship,  I'll  ne'er  be  dismay'd; 
But  if  Bacchus  should  ever  advance  to  his  aid, 

Such  as  within  my  heart  is  seen. 

Alas  !  then,  unable  to  combat  the  two, 

Oh,  Bird  of  Love  !  with  song  so  drear, 

Unfortunate  warrior,  what  should  I  do  ? 

Make  not  my  soul  the  nest  of  pain  ; 

But  let  the  wing,  which  brought  thee  here, 
In  pity  wait  thee  hence  again. 

FOREKNOWLEDGE. 

LIFE'S  ills,  could  man  by  knowing, 

—  -  -    " 

Be  spared  from  undergoing, 

LIFE  AND  DEATH. 

There  would  be  sense  in  knowing  | 

WHEXCE  was  I  born,  and  how? 

But  since,  with  all  our  knowing, 

How  was  I  born,  and  why  ? 

We  must  still  be  undergoing, 

Alas  !  I  nothing  know 

Why,  what's  the  use  of  knowing? 

But,  born,  that  I  must  die. 



From  nothing  I  was  born, 

THE  DEAD. 

To  nought  must  I  return. 

THE  phantom  of  a  substance  fled, 

The  end  and  the  beginning 

The  echo  of  a  sound, 

Of  life  is  nothingness  ; 

Where  darkness  all  above  is  spread, 

Of  losing  or  of  winning. 

And  silence  all  around,  — 

Of  pleasure  or  distress. 

These  —  these  alone,  when  we  are  dead, 

Then  give  me  wine  at  least, 

In  Ades  will  be  found. 

There's  nought  for't  but  to  feast. 

Down  through  that  yawning  gulf,  the  grave, 



When  life's  brief  fit  is  o'er, 

TO  ROME. 

Shall  sink  the  great,  the  good,  the  brave, 

DAUGHTER  of  Mars!  Hail,  mighty  Power! 
Stern  Queen,  in  golden  crown  array  'd  ! 
Who  build'st  on  earth  thy  re^al  tower, 

Down  to  the.  sunless  shore, 
Where,  by  the  hush  of  sullen  wave, 
They  sleep  for  evermore. 

A  high  Olympus,  ne'er  assay  'd  ! 

1 

To  thee  atom-  hath  awful  Fate 

DEATH  THE  UNIVERSAL  LOT. 

Tin-  pride  of  vast  dominion  lent, 
The  Mrentrth  to  bind  a  rising  state 
In  bonds  of  or                      •rmnent. 
Beneath  thy  yoke's  compelling  beam 
Unrneasiir'd  earth  and  ocean  Imar 
Together  b'-ml  ;    whil>t  tliou.  supreme, 

STRAIGHT  is  our  passage  to  the  grave, 
Whether  from  Meroe's  burning  wave, 
Or  Attic  groves  we  roarn. 
Grieve  not  in  distant  lands  to  die  ! 
Our  vessels  seek,  from  every  sky, 
Death's  universal  home. 

The  nations  rnl'st  from  shore  to  shore. 

E'en  mightiest  Time,  whose  la\vs  prevail 



To  change  the  world  at  h 

FRAGMENT. 

Can  never  turn  the  prosperous  gale 
That  swells  thy  potent  sovereignty.  — 
Of  thee  alone                       >rn, 

THE  ever-smiling  Venus,  and  the  Nymphs 
That  form  her  happy  train,  their  foreheads  bind 

The  tir-t  to  blaze  in  glorious  fight,                    With  garlands  of  the  choicest  flowers  that  grow 

Like  spicy  ranks  of  waving  corn, 
That  Ceres  marshals,  golden-bright.* 

On  the  sweet-smelling  bosom  of  the  earth, 
Breathing  and  dropping  odours  —  as  they  move, 
The  Graces  join  in  mirthful  song,  the  while 

*  This  ode  has  been  sometimes  ascribed  to  Erinna,but    Old  Ida's  lofty  summit,  crown'd  with  springs, 

:•  evidently  the  production  of  a  later  age.                          |  In  quick  vibration  echoes  back  the  strain. 

288 


FROM  UNCERTAIN  AUTHORS. 


THE  LOVER'S  WISH. 

OH,  that  I  were  some  gentle  air, 

That  when  the  heats  of  summer  glow, 
And  lay  thy  panting  bosom  bare, 

I  might  upon  that  bosom  blow  !— 
Oh,  that  I  were  yon  blushing  flower, 

Which,  even  now  thy  hands  have  prest, 
To  live,  though  but  for  one  short  hour, 

Upon  the  Elysium  of  thy  breast. 


EXCLAMATION  OF  VENUS, 

ON    SEEING   HER  STATUE   BT  PRAXITELES. 

MY  naked  charms !  The  Phrygian  swain, 

And  Dardan  boy — to  those  I've  shown  them, 

And  only  those  of  mortal  strain  : — 

How  should  Praxiteles  have  known  them  ? 


ON  A  STATUE  OF  ENVY. 

MOULDED  with  envied  skill,  black  Envy  see, 
A  living  mass  of  prostrate  misery. 
Grieved  at  another's  good,  the  wretch  has  thrown 
His  aged  limbs  down  on  the  hard  rough  stone : 
And  there  the  shrivell'd  form  in  squalor  lies, 
Heaving  with  ill-represt,  soul-maddening  sighs. 
With  one  old  hand,  which  props  those  hoary  hairs, 
His  pale,  thin  temples,  see  !  the  madman  tears  5 
While,  in  the  other  hand,  a  staff  is  found, 
Wherewith   he   smites,  with  furious   grins,  the 

ground. 

Gnashing  in  double  row,  those  teeth  declare 
How  much  his  neighbour's  weal  o'erwhelms  him 

with  despair. 


ON  AN  INFANT. 

RELENTLESS  Ades,  why  of  life  bereave 
The  child  CallEeschrus?— if  a  toy  he  be 
In  her  dark  home  to  thy  Persephone, 

Still  with  what  sorrow  must  his  parents  grieve  ? 


THE  INVITATION. 
COME,  sit  by  yon  shadowy  pine, 

That  covers  my  sylvan  retreat, 
And  see  how  its  branches  incline 

The  breathing  of  Zephyr  to  meet. 
See  the  fountain  that,  gurgling,  diffuses 

Around  me  a  glittering  spray, 
By  the  brink,  as  the  traveller  muses, 

I  soothe  him  to  sleep  with  my  lay. 

THE  TRYSTING  TREE. 

SEE  a  meet  spot  for  longing  lovers'  vows, 
Beneath  this  platane's  over-arching  boughs, 
Where  the  ripe  clusters  of  the  clasping  vine 
Well-pleased  amid  the  greenery  recline. 
Grow  on,  thou  platane !  may  thy  sheltering  boughs 
Conceal  fond  lovers  breathing  tender  vows. 

UNDER  A  WINGED  CUPID. 

OF  shunning  Love  'tis  vain  to  talk, 
When  he  can  fly,  and  I  but  walk. 


PAN'S  RETREAT. 

REST  here,  beneath  these  shady  groves  reclin'd, 
Whose  tall  tops  gently  murmur  to  the  wind; 
Here,  where  the  brook  mellifluous  flows  along, 
And  woos  me  with  her  ever-gurgling  song ; 
Whilst  on  my  solitary  pipe  I  play, 
Or  sweetly  sleep  the  noontide  hours  away. 


ON  A  FOUNTAIN  SACRED  TO  PAN. 
THESE   elms   and  willows,  with    long   pointed 

leaves, 
This  plane,  where  bough  with  bough  its  foliage 

weaves, 

This  fountain,  with  its  water  trickling  clear; 
These  rustic  drinking-cups,  for  ever  near — 
To  Pan  are  sacred  all :  drink,  passer-by ! 
Thou'lt  find  it  medicine — if  thy  throat  be  dry. 


ON  A  LAUREL, 

CUT  DOWN   WITH    A  HATCHET. 

AH  !  where  was  Phoebus,  when  the  God  of  arms 
Dared  to  profane  his  Daphne's  virgin  charms  ? 


ON  ERINNA. 
SEE,  how  the  maid  her  distaff  plies, 

And  at  the  web  her  task  pursues, 
Fearing  her  mother's  watchful  eyes, 

But  all  her  thoughts  are  on  the  Muse. 

ON  IBYCUS. 

RHEGIUM,  whose  feet  Trinacria's  straiten'd  sea 
Laves  ever,  verge  extreme  of  Italy, 
Honour'd  be  thou  in  song  for  having  laid 
Under  thy  leafy  elms'  embowering  shade 
The  dust  of  Ibycus,  the  bard  beloved, 
The  bard  of  Love,  who  all  its  joys  had  proved— 
Mantle  his  grave  with  ivy — round  it  plant 
Reeds,  to  send  forth  the  shepherd's  rural  chant. 


DIALOGUE  BETWEEN  A  SUITOR  AND 

HIS  MISTRESS'S  MAID. 
"  GOOD  day,  my  love !" — "  The  same  to  you." 
"That  lovely  lady, — tell  me  who?'' — 
"  What's  that  to  thee  ?" — "  I  wish  to  know." 
"My  mistress,  then;  now  let  me  go." 
"Stay — may  I   hope?" — "Hope!    what?" — "At 

night?" 
"  Perhaps." — "  Here's   money." — "  Well  —  that's 

right." 

"I've  only  silver." — "What?  No  gold? 
No  sir — my  mistress  can't  be  sold." 

EPITAPH. 
THE  sod  so  lately  stirr'd,  the  wreaths  that  shed 

On  this  sepulchral  stone  their  waning  bloom, 
And  these  sad  words — the  story  of  the  dead— 

Tell  whose  the  bones  that  moulder  in  this  tomb. 
I,  Aretemias,  in  Cnidos  born, 

In  pangs  of  child-birth,  twins  to  Euphron  j;ave  ; 
One  lives  to  prop  his  father's  age  forlorn — 

One  with  his  mother  sleeps  within  the  grave. 


PART    II. 


FROM  THE   ROMAN  POETS, 


289 


37 


ENNIUS. 


[Born  239-Died  169,  B.  C.] 


THIS  father  of  Roman  song,  as  he  has  been 
called  by  the  Latin  writers,  was  born  at  Rudiae, 
8.  town  of  Calabria,  in  the  year  of  Rome  515. 
Like  ^Eschylus,  the  great  father  of  the  Grecian 
staire,  he  was  a  soldier  before  he  became  an  au- 
thor, having  followed  Titus  Manlius  to  the  war 
waged  in  Sardinia  against  the  allies  of  Carthage. 
There  he  continued  to  reside  until  the  age  of 
ihirty-five,  when  he  was  brought  to  Rome  by  the 
elder  Cato,  and  supported  himself  by  instructing 
the  patrician  youth  in  Greek.  In  this  humble, 
•hough  honourable  employment,  he  acquired  for 
limself  not  only  the  freedom  of  the  city,  but  the 
friendship  of  many  of  its  most  illustrious  men, 


more  particularly  of  that  great  ornament  of  his 
age  and  nation,  the  elder  Africanus.  Ennius  died 
at  the  age  of  seventy,  when  a  bust  was  erected 
to  him  in  the  tomb  of  the  Scipios,  who,  until  the 
time  of  Sylla,  had  continued  the  practice  of  bury- 
ing, instead  of  burning,  their  dead.  This  bust, 
together  with  the  statues  of  Africanus  and  Asia- 
ticus,  was  remaining  in  the  days  of  Livy,  and  is 
supposed,  by  many,  to  be  the  same  which  now 
stands  on  the  sarcophagus  of  Scipio  Barbatus,  in 
the  Vatican.  Of  the  numerous  compositions  of 
Ennius,  translated  or  original, — of  all  his  dramas, 
satires,  and  annals  or  metrical  chronicles, — the 
scantiest  fragments  alone  remain.* 


FRAGMENTS. 

I.    TELAMON  ON  HEARING  THE  DEATH  OF  HIS  SON 
AJAX. 

I  KNEW,  when  I  begat  him,  he  must  die, 
And  train'd  him  to  no  other  destiny, — 
Knew,  when  I  sent  him  to  the  Trojan  shore, 
:Twas  not  to  halls  offcast,  but  fields  of  gore. 


II.  ANSWER  OF  PYRTIHUS  TO  THE  ROMA!*  AMBAS- 
SADORS, WHO  CAME  TO  RANSOM  THE  PRISONERS 
TAKEN  FROM  THEM  BY  THAT  I'HINCB  ITS 
BATTLE. 

Ynrn  gold  I  ask  not;  take  your  ransoms  home ; 
Warriors,  not  trafficers  in  war,  we  como  ; 
Not  gold,  but  steel,  our  strife  should  arbitrate, 
And  viilmir  prove  which  is  the  choice  of  fate. 
The  brave,  whose  lives  the  battle  spar'd,  with 

me 

Shall  never  mourn  the  loss  of  liberty. 
Unnmsom'd  then  your  comrades  hence  remove, 
And  may  the  mighty  gods  the  boon  approve. f 


III.    FABIUS. 

HEEDLESS    of  what   a   censuring  world   might 

say, 
One  man  restored  the  state  by  wise  delay ; 


*  For  some  account  of  Ennius's  works,  particularly  his 
Annals,  see  Cicero's  Tusc.  Disput.  Brutus,  &.c.  Sic. ; 
Sdili'i.'1'l's  Lectures  on  Literature;  NU- buhr's  Romische 
Osrhii-lite,  and  Dunlop's  Roman  Literature,  &c.  &c 

t"Regalis  sand"  says  Cicero  "et  digna  -flEacidarum 
genere  seutentia. 


Hence  time  has  hallow'd  his  immortal  name, 
And,  with  increasing  years,  increas'd  his  fame. 


IY.    A  ROMAN  TRIBUNE   WITHSTANDING  THE  AT- 
TACK OF  A  WHOLE   HOST. 

FORTH  on  the  tribune,  like  a  shower, 

the  gathering  javelins  spring, 
His  buckler  pierce— or  on  its  boss 

the  quivering  lances  ring— 
Or  rattle  on  his  brazen  helm ; 

but  vain  the  utmost  might 
Of  foes,  that  press  on  every  side, — 

none  can  the  tribune  smite. 
And  many  a  spear  he  shivers  then, 

and  many  a  stroke  bestows, 
While  with  many  a  jet  of  reeking  sweat 

his  labouring  body  flows. 
No  breathing  time  the  tribune  has — 

no  pause— the  winged  iron, 
The  Istrian  darts,  in  ceaseless  showers, 

provoke  him  and  environ  : 
And  lance  and  sling  destruction  bring 

on  many  heroes  stout, 
Who  tumble  headlong  from  the  wall, 

within  it,  or  without. 


T.    SOOTHSAYERS. 

FOR  no  Marsian  augur,  (whom  fools  view  with 

awe,) 

Nor  diviner,  nor  star-gazer,  care  I  a  straw; 
The  Egyptian  quack,  an  expounder  of  dreams, 
Is  neither  in  science  nor  art  what  he  seems; 
Superstitious  and  shameless,  they  prowl  through 

our  streets, 

Some  hungry,  some  crazy,  but  all  of  them  cheats. 

291 


292 


PLAUTUS. 


Impostors!  who  vaunt  that  to  others  they'll  show 
A  path,  which  themselves   neither   travel  nor 

know. 
Since  they  promise  us  wealth  if  we  pay  for  their 

pains, 
Let   them  take  from   that  wealth,  and  bestow 

what  remains. 

VI.    ARE  THERE   GODS  ? 

YES  !  there  are  gods  ;  but  they  no  thought  bestow 
On  human  deeds, — on  mortal  bliss  or  woe, — 
Else  would  such  ills  our  wretched  race  assail1? 
Would  the.  Good  suffer  ? — would  the  Bad  prevail1? 

VII.    THE   IDLE   SOLDIER. 

WHO  know  not  leisure  to  employ, 

Toil  more  than  those  whom  toils  employ  5 

For  they,  who  toil  with  purpos'd  mind, 

In  all  their  labours  pleasure  find  ; 

But  they,  whose  time  no  labours  fill, 

Have  in  their  minds  nor  wish  nor  will. 

— So  'tis  with  us,  call'd  far  from  home, 

Nor  yet  to  fields  of  battle  come, 

We  hither  march,  we  thither  sail, 

Our  minds  as  veering  as  the  gale. 

VIII.    THE   CALM  OF  EVENING. 

THE  heaven's  vast  world  stood  silent ;  Neptune 

gave 

A  hushful  pause  to  ocean's  roughening  wave  5 
The  sun  curb'd  his  swift  steeds  ;  th'  eternal  floods 
Stood  still  5  and  not  a  breath  was  on  the  woods. 


IX.    THE   SAME   SUBJECT. 

SWEET  smil'd  the  Olympian  Father  from  above, 
And    the    htish'd   storms   return'd   his    smile  of 
love ! 


X.    ON  THE   REVIVAL  OF  ILIUM  IX   ROME. 

SACK'D,  but  not  captive, — burn'd,  but  not  con- 

sum'd, — 
Nor  yet,  on  Dardan  plains,  to  perish  doom'd. 

XI.  THE   CHARACTER  OF  AX  ADVISER  AXD  FRIEXD. 

[Supposed  by  many  to  be  a  portrait  of  the  poet  himself.] 

His  friend  he  call'd,— who  at  his  table  far'd, 
And  all  his  counsels  and  his  converse  shar'd ; 
With  whom  he  oft  consum'd  the  day's  decline 
In  talk  of  petty  schemes  or  great  design, — 
To  him,  with  ease  and  freedom  uncontroll'd, 
His  jests  and  thoughts,   or  good  or    ill,    were 

told; 

Whate'er  concern'd  his  fortunes  was  disclos'd, 
And  safely  in  that  faithful  breast  repos'd. 
This  chosen  friend  possess'd  a  stedfast  mind, 
Where  no  base  purpose  could  its  harbour  find ; 
Mild,  courteous,  learn'd,  with  knowledge  blest 

and  sense, 

A  soul  serene,  contentment,  eloquence ; 
Fluent  in  words  or  sparing,  well  he  knew 
All  things  to  speak  in  place  and  season  due ; 
His  mind  was  amply  graced  with  ancient  lore, 
Nor  less  enrich'd  with  modern  wisdom's  store : 
Him,  while  the  tide  of  battle  onward  press'd 
Servilius  call'd.  . 


PLAUTUS. 


[Born  229-Died  184,  B.  C.] 


PLAUTUS,  so  named  from  his  splay  feet,  was 
a  native  of  Sarsina,  a  town  in  Umbria.  From 
his  father,  a  freedman,  he  is  said  to  have  re- 
ceived a  good  education,  and,  turning  his  atten- 
tion early  to  the  stage,  soon  realized  a  consider- 
able fortune  by  the  popularity  of  his  dramas. 
This,  however,  he  afterwards  lost, — by  ill  success 
in  trade,  according  to  some, — or  by  spending  it, 
as  others  say,  on  theatrical  ornaments  and  dresses, 
as  an  actor,  at  a  time  when,  owing  to  the  great 
famine  then  prevalent  at  Rome,  theatrical  amuse- 
ments were  little  resorted  to.  To  such  necessity 
was  he  reduced,  as  to  labour  in  a  mill  for  his 
daily  support.  Many  of  his  plays  were  written 
in  these  unfavourable  circumstances,  and  may, 
therefore,  claim  from  the  critic  an  indulgence  to 
which  they  could  not  otherwise  pretend.  Plautus 
has  left  nineteen  comedies,  almost  all  of  them, 
more  or  less,  borrowed  from  the  ancients,  and 
imitated  by  the  moderns.  Amongst  these  may 
be  enumerated  the  Amphitryon,  taken  from  a 


play  of  Epicharmus,  and  imitated  by  Ludovico 
Dolce,  Moliere,  and  Dryden;  the  Menaechmi, 
borrowed,  it  is  supposed,  from  some  lost  play  of 
Menarrder  or  Epicharmus,  and  known  on  the 
English  stage,  as  the  origin  of  Shakspeare's 
Comedy  of  Errors;  the  Aulularia,  or  little  pot  of 
money,  supposed  likewise  to  have  been  borrowed 
from  the  Greek,  and  freely  drawn  on  by  Moliere, 
Fielding,  and  Goldoni,  in  their  respective  come- 
dies of  L'Avare,  Miser,  and  Vero  Amico; — The 
Casina,  translated  from  Diphilus,  a  Greek  writer 
of  the  new  comedy  and  a  contemporary  of  Menan- 
der,  and  imitated  by  Machiaval  in  his  Clitia,  and 
Beaumarchais  in  his  Marriage  de  Figaro. — Plau- 
tus, writing  for  his  bread,  and  consulting  rather  the 
humours  of  the  many,  than  the  tastes  of  the  few,  his 
frequently  exposed  himself  to  the  lash  of  censura; 
yet,  with  all  his  irregularities  and  defects,  he  is  ab- 
solutely pure  as  compared  with  Beaumont  ar  d 
Fletcher,  Massinger,  Dryden,  Wycherly,  and  other 
of  our  dramatic  writers  in  the  days  of  the  Stuarts. 


PLAUTUS. 


293 


AMPHITRYON. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

BLEPHARO. 

SOSIA. 

BRO.MIA. 


JUPITER. 

MKHCURY. 
AMPHITRYON. 
ALCMENA. 
SCENE. — Thebes,  before  AMPHITRYON'S  house. 

PROLOGUE. 

MERCURY  disguised  like  SOSIA. 
******* 
Now  lend  attention,  whilst  that  I  unfold 
The  argument  of  this  our  comedy. 
This  city  here  is  Thebes,  and  in  that  house 
Amphitryon  dwells,  an  Argive  by  his  birth, 
And  husband  of  Alcmena.     Which  Amphitryon 
Commands  the  Theban  forces ;  for  there's  war 
Betwixt  the  Thebans  and  the  Teleboans. 
Ere  his  departure  hence  to  join  the  troops, 
His  wife  was  pregnant  by  him.     Verily 
Ye  know  my  father,  how  he  is  inclin'd, 
How  freely  he  indulges  in  love  matters, 
With  what  excess  he  doats,  where  once  he  loves. 
He  for  Alcmena  entertain'd  a  passion, 
And  now  is  with  her,  in  Amphitryon's  form, 
While  I  take  that  of  Sosia,  his  servant, 
That  in  this  guise  my  father  I  may  serve, 
And  none  about  the  house  ask  who  I  am. 
Meantime  he  is  within,  recounting  to 
His  love  what  was  transacted  in  the  army, 
She,  all  the  while,  mistaking  him  for  her  husband. 
He  tells  her  how  he  put  the  enemy's  troops 
To  flight,  and  that  they  gave  him  many  gifts. 

bestow'd  upon  Amphitryon,  we 
Have  stolen ;  for  my  father  can  with  ease 
Do  what  he  will. — Now,  on  this  very  day, 
Amphitryon  will  arrive  here  from  the  army, 
Together  with  his  slave,  whose  form  I  bear. 
That  ye  may  then  di.-tin<_'ui>h  us  more  readily, 
I,  on  my  hat,  these  little  wing-j  shall  wear; 
My  father,  he  will  bear  a  golden  tuft; 
Which  mark  the  right  Amphitryon  will  not  have, 
Anil  no  one  of  the  family  will  be  able 
To  see  these  marks  :  ye  only  -hall  discern  them. — 
But  Sosia  yonder  comes,  and   bears  him  hither- 
ward 

A  lantern  in  his  hand  : — He  makes  for  home, 
But  I  shall  drive  him  thence. — So — here  he  is. 
It  will  be  worth  your  while  to  mark  how  Jove 
And  Mercury  will  play  the  part  i 

[MERITRY  j>l<nr*  himtdf  before 
AMPHITRYONS'  door. 

ACT  I.     SCKNE  I. 
SOSIA  advances  with  a  ld/i'> 

Sos.  Is  there  a  bolder  fellow  ?   Is  there  anyone 
More  stout  of  heart  than  I  am?   I,  who  know 
The  humours  of  our  wild  young  sparks,  yet  dare 
Walk  by  myself  at  thi-  late  hour  of  night. 
What  shall  I  do  now,  if  the  watch  .-hould  seize 
And  thrust  me  in  a  i>ri-"i;  '.  —  Why.  to-morrow 
1  shall  be  serv'd  up  from  that  dainty  larder. 
And  well  dress'd  with  a  whipping:— not  a  word 


Allow'd  me  in  my  own  defence; — no  master 
To  take  my  part; — and  ev'ry  soul  will  think 
I've  my  deserts : — so  shall  eight  sturdy  fellows 
Bethump  me  like  an  anvil. — In  this  sort 
They'll  greet  me  on  my  coming,  thus  receive 
And  entertain  m,e  at  the  public  charge ! 
These  honours  has  my  master  forc'd  upon  me, 
Who  sent  me  from  the  port,  so  late  at  night, 
Against  my  inclination. — Could  he  not 
Have  waited  till  'twas  day-light  to  despatch  me? 
This  is  the  hardship  of  a  great  man's  service, 
Wherefore  his  servant  leads  a  plaguy  life  on't: 
By  day,  by  night,  there's  work  enough,  and  more, 
That  will  not  let  him  rest.     The  master,  he 
Being  free  himself  from  labour,  thinks  his  slave 
Can  drudge  and  drudge  still  on,  whate'er  befalls 

him ; 

Nay,  thinks  it  just,  and  never  counts  the  toil, 
Nor  once  considers,  whether  his  commands 
Are  right  or  wrong.     Wherefore  in  servitude 
We  suffer  much  oppression :  yet  the  burthen 
Must  be  endured  with  pain. 

Merc,  (aside.)  On  this  account 

I  have  more  reason  surely  to  complain 
Of  servitude, — I,  who  before  was  free, 
Though  now  my  father  has  me  for  his  slave : 
This  fellow,  who  was  born  a  slave,  complains ! 
But  hold — I  only  am  a  slave  in  name. 

Sos.  Stay, — now  I  think  on't.     I  should  thank 

the  gods 

For  my  arrival.     Would  they  recompense  me, 
As  I  deserve,  they  should  commission  some  one 
To  welcome  me  with  douses  on  the  chaps : 
For  all  their  goodness  has  been  thrown  away 
On  an  ungrateful  rascal. 

Merc.  His  deserts 

He  knows  then,  which  such  fellows  seldom  do. 

Sos.  Well, — to  come  home  in  a  whole  skin ! — 

'twas- what 

I  never  thought,  or  any  of  our  people. 
The  foes  subdued,  our  troops  are  marching  home- 
ward— 

The  war  extinguished,  and  the  enemy  slain, 
That  wrought  such  bitter  troubles  to  our  Thebans ; 
Their  town  was  storm'd  and  taken,  by  the  strength 
And  valour  of  our  men,  but  chief  of  all 
By  the  command  and  conduct  of  Amphitryon, 
My  master,  who  has  since  distributed 
The  booty,  lands,  and  corn  among  the  soldiery, 
And  firmly  fix'd  King  Creon  in  his  throne. 
He  has  sent  me  on  before  him,  to  acquaint 
His  lady  with  the  news, — with  what  command 
And  conduct  he  discharg'd  his  public  trust. 
Now  let  me  study  how  to  frame  my  story : — 
What  if  I  tell  her  lies?  I  act  in  character  -. 
For  when  the  armies  fought  with  all  their  might, 
With  all  my  might  I  ran  away:  however, 
I'll  make  pretence  that  I  was  in  the  action, 
And  speak  from  hearsay. 

Merc.  Ah,  ha,  he's  coming  hither ; 

I'll  meet  him  then;  I  must  not  let  him  enter 
Within  the  doors  to-day :  but  since  I  bear 
His  semblan  Ived  to  play  him  off. 

As  I've  assum'd  his  form  and  garb,  'twere  fit 
I  should  resemble  too  his  deeds  and  manners : 
I  must  be  a  sly,  a  cunning  knave,  and  fight  him 


294 


PLAUTUS. 


With  his  own  weapons,  drive  him  from  the  door 
By  villainous  craft. — But,  how  now,  what's  the 

matter  ? 
He's  staring  at  the  sky. — I'll  watch  his  motions. 

Sos.  As  I  have  faith  in  any  thing,  as  sure 
As  I  know  any  thing,  I  think  and  know 
That  Night,  this  night,  went  drunk  to  bed:  for 

see! 

The  seven  stars  are  motionless,  the  Moon 
Has  stirr'd  not,  since  she  rose ;  nor  is  Orion, 
The  evening  star,  or  Pleiades  yet  set : 
The  signs  stand  stock  still ;  and  the  night  don't 

budge 
A  jot  for  day. 

Merc.  Good  Night,  as  you've  begun, 

Go  on,  obsequious  to  my  father's  pleasure : 
'Tis  the  best  service,  for  the  best  of  beings, 
Best  done ;  and  you  will  find  your  interest  in  it. 

Sos.  I  think  I  never  saw  a  longer  night 
Than  this,  except  one  night,  when  I  was  drubb'd 
And  hung  up  by  the  heels :  yet  this,  methinks, 
Exceeds  e'en  that  in  length. — Faith,  I  believe 
The  sun  has  drunk  too  much,  and  dropp'd  asleep. 

Merc.  Say  you  so,  varlet  ?  Do  you  think  the  gods 
Are  like  yourself? — You  hang-dog! — but  I'll  pay 

you 
For  your  vile  deeds  and  speeches. 

Sos.  What  do  I  see  ? 

A  man  before  the  house  ?  and  at  so  late 
An  hour  of  night  ?  I  like  him  not. 

Merc.  The  rogue 

Has  not  his  equal  for  rank  cowardice. — 
He's  frightened ;  I'll  have  sport  with  him. 

Sos.  I'm  ruined. 

How  my  teeth  chatter !  Sure  he's  posted  here 
To  give  me  a  reception  with  his  fists. 
I'm  lost  forever ; — what  a  swinging  rogue ! 
How  brawny ! 

Merc.  I'll  draw  nearer,  raise  my  voice 

That  he  may  hear  me,  and  from  thence  conceive 
More  terrible  fears  within  him.  (aloud.]  Come,  my 

fists, 

To  action ;  stir  ye  ;  quick ! — 'tis  a  long  while 
Since  ye  have  made  provision  for  my  belly. 
Methinks  it  is  an  age  since,  yesterday, 
Ye  stripp'd  four  men,  and  laid  them  dead  asleep. 

Sos.  Four  men:    I  fear  I  shall  augment  the 
number. 

Merc,  (throwing  about  his  arms.)  There  I  could 
have  him. 

Sos.  Who  ? 

Merc.  Whoever  comes 

This  way,  shall  eat  my  fists. 

Sos.  Pshaw ! 

I  don't  like  to  eat  so  late  at  night ; 
I  supp'd  just  now ;  so  pray,  bestow  your  supper 
On  them  that  have  more  appetite. 

Merc.  This  fist 

Is  not  of  trifling  weight. 

Sos.  I'm  a  dead  man : 

He's  weighing  of  his  fists. 

Merc.  What  if  I  stroke  him 

Gently  to  sleep  ? 

Sos.  You'll  do  me  a  great  service ; 

For  I  have  watch'd  these  three  whole  nights  to- 
gether. 


Merc.  A  mercy  on  his  bones ! 

Sos.  Why  sure  he  means 

To  bone  me  like  an  eel.     I  wish  him  further 
With  these  his  boning  tricks. — I'm  a  dead  man 
If  he  should  see  me  now. 

Merc.  Some  fellow  stinks. 

Sos.  What !  do  I  smell  ? 

Merc.  Nor  can  he  be  far  off. 

Sos.  Sure  he's  a  conjuror. 

Merc.  Oh,  how  my  fists 

Itch  to  be  at  him. 

Sos.  If  you  mean  on  me 

To  exercise  them,  prithee  cool  them  first 
Against  the  wall. 

Merc.  The  wretch !  he  calls  for  it ; 

He  claims  it  of  me,  a  most  heavy  lading 
On  his  beast's  back. 

Sos.  Not  I ; — I  am  no  beast 

Of  burthen,  truly. 

Merc.  .        Yes,  he  shall  be  loaded 

Well  with  these  fists. 

Sos.  In  troth,  I  am  fatigued 

With  coming  from  on  shipboard,  and  e'en  now 
I  am  so  crop-sick,  I  can  scarcely  crawl, 
Even  without  a  lading.     Do  not  think  then, 
That  I  can  carry  burthens. 

Merc.  Certainly 

There's  some  one  speaks. 

Sos.  He  says,  there's  some  one  speaks. 

Merc.  The  voice  was  on  the  right !  Ho !  who 
goes  there  1 

Sos.  I   cannot   budge  a  foot,  I  am   so  fright- 
ened. 

All's  over  with  me. — Yet  am  I  resolv'd 
To  face  the  fellow,  and  bespeak  him  boldly, 
I'll  seem  as  valiant  as  I  can,  that  he 
May  keep  hands  off  me. 

Merc.  You,  sir,  whither  go  you? 

You  there,  that  carry  Vulcan  in  your  horn. 

Sos.  Who  made  you  an  examiner  ?  you,  who 

bone 
Men  with  your  fists  ? 

Merc.  Are  you  a  slave,  or  free? 

Sos.  Whichever  likes  me. 

Merc.  Say'st  thou — 

Sos.  Ay,  I  say  it. 

Merc.  You  want  a  drubbing. 

Sos.  Now  you  lie,  I  don't. 

Merc.  I'll  make  you  own  it. 

Sos.  Wherefore  ? 

Merc.  I  must  know 

Whose  you  are,  where  you're  going,  what's  your 
errand. 

Sos.  My  way  lies   here:   I   am   my  master's 

servant : 
What  are  you  now  the  wiser  ? 

Merc.  I  shall  make  you 

Hold  that  foul  tongue  of  yours. 

Sos.  You  cannot  do  it : 

I  keep  it  pure  and  clean. 

Merc.  How  !  prating  still ? 

What  business  have  you  at  this  house  ? 

Sos.  And  p:*ay 

What  business  have  you  here  ? 

Merc.  King  Creon  sets 

A  watch  here  ev'ry  night. 


PLAUTUS. 


295 


Sos.  'Tis  gracious  in  him 

To  guard  our  house  the  while  we  are  abroad. 
But  prithee  now  go  in,  and  tell  the  family, 
Some  of  their  fellow-servants  have  arrived. 

Merc.  Whose  fellow  you  may  be  I  know  not ; 

but  if 

You  don't  begone  this  instant,  I  shall  give  you 
Such  a  reception,  fellow,  as  you  will  not 
Take  in  good  fellowship. 

So*.  I  tell  you,  I 

Live  here,  and  am  a  servant  of  this  house. 

Merc.  Dye    mind?    unless    you  take  yourself 

away, 
I  shall  exalt  you. 

Sos.  How  ? 

Merc.  You  shall  be  carried ; 

If  I  but  take  a  cudgel,  you'll  not  walk, 
I  promise  you. 

Sos.  Nay,  but  I  do  affirm 

That  I'm  a  servant  in  this  family. 

Merc.  Look  to't — you'll  have  a  drubbing,  if 

you  don't 
Begone  this  instant. 

So*.  Would  you  then  desire 

To  drive  me  from  my  home,  when  I  am  just 
Arriv'd  here  from  abroad? 

Merc.  Is  this  your  home? 

So*.  It  is  I  say. 

Merc.  Who  is  your  master  then  ? 

So*.  Amphitryon,  general  of  the  Theban  troops, 
The  husband  of  Alcmena. 

Merc.  Ha !  what  say  you  ? 

What  is  your  name  ? 

So*.  Our  Thebans  call  me  Sosia, 

The  son  of  Davus. 

Merc.  To  thy  sore  mishap 

Art  thou  arriv'd,  thou  monster  of  effrontery ! — 
With  made-up  lies  and  patched-up  knaveries. 

So*.    I'm   come  with    patclfd-up   clothes,   'tis 

true,  but  not 
With  knaveries. 

Merc.  !Twas  with  your  feet  you  came. 

So*.  Ay,  verily — 

Merc.  Ay,  verily ;  then  take 

This  drubbing  for  your  lie. 

So*.  Indeed,  forsooth 

I  don't  desire  it,  I — 

Merc.  Indeed,  forsooth, 

I5ut  you  shall  have  it,  though  you  don't:  indeed 
Tis  so  resolv'd,  and  'tis  not  in  your  choice. 

(Striking  him.} 

Sos.  I  cry  you  mercy ! 

Dost  thou  dare  affirm 
That  thou  I  :  run  he  ! 

Sos.  Murder!  (S/i7/  striking  him.) 

Merc.  This  is  but  little  in  respect 

Of  what  you'll  have  in  future.     Now  whose  are 
you  ? 

Sos.  Your's:  for  your  fists  have  mark'd  me  for 
your  own. 

•rury  continues  to  strike  him.} 
Help,  help,  good  citizens! 

Still  bawling,  sirrah  ? 
Speak,  wherefore  came  you  here? 

So*.  That  you  might  have 

.'somebody  to  belabour  with  your  fii 


Merc.  Whose  are  you  then  ? 

So*.  I  say,  Amphitryon's  Sosia. 

Merc.  You  shall  be  drubb'd  more  heartily  for 

this; 

You  talk  so  idly. — I  myself  am  Sosia, 
Not  you. 

So*.  (Aside.}  I  would  to  heav;n  your  were  indeed, 
That  I  were  beating  you  ! 

Merc.  What!  muttering. 

So*.  I'll 

Be  dumb  now. 

WJferc.  Who's  your  master? 

So*.  Whom  you  will. 

Merc.  Come  prithee,  what's  your  name  ? 

So*.  I  have  no  name 

But  what  you  shall  command. 

Merc.  You  said  you  were 

Amphitryon's  Sosia. 

So*.  I  mistook :  I  meant 

To  say  I  was  Amphitryon's  associate.* 

Merc.  I  knew  we  had  no  servant  of  the  name 
Of  Sosia  but  myself. — You've  lost  the  use 
Sure  of  your  reason. 

So*.  (Aside.}  Would  that  you  had  lost 

The  use  too  of  your  fists ! 

Merc.  I  am  that  Sosia, 

You  said  you  were. 

So*.  Let  us  discourse  in  peace, 

I  pray  you, — without  hazard  of  a  beating. 

Merc.  Well,  for  a  while  then,  we  will  hold  a 

truce, 
If  you  have  ought  to  say. 

So*.  I  will  not  speak 

Till  peace  is  ratified,  for  you  are  mightier 
In  fists  than  I. 

Merc.  If  you  have  ought  to  offer, 

Speak ;  I'll  not  hurt  you. 

So*.  May  I  trust  your  honour  ? 

Merc.  You  may. 

So*.  But  what  if  you  deceive  me  ? 

Merc.  Then 

May  Mercury's  displeasure  light  on  Sosia ! 

So*.  Mark. — Now  I  am  allowed  to  speak  with 

freedom, 
I  am  Amphitryon's  Sosia. 

Merc.  What,  again  f 

(Offering  to  strike.} 

Sos.    The    peace   is   made,   die   covenant  is 

ratified: 
I  speak  the  truth. 

Merc.  Beware  thee  of  a  beating. 

( Threatening.) 

Sos.  Do  as  you  please,  and  what  you  please ; 

— 'tis  true. 

In  fists  you  are  the  mightier, — yet  I'll  not 
Be  silent  on  this  point,  do  what  you  may. 

Merc.  Nay,  you  shall  never  make  me,  while 

you  live 
Other  than  Sosia. 

So*.  Nor  shall  you  make  me 

An  alien  here. — We  Irnvr  no  other  Sosia 
But  me,  who  went  to  th'  army  with  Amphitryon. 

Mere.  The  fellow's  mad. 


This  pun  in  the  Latin,  depends  upon  the  similitude 
of  sound  in  the  pronunciation  of  Sosiam  and  socium. 


296 


PLAUTUS. 


Sos.  'Tis  you  that  are  distempered. 

Why,  what  a  plague !  am  I  not  Sosia, 
Amphitryon's    slave?     Did    not   the    ship,   that 

brought  me, 

Arrive  this  night  here  from  the  Persian  port?* 
Did  not  my  master  send  me  ?     Do  not  I 
Stand  here  before  our  house  now  ?     Have  I  not 
A  lantern  in  my  hand  ?     Do  I  not  speak  ? 
Am  I  not  broad  awake?     Did  not  this  man 
Bethump  me  with  his  fists  ? — In  troth  he  did  ; 
My  cheeks  smart  to  my  sorrow  still. — Then  why, 
Why  do  I  doubt?     Why  don't  I  go  directly       • 
Into  our  house  ?  (Makes  up  to  the  door.} 

Merc,  (stepping  between.]  What !  your  house  ? 

Sos.  'Tis  so  truly. 

Merc.  'Tis  all  a  lie,  all,  ev'ry  syllable 

That  you  have  said.     I  am  Amphitryon's  Sosia : 
This  night  our  vessel  left  the  Persian  port : 
The  city  we  besieg'd,  where  Pterelas  reign 'd ; 
The  Teleboan  forces  we  o'erthrew 
By  dint  of  arms:  Amphitryon's  self  cut  off 
King  Pterelas'  head  in  battle. 

Sos.  (^sirfe.)  I  can  scarce 

Believe  myself,  when  I  thus  hear  him  talk : 
He  tells  off  hand,  as  it  were  without  book, 
What  was  transacted  in  the  war. — But  hark  ye, 
What  present  from  the  Teleboan  spoils 
Was  given  to  Amphitryon. 

Merc.  A  gold  cup 

King  Pterelas  used  to  drink  from. 

Sos.  He  has  said. — 

But  where  is  now  the  cup  ? 

Merc.  'Tis  in  a  casket, 

Seal'd  with  Amphitryon's  seal. 

Sos.  What's  the  impression. 

Merc.  Sol   rising   in   his   chariot. — What,  you 

rascal, 
Are  you  upon  the  catch  ? 

Sos.  His  arguments 

Have  overcome  me :  I  must  e'en  go  seek 
Another  name. — 'Tis  strange,  where  he  could  see 
All  this.     But  I  shall  trap  him  now  most  rarely, 
For  what  I  did  alone,  when  no  one  else 
Was  in  the  tent  ? — Tell  that,  and  I  knock  under. 

Merc.  There  was  a  cask  of  wine — I  fill'd  a 
cup — 

Sos.  He  has  hit  it. 

Merc.  Suck'd  it  down  unmix'd,  and  pure 

As  from  the  mother  it  was  born. 

Sos.  O  wonderful ! 

He  must  have  hid  him  in  the  cup.— 'Tis  fact : 
I  drank  a  cup-full  of  sheer  wine. 

Merc.  What  now  ? 

Have  I  convinc'd  thee  that  thou  art  not  Sosia. 

Sos.  Do  you  deny  it? 

Merc.  Can  I  but  deny  it, 

When  I  am  he  ? 

Sos.  By  Jupiter  I  swear 

I  am,  nor  do  I  lie. 

Merc.  I  swear  by  Mercury, 

Jupiter  won't  believe  thee ;  for  I  know 
He'll  sooner  credit  me  without  an  oath 
Than  with  one  he  will  thee. 

Sos.  Tell  me  at  least 


*  Portus  Persicus,  in  the  Euboean  sea,  so  called  from 
the  Persian  fleet  that  rode  there,  not  far  from  Thebes. 


Who  am  I,  if  so  be  I  am  not  Sosia  ? 
I  ask  you  that. 

Merc.  My  pleasure  when  it  is 

No  longer  to  be  Sosia,  then  be  thou 
Sosia,  and  welcome.     Now  that  I  am  he, 
Begone,  as  thou  would'st  'scape  a  drubbing. — 

Hence, 
Thou  fellow  ! 

Sos.  Now  I  view  him  well,  by  heav'ns 

I  see  my  very  figure,  such  as  I 
Have  often  seen  it  in  a  glass.— 'Tis  certain, 
He's  very  like  me. — The  same  hat,  same  coat — 
He  is  as  like  me  as  I'm  like  myself. — 
The  shanks,  feet,  stature,  shorn  pate,  eyes,   nose, 

teeth, 
Lips,  cheeks,  chin,  beard,  neck — 'tis  myself  all 

over! 

Need  I  say  more  to't? — If  his  back  be  scarr'd 
There's  nothing  can  be  liker  than  this  likeness. 
— Yet  surely,  when  I  think  on't,  I'm  the  same 
I  ever  was :  I  know  my  master,  know 
Our  house :  and  verily  I  have  not  lost 
My  wits  nor  senses. — I'll  not  heed  this  fellow, 
Say  what  he  chooses,  but  knock  at  the  door. 

Merc.  Whither  so  fast? 

Sos.  Why,  home. 

Merc.  Though  thou  wert  now 

To  mount  the  car  of  Jove,  and  fly  from  hence, 
Scarce  should'st  thou  'scape  destruction. 

Sos.  May  I  not 

Deliver  my  master's  message  to  my  mistress  ? 

Merc.  To  thine  deliver  what  thou  wilt,  I  care  not ; 
But  I'll  not  suffer  thee  t'approach  our  lady — 
And  now,  if  once  thou  dost  provoke  me,  fellow, 
Depart  thou  shall  not  without  broken  bones. 

Sos.  I'll  be  gone  rather — Heav'ns  have  mercy 

on  me ! 

Where  did  I  lose  my  form  ?  or  was  I  haply 
So  thoughtless  as  to  leave  myself  behind  here? 
For  certainly  this  fellow  is  possess'd 
Of  my  whole  image,  which  was  mine  before. 
My  statue  is  erected  in  my  stead  : 
What  never  will  be  done  when  I  am  dead, 
Is  done,  while  now  I'm  living. — I'll  return 
Back  to  the  port,  and  tell  this  to  my  master. — 
But  if  he  likewise  know  me  not !     0  Jupiter, 
Grant  that  he  may  not : — so  shall  I  directly 
Cover  my  shorn  crown  with  the  cap  of  freedom. 

[Exit  SOSIA. 
#          #****# 

SCENE  III. 
Enter  JUPITER  and  ALCMESTA. 

Jup.  Farewell,  my  Alcmena: 

Take  care  of  that,  in  which  we  both  have  interest; 
And  0 !  be  sparing  of  yourself,  I  pray  you : 
You're  gone,  you  know,  the  full  time  of  your 

reckoning. 

I  must  away  hence  of  necessity. — 
Whatever  child  is  born,  you'll  taing  it  up.* 

Me.  My  lord,  what  business  can  it  be,  that  you 
Should  quit  your  home  so  sudden? 


*The  Latin  word  is  "tollito."  According  to  custom 
among  the  ancients,  as  soon  as  a  child  was  born,  it  was 
laid  on  the  ground,  and,  if  not  taken  up  by  the  father,  was 
disowned  and  exposed. 


PLAUTUS. 


297 


Jup.  By  my  faith, 

It  is  not  that  I  am  wearied  or  of  you, 
Or  of  my  home  :  but  when  the  chief  commander 
Is  absent  from  his  army,  'tis  more  likely 
Things  will  be  done,  which  help  not,  than  which 

ought. 
Merc,  (behind.)  A  crafty  cozener  he,  this  sire 

of  mine ! 
Mind   ye,   how    sweetly   does   he    smooth    her 

over! 

Ale.  Ah  !  I  do  find  indeed  now  by  experience, 
How  much  you  prize  your  wife  ! 

Jup.  Is't  not  enough 

I  love  her  more  than  any  of  her  sex? 

Merc.  Faith,  if  your  wife  but  knew  your  tricks, 

I  warrant 

You'd  rather  be  Amphitryon  than  high  Jove. 
Ale.  :Twonld  please  me  more  to  find  it,  than 

be  told  so. 

You  leave  me  ere  the  bed,  in  which  you  lay, 
Could  well  grow  warm  :  you  came  at  midnight 

to  me; 

And  now  you're  gone  again. — Say,  is  this  kind? 
Merc.  I  will  approach  and  speak  to  her,  and 

second 

"her  in  his  wheedling,  (to  Ale.}  Never  sure 
Did  mortal  man  so  doat  upon  a  wife  ! 
He  loves  you  to  distraction. 

Jup.  Rogue !  I  know  you. 

Out  of  my  sight. — What  business  is't  of  your's  ? 
Hang-dog  ! — bow  dare  you  chatter  ? — If  I  take 
A  stick  in  hand — 

Ale.  O  don't  be  in  a  rage. 

Jup.  Dost  mutter,  sirrah  ? 

Merc,  (aside.)  This,  my  first  attempt 

At  wheedling  has.  I  find,  but  ill  succeeded. 
Jup.  Sweet  wife,  you  ought  not  be  angry  with 

me 
For  that  which  you  complain  of. — I  withdrew 

t  from  the  army,  stole  this  interv 
That  you  might  be  the  lirst  to  learn  from  me, 
How  I  I  have  told  you  all. 

This,  if  I  had  not  lov'd  you  to  th'  extreme, 
1  had  not  done. 

/<•.)     So — is't  not  as  I  said  ? 
See  how  this  stroking  cheers  her! 

Jup.  I  must  now 

Return  from  hence  in  secret,  lest  the  troops 
Should  scent  n; ;.  '  lien  they'll  say.  that  I 

rr'd  my  wife  before  the  public  good. 
Ale.  I  cannot  choose,  but  weep  for  your  de- 
parture. 
Jup.  Come,  come,  no  more  bewailings  :  do  not 

spoil 
Tho-e  pretty  eyes:  I  shortly  shall  return. 

Jlr.   Ah  me!  that  shortly  will  be  all  too  long. 
Jup.  "l'i<  with  reluctance  I  must  leave  youhere, 
And  part  thus  from  you. 

Ale.  Ay,  I  do  perceive  it : 

For  on  the  very  night  you  came  to  me, 
On  that  same  you  depart. 

(Hungs  about  Jupiter.) 
Jup.  Why  do  you  hold  me  ? 

•itne  ;  and  I  would  leave  the  city  ere 
It  waxes  light. — Alcmena,  with  this  cup 
I  now  present  you,  given  me  for  my  valour, 


The  same  King  Pterelas  drank  from,  whom  I  slew 
With  my  own  hand. 

Ale.  (taking  the  cup.)  Done  like  all  your  other 

actions : 

As  you  are  always  wont  to  do. — By  heavens 
A  noble  gift,  and  worthy  him  that  gave  it! 

Merc.  A  noble  gift  indeed,  and  worthy  her 
To  whom  'tis  giv'n ! 

Jup.  You  rascal !  what,  again  ? 

Why  don't  I  put  an  end  to  you  at  once, 
And  your  impertinence? 

Ale.  Nay  prithee,  love, 

Do  not  be  angry  with  him  for  my  sake. 

Jup.  Sweet,  you  shall  be  obey'd. 

Merc,   (aside.)  How  plaguy  cross 

His  wenching  makes  him  ! 

Jup.  (going.)  Would  you  aught  else? 

Ale.  This ; — that  you'd  love  me,  though  I  am 

away; 

Me   that  am  your's  still,   though  you're  absent 
from  me. 

Merc.  Tis  almost  day,  sir :  come,  sir,  let's  be 
going. 

Jup.  Go  you  before :  I'll  follow  you  this  in- 
stant. [Exit  MERCURT. 
Would  you  aught  else  ? 

Ale.  Yes,  one  thing, — that  you  would 

Return,  and  presently. 

Jup.  It  shall  be  so : 

My  presence  shall  forerun  your  expectation. 
Be  of  good  heart,  my  love.* 

SCENE  IV. 
JUPITER  alone. 

Now  gentle  Night, 

Who  long  for  me  hast  tarried,  I  dismiss  thee ; 
Yield  thee  to  Day,  that  he  at  length  may  break 
On  mortals  with  a  clear  unclouded  light: 
And  in  proportion,  Night,  as  thou  wast  lengthened 
Beyond  thy  next  career,  by  so  much  Day 
Shall  shorten  his,  that  the  disparity 
Betwixt  you  may  be  squared,  and  Day  to  Night 
Duly  succeed. — I'll  go  and  follow  Mercury. 

[Exit  JUPITER. 

ACT  II.     SCEXE  I. 

Enter  AMPHITRTOX  and  SOSIA  at  the  farther  end 
of  the  stage. 

Amph.  Come,  follow  me. 

Sos.  I  do,  I'm  after  you, 

Close  at  your  heels. 

Amph.  Thou  art  the  veriest  rogue. 

Sos.  For  why? 

Amph.  Because  you  tell  me  what  is  not, 

Nor  was,  nor  will  be. 

So*.  Look  ye  now, — 'tis  like  you ; 

You  ne'er  believe  your  servants. 

Amph.  What! — how's  that? 

By  heavens,  thou  villain,  I'll  at  once  cut  out 
That  villainous  tongue  of  thine. 


*  The  impatience  of  Jupiter  (the  false  Amphitryon)  to 
be  gone,  and  the  reluctance  of  the  fond,  simple,  unsus- 
pecting Alcmena,  at  parting  from  him,  are  well  marked 
in  this  scene. 


298 


PLAUTUS. 


Sos.  I'm  your's,  and  you 

May  use  me  as  you  please,  and  as  it  suits  you ; 
But  as  I've  told  you  the  plain  fact,  you  cannot 
Make  me  recant  my  story. 

Jlmph.  Why  you  villain  ? — 

Dare  you  affirm,  that  you  are  now  at  home, 
And  here  too,  at  this  very  time  ? 

Sos.  'Tis  true  though. 

Jlmph.  Confound  you! 

Sos.  I'm  your's,  and  in  your  power. 

Jlmph.  Slave !  dare  you  put  your  tricks  upon 

your  master? 

Dar'st  thou  affirm  what  never  was,  nor  is, 
Nor  ever  can  be  ? — that  the  self-same  person 
Should  at  one  time  be  in  two  different  places  ? 

Sos.  Indeed,  'tis  fact  I  tell  you. 

Jlmph.  Jove  confound  you  ! 

Sos.  In   what   have   I   deserved   ill    at  your 
hands? 

Jlmph.  Villain,  d'ye  ask,  who  make  me  thus 
your  sport? 

Sos.  With  reason  you  might  curse  me,  wer't 

not  so : 
I  do  not  lie,  but  tell  you  the  plain  fact. 

Jlmph.  The  fellow's  drunk,  I  think. 

Sos.  I  would  I  were  ! 

Jlmph.  You  have  your  wish  already. 

Sos.  I  ? 

Jlmph.  Yes,you. — 

Say,  where  have  you  been  drinking? 

Sos.  No  where,  truly. 

Jlmph.  What  sort  of  fellow  is  it  ? 

Sos.  I  have  told  you 

Ten  times  already. — I'm  at  home,  I  say.; 
And  7 — d'ye  mark  me  ?  /,  that  self-same  Sosia 
Am  here  with  you — What  think  you  ?  do  I  speak 
Plain  enough  now,  and  to  the  purpose  ? 

Jlmph.  Hence, 

Avaunt ;  go  get  thee  from  me. 

Sos.  What's  the  matter? 

Jlmph.  The  plague  has  seiz'd  you. 

Sos.  Why  d'ye  say  so? — Faith 

I  feel,  sir,  very  well. 

Jlmph.  But  I  shall  make  you 

Feel  very  ill,  and  very  miserable, 
As  you  deserve,  when  I  get  home. — Come,  follow 

me; 

You,  who  abuse  your  master's  easy  nature 
With  vain  and  frantic  stories;  who,  because 
You  have  neglected  to  perform  his  orders, 
Come  to  deride  him. — You  relate  such  gross 
Impossibilities,  such  as  before 
Were  never  heard  of — knave  ! — But  every  lie 
Your  back  shall  answer. 

Sos.  Of  all  grievances 

This  is  most  grievous  to  a  trusty  servant ; 
That,  though  he  tell  his  master  truth,  the  truth 
He  is  beat  out  of  by  authority. 

Jlmph.  How  this  can  be,  convince  me,  thou 

vile  plague, 

With  arguments. — I  fain  would  have  explain'd, 
How  can  you  be  at  home,  and  yet  be  here. 

Sos.  Troth  I'm  both   here   and   there. — Well 

may  one  wonder. 
Nor  can  it  seem  more  strange  to  you  than  me. 

Jlmph.  As  how  ? 


Sos.  I  say  it  cannot  seem  more  strange 

To  you  than  me ;  nor,  as  I  hope  for  mercy, 
Did  I 'at  first  believe  me-myself,  Sosia, 
Till  Sosia,  t'other  I-myself,  convinc'd  me. 
He  told  distinctly  ev'ry  thing  that  past 
During  our  sojourn  with  the  enemy : — 
Then  he  has  robbed  me  of  my  very  figure 
Together  with  my  name. — One  drop  of  milk 
Is  not  more  like  another  than  that  I, 
Is  like  to  me :  for  when  you  sent  me  home, 
Before  'twas  day-break,  from  the  port — 

Jlmph.  What  then  ? 

Sos.  /  at  the  door  was  standing  long  before 
I  came  there. 

Jlmph.  Plague  !  what  trifling  stuff  is  this  ? 

Have  you  your  senses  ? 

Sos.  I  am  as  you  see  me. 

Jlmph.  Sure,  since  he  left  me,  he  has  been  be- 

witch'd 
And  work'd  on  by  ill  hands. 

Sos.  Ill  hands,  I  own ; 

For  he  has  maul'd  me  with  his  fists  most  sadly. 

Jlmph.  Who  beat  you  ? 

Sos.  I-myself  beat  me-myself 

I,  that  am  now  at  home. 

Jlmph.  Be  sure  you  answer 

Nothing  but  what  I  ask  you. — First  of  all 
I  willingly  would  learn,  who  is  that  Sosia? 

Sos.  Your  servant. 

Jlmph.  In  good  sooth,  I've  one  more 

By  you,  than  I  could  wish ;  nor  ever  had  I, 
Since  I  was  born,  another  servant  Sosia 
Besides  yourself. 

Sos.  But  I  do  tell  you  now, 

You'll  find,  when  you  go  home,  another  Sosia 
Besides  myself;  the  son  of  Davus ;  sprung 
Prom  the  same  father  as  myself;  in  form, 
And  age,  the  same  too  with  myself.     In  short 
You've  here  a  double  Sosia. 

Jl'mph.  Your  account 

Is  wondrous  strange! — But  have  you  seen  my 
wife  ? 

Sos.  He  would  not  let  me  come  within  the 
door. 

JLmph.  Who  hinder'd  you  ? 

Sos.  That  Sosia ;  he  I  spoke  of, 

Who  maul'd  me  with  his  fists. 

Jlmph.  Who  is  that  Sosia  ? 

Sos.  Myself,  I  say : — how  often  must  I  tell  you? 

Jlmph.  But  what  is't  you  are  talking  ? — Have 

you  not 
Been  sleeping  all  the  while  ? 

Sos.  No,  not  the  least. 

Jlmph.  Haply  you  saw,  if  any  such  you  saw, 
That  Sosia  in  a  dream. 

Sos.  I  am  not  wont 

To  dream  o'er  your  commands — awake  I  saw 

him ; 

Awake  I  see  you  now ;  awake  I'm  talking ; 
And  with  his  fists  just  now  did  He  awake 
Maul  Me  awake. 

Jlmph.  What  He? 

Sos.  I  tell  you,  Sosia. 

That  I-He. — Prithee  don't  you  understand  ? 

Jlmph.  How  is  it  possible,  that  any  one 
Should  understand  such  jargon  as  you  jabber  ? 


PLAUTUS. 


299 


Sos.  But  you  will  know  him  quickly. — 

Amph.  '    Who  ? 

Sos.  You'll  know 

That  other  Sosia. 

Amph.  Follow  me. — Tis  needful 

1  should  first  sift  this  matter. — See  that  all  things 
Be  brought  from  ship-board,  as  I  order'd. 

Sos.  I  am 

Mindful  and  diligent  to  obey  your  orders. 
I  have  not  drank  up  your  authority 
Together  with  my  wine. 

Amph.  .  would  to  heaven. 

The  fact  may  turn  out  different  from  your  story. 

[They  keep  aloof.* 

SCENE  II. 
Enter  ALCMENA  attended  by  THZSSALA. 

Ale.  How  scanty  are  the  pleasures  in   life's 

com 

ff  plac'd  in  opposition  to  its  troubles! 
For  in  the  Ijfi-  of  man,  to  every  one 

ins  allotted,  thus  it  pleases  heaven, 
That  Sorrow,  her  companion,  still  should  tread 
f  Pleasure' :  and  if  aught 

•  id  befall  us,  forthwith  there  should  follow 
Of  ill  a  lar-^T  portion. — This  I  feel, 

And  know  it  of  myself  now,  unto  whom 
A  little  spice  of  pleasure  was  imparted, 
In  that  it  was  permitted  me  to  see 
My  husband  but  dhe  night:  he  left  me,  and 
Departed  on  a  sudden,  ere  'twas  day. — 
Here  seem  I  now  deserted  and  forlorn, 
lie  I  doat  on,  prizing  above  all, 
•nt  from  me. — I  have  ta'en  my  grief 
From  the  departure  of  my  husband,  more 
Than  I  roroiv'd  of  pleasure  from  his  coming. 
In  this,  however,  am  I  blest  at  least, 
That  he  lias  c-  iiMii-T'd,  and  is  home  returu'd. 
With  honours  hoap'd  upon  him: — that's  a  comfort. 
Let  hi  nt ;  =o  that  ho  return, 

Crown'd  with  the  acquisition  of  bright  fame, 
I'll  bear  it.  his  departure,  with  a  mind 

. — If  this  recompense 

Be  iriv'n  me.  that  my  husband  shall  be  styled 
A  conqueror  in  battle.  I  shall  think 

-Valour's  the  best  reward  : 

•  -ilonr  surpasses  all  things  else: 
Our  lib- 

Our  parents,  children,  country,  are  by  this 
ir  evry  thing 
Comprises  in  ir 

the  man,  who  :  ..f  valour. 

Amph.  I  am  ;  njng  home 

Most  eagerly  is  wi-h'd  for  by  my  wit'.-. 
Who  loves  me.  and  by  me  no  loss  is  lov'd  ; — 
]>iit  in  >re  espe  iially, 

row u 'd  our  enterprise.      In  truth,  I  know 
She  m  •  IMM-S  for  my  return. 

Sos.  And  don't  you  think  n.  '/"too? 

[.\MIMUTHYON  (iilninrcs  with  SOSIA. 


*  Thf   Ronrin    H  it   and 

tircndih.  hi'iTiL'  Oirr.irdinir  to  «.in.-)  n->!  I.  <*  th-in  ..n,. 
hundred  and  eighty  f>  >'t  in  front.  This  will  account  for 
many  thing's  in  ill-  r.  ;'r.'srnt:iti<m.  which  would  be  im- 
practicable on  our  modern  narrow  stages. 


Ale.  Sure,  'tis  my  husband ! 

Amph.  Follow  me  this  way. 

Ale.  Wherefore  returns  he,  when  he  said  just 

now 

He  was  in  a  hurry  to  be  gone? — And  is  it 
His  purpose  then  to  try  me? — Would  he  prove 
How  I  affect  his  parting? — By  my  faith 
To  me  he's  always  welcome. 
(advancing.)  I  shall  show 

My  duty  more,  if  I  approach  and  meet  him. 

[AMPHITRYON  and  ALCMENA  meet. 

Amph.  With  joy  Amphitryon  greets  his  wish'd- 

for  spouse, 

Whom  he  accounts  the  best  of  all  in  Thebes, 
Whom  all  our  Thebans  so  extol  for  virtue! 
How  have  you  fared  this  age  since  ?— Did  you 

long 
For  my  return  ? 

Sos.  (ironically.}  O  yes,  extremely  long'd! — 
One  could  not  take  less  notice  of  a  dog. 

Amph.  It  joys  me  that  I  see  you  burthen'd  thus, 
Bearing  your  load  so  well. 

Ale.  Prithee,  my  lord, 

Why  do  you  thus  salute  me  in  the  way 
Of  mockery?  Why  address  me  all  so  strange 
As  though  you  had  not  seen  me  very  lately, 
As  though  it  were  the  first  time  you  return'd 
Home  hither  from  the  conquest  of  your  foes? 
Why,  why  do  you  accost  me  now,  as  though 
You  had  not  seen  me  for  a  long  time  past  ? 

Amph.  By  all  that's  sacred,  never  till  this  hour 
Have  I  beheld  you. 

Ale.  Why  will  you  deny  it? 

Amph.  Because  that  I  have  learn'd  to  speak  the 
truth. 

Ale.  He  who  unlearns  what  he  has  learn'd, 

does  wrong. — 

You'd  try  my  disposition ! — But  what  makes  you 
Return  so  soon  ? — Has  any  ominous  thing 
Retarded,  or  the  weather  kept  you  back? — 
How  comes  it  to  the  army  you're  not  gone, 
As  lately  you  declared  that  you  were  going? 

Amph.  Lately!  how  lately  was  it? 

Ale .  Do  you  try  me  ? 

A  while  a  20,  just  now,  this  very  instant. 

Amph.  How  can  that  be,  I  pray  you,  as  you  say 
A  while  ago,  just  now  ? 

Ale.  And  can  you  think 

I'd  play  the  fool  as  you  do,  who  maintain 
This  is  your  lirst  arrival,  when  e'en  now 
You  parted  hence? 

Amph.  How  wild  she  talks! 

Son.  Have  patience, 

Until  she  has  slept  out  her  dream. 

.•/////>/».  She  dreams 

With  her  eyes  open. 

Ale.  X     I  do  not  dream; 

But  am  awake,  and  waking  I  relate 
That  whieh  is  true  :  for  now — ere  break  of  day 
1  saw  both  him  and  yon. 

/>li.  Where?  in  what  place? 

Ale.  Here,  in  your  own  house. 

Amph.  it  could  not  be. 

Sos.  Hold,  sir — who  know's  but  that  the  vessel 

lit  US 

From  the  port  hiAer,  while  we  were  asleep? 


300 


PLAUTUS. 


Amph.  Will  you  too  join  in  her  extravagance? 

Sos.  What  would  you  have  me  do;  sir  ?    Don't 

you  know 

If  you  oppose  a  Bacchant  in  her  rage, 
You'll  make    her    desperate ;    she'll    strike    the 

oft'ner ; 
But  if  you  humour  her,  one  stroke  contents  her. 

Amph.  By  heav'ns  but  I'm  resolv'd  to  rate  her, 

since 
She  will  not  welcome  me. 

Sos.  Do  thrust  your  hand 

Into  a  hornet's  nest. 

Amph.  Hold  your  tongue,  sirrah. 

Alcmena,  I  would  ask  one  question. 

Ale.  Ask 

And  welcome. 

Amph.  Is  it  frenzy,  or  is't  pride, 

Which  thus  possess  you  ? 

Ale.  My  lord  ! — How  came  it 

Into  your  thoughts  to  ask  so  strange  a  question? 

Amph.  You  were  wont  hitherto  to  welcome  me 
On  my  return,  and  greet  me  in  such  terms 
As  virtuous  wives  use  to  their  husbands — now 
I've  found  your  practice  other. 

Ale.  By  my  faith, 

My  lord,  most  certainly  on  yesternight 
I  welconvd  you  as  soon  as  you  arriv'd, 
And  ask'd  you  at  the  same  time  of  your  health, 
And  took  you  by  the  hand,  and  gave  a  kiss. 

Sos.  How  !  yesternight  you  welcom'd  him  ? 

Ale.  I  did  ;— 

And  you  too,  Sosia. 

Amph.  What!  You  saw  me  here 

Last  night? 

Ale.  I  did,  I  say; — must  I  repeat  it 

Ever  so  often  ? 

Amph.  In  a  dream  perhaps. 

Ale.  No,  we  were  both  awake. 

Amph.  Alas!  alas! 

Sos.  What  ails  you,  sir  ? 

Amph.  My  wife  is  gone  distracted. 

Sos.  She's  troubled  with  black  bile,  and  nothing 

sooner 
Works  men  to  madness.* 

Amph.  (to  Ale.}  When  did  you  perceive 

Yourself  first  seiz'd. 

Ale.  By  heaven  there's  nothing  ails  me. 

Amph.  Why  then  d'ye  say  you  saw  me,  when 

we  came 

But  last  night  into  port;  and  there  I  snpp'd, 
There  rested  the  whole  night, on  board  the  ship; 
Nor  have  I  set  my  foot  here  in  the  house, 
Since  with  the  arrny  I  march 'd  hence  against 
Our  foes  the  Teleboans,  and  o'ercame  them. 

Ale.  With  me  you  supp'd,  with  rne  you  pass'd 
the  night. 

Amph.  How !  What's  all  this  you're  saying  ? 

Ale.  You  departed 

Back  to  the  army  at  the  dawn  of  day. 

Amph.  How  could  that  be  ? 

Sos.  She's  very  right :  she's  telling  you 

Her    dream,    while    now    'tis    fresh    upon    her 

memory. 
Indeed  good  dreaming  madam,  when  you  wak'd, 


*  Atr&  bill  percita  est.    Madness  by  the  ancients  was 
attributed  to  the  bile. 


You  should  have  offered  a  salt  cake  or  frankin- 
cense 
To  Jove,  disposer  of  strange  prodigies.* 

Ale.  A  mischief  on  your  head  ! 

Sos.  On  your's,  unless 

You  have  a  care. 

Ale.  This  fellow  dares  again 

Speak  rudely  to  me  with  impunity. 

Amph.  Hold  your  tongue,  sirrah. 
(To  Ale.}  Tell  me,  did  I  leave  you 

At  break  of  day  this  morning  ? 

Ale.  Who  but  you 

Recounted  to  me,  how  the  battle  went? 

Amph.  And  know  you  that  too? 

Ale.  Surely,  since  from  you 

I  heard  it;  how  you  took  their  capital  city, 
And  slew  King  Pterelas  yourself. 

Amph.  Did  I, 

/tell  you  this  ? 

Ale.  Yes,  you ;  and  Sosia  here 

Was  by  too. 

Amph.  (to  Sos.)  Did  you  hear  me  tell  her  this  ? 

Sos.  Where  should  I  hear  you  ? 

Amph.  Ask  herself. 

Sos.  In  troth, 

No,  never  in  my  presence,  that  I  know  of. 

Ale.  Ay  to  be  sure, — he'll  contradict  you  doubt- 
less! 

Amph.  Come  hither,  sirrah : — look  me  in  the  face. 

Sos.  I  do  sir. 

Amph.  I  would  have  you  speak  the  truth, 

Without  or  favour  or  affection  to  me. — 
Say  did  you  hear  me  give  her  such  account 
As  she  affirms? 

Sos.  Prithee  art  thou  too  mad, 

To  ask  me  such  a  question?     When  it  is 
The  first  time  I  have  seen  you  here  together. 

Amph.  Now  madam  ! — do  you  hear  ? 

Ale.  I  hear  him  utter 

That  which  is  false. 

Amph.  So — then  you  won't  believe 

Or  him  or  me,  your  husband  ? 

Ale.  I  believe 

Myself,  and  know  what  I  have  said  is  true. 

Amph.  Will  you   affirm  I  came  here  yester- 
day ? 

Ale.  Will  you  deny  you  went  from  hence  to- 
day? 

Amph.  I  do ;  and  do  affirm,  that  this  is  now 
My  first  arrival. 

Ale.  And  will  you  deny  too 

That  you  presented  me  with  a  gold  cup, 
You  told  me  had  been  giv'n  to  you? 

Amph.  By  heaven 

I  neither  gave  it  you,  nor  told  you  of  it ; — 
Though  I  was  so  dispos'd,  and  am  so  now, 
That  cup  to  give  you.  But  who  told  you  of  it? 

Ale.  I  heard  it  from  yourself, — from  your  own 

hands 
Receiv'd  the  cup. 

Amph.  Hold,  hold,  I  do  beseech  you. — 

Sosia,  I  marvel  much  how  she  should  know 
I  was  presented  with  a  golden  cup ; — 
Unless  yourself  have  lately  been  with  her, 
And  told  her  all. 


A  custom  among  the  ancients. 


PLAUTUS. 


So*.  Not  I ; — I  never  told  her 

Xor  saw  her,  till  with  you,  now. 

Ale.  What  a  knave ! 

\Vould  you  that  I  produce  the  cup? 

Jlmph.  Produce  it. 

Ale.  It  shall  be  done — Go,  Thessala,  and  bring 
The  cup  here,  which  my  husband  this  day  gave 
mo. 

[THESSALA    goes  in   and  AMPHTTRYOX 
and  SOSTA  walk  on  one  side. 

Amph.  Step  hither  Sosia — of  all  wonders  I 
Should  wonder  most,  if  she  >hould  have  the  cup. 

Sos.  Can  you  suppose  that  possible,  when  here 
It's  in  the  casket,  (showing  if)  seal'd  with  your 
own  seal  1 

Jlmph.  Is  the  seal  whole? 

So*.  Look  at  it. 

Jlmph.  ;Tis  secure, — 

Just  as  I  seal'd  it. 

So*.  Should  she  not  be  treated 

Like  a  mad  person? 

.]nif,h.  On  my  troth  there's  need  on't; 

For  sure  she  is  possess'd. 

[THESSALA  returns  with  a  gold  cup. 

Ale.  Need  there  more  words? 

See  here's  the  cup. 

Jlmph.  0  dve  it  to  me. 

Ak.  There,— 

Look  at  it  well,  you  that  deny  your  deeds : 
But  this  will  openly  convince  you. — Say, 
Is't  not  the   same   with  which  you  were  pre- 
sented ? 

Jlmph.  O  Jupiter!  What  do  I  see?  It  is 
Tip-  very  cup — Sosia,  undone  for  ever! 

So*.  Sure,  she's  the  greatest  juggler  that  e'er 

breath  M, 
Or  else  the  cup  must  be  in  here. 

Jlmph.  Despatch, — 

Open  the  casket,— quick. 

So*.  Why  need  I  open  it? 

Tis  seal'd  securely: — so  far  all  is  well. — 
You  have  brought  forth,  sir,  an  Amphitryon;  I 
A  Sosia: — If  the  cup  bring  forth  a  cup, 
Then  shall  we  all  have  doubled  one  another. 

Jlmph.  I  am  resolved  to  open,  and  inspect 

So*.   Look  if  the  s^nl  be  right, — that  after  wards 
You  may  not  lay  the  blame  on  me. 

Amph.  Come,  open  it 

This  instant;  fur  sin*  means  to  drive  us  mad. 

Ale.  Whence  could   I   have   this  present  but 
from  you? 

Amph.  That  must  I  find. 

So*.  (nprnin«  thr  raxket.)  O  Jupiter!  0  Jupiter! 

.•Imph.    What  ails  yon  ? 

So*.  There's  no  cup  here  in  the  casket! 

Jlmph.  What  do  I  h 

The  truth. 

Jlmph.  Sad  truth  for  you, 

Unless  the  cup  appear. 

Air.  (shninnsr  it.)  It  doth  appear. 

jffmph.  Who  gave  it  to  you  ? 

Ale.  He  that  asks  the  question. 

So*.  You're  on  the  catch,  good  master ! — You 

have  stolen 

Nime  other  way.  in  private  from  the  ship 
Before  me,  taken  the  cup  out,  given  it  her, 


And  seal'd  the  casket  up  again. 

Amph.  Ah  me! 

You  help  her  frenzy  too. — (To  Ale.}    .You  say 

we  came 
Last  night  here  ? 

Ale.  So  I  say,  and  on  your  coming 

Straight  you  saluted  me,  as  I  did  you, 
An;!  met  you  with  a  kiss. 

.•hnph.  (amk.)  I  flo  not  like 

That  kiss  in  the  beginning.     Well — go  on. 

Ale.  You  bath'd. 

Jlmph.  What  after  bathing. 

Ale.  You  sat  down 

To  table. 

So*.          Bravo!  excellent!  examine  her. 

Jlmph.  (to  Sos.)  Don't  interrupt — (to  Ale.}  Pro- 
ceed you  in  your  story. 

Ale.  The  supper  being  serv'd,  we  supp'd  to- 
gether ; 
I  sat  me  down — 

Amph.  On  the  same  couch? 

Ale.  The  same. 

Sos.  So  then ! — methinks  this  banquet  is  not 
relished. 

Jlmph.  Let  her  go  on — (toJNc.)  What  after  we 
had  supped  ? 

Ale.  You  said  you  found  yourself  inclin'd  to 

sleep : 
The  table  was  remov'd :  we  went  to  bed. 

Amph.  Where  did  you  lie  ? 

Ale.  With  you  in  the  same  chamber, 

In  the  same  bed. 

Amph.  You've  utterly  destroyed  me ! 

So*.  What  ails  you. 

Amph.     She  has  giv'n  me  my  death's  wound ! 

Ale.  What  have  I  done,  I  pray  ? 

Amph.  O  I  am  a  lost,  lost  wretch, 

Since  foul  dishonour,  while  I  was  away, 
Has  stain'd  her  chastity. 

Ale .  My  lord  ! — I  pray  you, 

Why  do  I  hear  such  language  from  your  tongue? 

Amph.  Ami  your  lord  ? — Thou  false  one !  do 

not  call  me 
By  that  false  name. 

Sos.  A  pretty  business  truly. 

Ale.  What  have  I  done,  that  you  should  talk  to 

me 
In  terms  like  these? 

Amph.  When  you  yourself  proclaim 

What  you  have  done,  why  ask  of  me  in  what 
You  have  offended  ? 

Ale.  Is  my  being  with  you, 

Who  are  my  husband,  an  offence  to  you  ? 

Amph.  With  me?  was  you  with  me? — 0  im- 
pudence 

Unparallel'd  ! — If  you  are  void  of  shame, 
You  might  at  least  have  borrowed  the  appear- 
ance. 

Ale.  The  crime,  with  which  you  charge  me, 

ne'er  ili-j 

Our  family;  and  though  you  mean  to  fix 
The  imputation  on  me  of  incontinence 
You  cannot  trap  me. 

AmpJi.  O  immortal  gods!— - 

At  least  you  know  me,  Sosia? 

So*.  Pretty  well. 

2  A 


302 


PLAUTUS. 


Amph.  Did  I  not  sup  last  night  on  board  our 

ship 
In  the  Euboaan  port? 

Me.  I  have  at  hand 

Witnesses  likewise,  ready  to  confirm 
All  that  I  say. 

Amph.  How!  witnesses? 

Me.  Yes,  witnesses. 

Amph.  You  produce  witnesses  ? 

Me.  Yet  one's  sufficient : 

For  nobody  was  by  besides  ourselves, 
But  Sosia. 

Sos.  Troth  I  know  not  what  to  say 

In  this  affair — haply  there  is  some  other 
Amphitryon,  who  takes  care,  sir,  of  your  business, 
And  does  your  office  here,  while  you're  away. 
'Tis  very  wonderful,  that  other  Sosia,— 
But  this  Amphitryon  is  a  greater  wonder ! 

Me.  Now  by  the   kingdom  of  the  Pow'r  su- 
preme, 

By  Juno,  matron  goddess,  whom  to  fear 
And  reverence  is  most  fitting,  here  I  swear, 
That  never  mortal  man,  save  you  alone, 
Has  had  my  love, — none  wooed  me  to  dishonour. 

Amph.  Would  this  were  true  ! 

Ale.  I  speak  the  very  truth ; 

But  all  in  vain,  since  you  will  not  believe. 

Amph.  You   are   a   woman,  and    can   boldly 
swear. 

Me.  Bold  may  she  be,   who  no  offence  has 

wrought, 

And,  with  a  confident  and  haughty  spirit, 
Plead  her  own  cause. 

Amph.  You're  bold  enough. 

Me.  No  more 

Than  does  become  a  modest,  virtuous  woman. 

Amph.  As  far  as  words  can  make  you,  you  are 
honest. 

Me.  I  hold  not  that  my  portion,  which  is  call'd 

so; 

But  honour,  modesty,  subdued  desires, 
Fear  of  the  gods,  affection  for  my  parents, 
And  friendship  with  my  kindred, — that  to  you 
I  am  obedient,  bounteous  to  the  good, 
And  ever  ready  to  assist  the  virtuous. 

Sos.  Now  by  my  soul,  if  what  she  says  is  true, 
She  is  the  very  model  of  perfection. 

Amph.  I  scarce  know  who  I  am,  I'm  so  be- 
wildered. 

Sos.  You  are  Amphitryon,  doubtless  :  but  be- 
ware, 

You  do  not  lose  yourself;  for  men,  you  find, 
Are  strangely  metamorphos'd  since  our  coming. 

Amph.  I  am  resolv'd  to  search  into  this  matter. 

Me.  With  all  my  heart. 

Amph.  How  say  you  ?  answer  me, 

What  if  I  bring  your  kinsman  Naucrates, 
Who  in  the  same  ship  bore  me  company : — 
If  he  deny  all  you  assert  for  fact, 
What  treatment  is  your  due? — Can  you  show 

cause, 
Why  you  should  not  be  punish'd  with  divorce  ? 

Ale.  Prove  me  delinquent. 

Amph.  I'll  to  the  port 

To  find  out  Naucrates,  and  bring  him  hither. 

[Exit  AMPHITRYON. 


Sos.  (to  Ale.)  Now  there  is  no  one  here  besides 

ourselves, 

Tell  me,  in  sober  sadness,  is  there  not 
Within  another  Sosia,  like  to  me  ? 

Ale.  Go,  fellow — a  fit  slave  for  such  a  master ! 
Sos.  I  will  be  gone  for  good,  if  you  command. 

[Exit  SOSIA. 
ALCMENA  alone. 
'Tis  wondrous  strange,  my  husband  should  be 

pleas'd 

Thus  to  accuse  me  of  so  foul  a  crime, 
So  wrongfully. — But  I  shall  learn  it  soon 
Whate'er  the  cause  be,  from  my  kinsman  Nau- 
crates. [ALCMENA  goes  in. 

ACT  III. 


SCENE  II. 
Enter  ALCMENA. 
I  cannot  bear  to  stay  here  in  the  house. — 

0  that  my  husband  should  accuse  me  thus 
Of  wanton  prostitution  and  dishonour ! 
Facts  he  avers  on  facts,  and  loudly  clamours, 
Whilst  to  my  charge  he  lays  things  never  done, 
Never  by  me  admitted  or  allowed. 

He  thinks,  too,  I  shall  bear  it  with  indifference: — 
No,  by  the  gods,  I  will  not :  I'll  not  surfer 
The  imputation  of  dishonesty 
To  lie  against  me  without  cause ;  for  I 
Will  either  leave  him,  or  from  him  receive 
Due  satisfaction:  further,  he  shall  swear 
That  he  repents  him  it  had  e'er  been  said, 
What  he  alleged  against  me  innocent. 

JUPITER  comes  forward  as  AMPHITRYON. 
Jup.  I  must  consent  to  do  what  she  requires, 
If  I  would  meet  reception  as  a  lover. 

Ale.  But  lo!  behold  him  here, — see,  see  the 

man,— 

That  charges  me,  unhappy  as  I  am, 
With  shameless  prostitution  and  dishonour. 
Jup.  Wife,  I  would  hold  discourse  with  you — 

ah  why, 
Why  do  you  turn  away  your  face  thus  from  me? 

Ale.  It  is  my  nature. — I  have  always  loath'd 
To  look  upon  my  foes. 

Jup.  Your  foes ! 

Ale.  So  is  it ; 

1  speak  the  truth, — although  you  will  pretend, 
This  too  is  false. 

Jup.  (offering  to  embrace  her.]  Nay,  now  you  are 
too  angry. 

Ale.  Keep  your  hands  off: — for  sure,  if  you  are 

wise, 

Or  in  your  senses,  you  would  never  hold 
Parley  with  her,  in  earnest  or  in  mirth, 
Whom  you  imagine  and  pronounce  a  strumpet. 
No,  no — unless  of  all  the  fools  that  are, 
You  are  the  veriest  dolt. 

Jup.  It  does  not  make  you 

A  whit  the  more  so  for  because  I  said  it : — 
Nor  do  I  think  you  such :  and  therefore  am  I 
Hither  return'd,  to  clear  myself  before  you. 
For  nothing  did  I  ever  lay  to  heart 


PLAUTUS. 


303 


So  sore  as  the  report  of  your  displeasure. 
Why  did  you  mention  it?  Yourself  shall  say 
I  can  acquit  me  of  design. — I  did  it 
To  try  your  temper,  see  what  you  would  do, 
And  with  what  ease  you  would  be  brought  to 

bear  it 
Only  for  sport :  do  but  ask  Sosia  else. 

Me.  But  why  not  bring  my  kinsman,  Naucrates 
To  testify  you  was  not  here  before  ? 

Jup.  It  is  not  fair  to  turn  in  earnest  what 
Was  only  spoke  in  jest. 

Ale,  But  yet  I  know 

And  feel,  how  much  it  pains  me  to  the  heart! 

Jup.  By  your  right  hand,  Alcmena,  I  entreat, 
Implore,  beseech,  you'd  grant  me  this  request: — 
Forgive  me,  and  be  angry  now  no  longer. 

Me.  I  by  my  virtue,  render  your  reproaches 
Vain,  and  of  no  effect ;  and  though  you  now 
Acquit  me  of  dishonour,  I'd  avoid 
The  very  imputation. — Fare  you  well  ;* 
Keep  your  own  things,  and  give  me  mine.    You'll 

suffer 
My  women  to  attend  me  ? 

Jup.  Are  you  mad  ? 

Mr.  Or  if  you  will  not,  I  will  go  without  them, 
Bearing  my  virtue  with  me  for  companion,  (going.'] 
Jup.  Stay! — I  submit  this  oath   to   your   dis- 
cretion : 

"  I  do  believe  my  wife  is  truly  virtuous." 
If  I  deceive  in  this,  then,  highest  Jove, 
I  do  beseech  you,  let  your  anger  fall 
With  unremitted  vengeance  on  Amphitryon. 
Me.  Ah  !  may  he  rather  be  propitious  to  him ! 
Jup.  Trust  that  he  will :  the  oath,  that  I  have 

taken, 

Is  a  sincere  and  true  one. — Now,  I  hope 
You're  no  more  angry. 

Me.  I  am  not. 

////).  'Tis  well : 

For  in  tlie  life  of  man,  full  many  a  chance 
Befalls  them  in  this  wise :  and  now  they  take 
Their  fill  of  pleasure,  then  again  of  misery: 
Now  quarrels  intervene,  and  now  again 
They're   reconcil'd : — but   when    these   kind  of 

quarrels 

Haply  arise  betwixt  two  loving  souls, 
\Vlien  reconciliation's  made  again, 
Their  friendship  doubles  that  they  held  before. 
Me.  You  ought  not  to  have  said  what  late  you 

did : 
But  as  you  clear  yourself,  I  am  content. 

Jup.  See  that  the  sacred  vessels  be  prepar'd, 
To  pay  the  vows  I  promis'd  to  perform, 
If  I  returu'd  in  safety. 

Mr.  I'll  take  care 

Jup.  Call  Sosia  hither.    He  shall  go  toBlepharo, 
The  master  of  our  vessel,  and  invite  him 
To  come  and  dine  with  us. — As  for  himself  (aside) 
He  shall  be  fool'd  so  as  to  lose  his  dinner; 
And  when  unwittingly  Amphitn 
I'll  drag  him  by  the  throat  from  hence. 

Air.  I  wonder 

What  he  is  talking  to  himself  about ! 
!3ut  the  door  opens — Oh,  'tis  Sosia  comes. 


.  tihi  habeas  res  tuas,  rtddat  meas.    This  was 
I  he  formulary  used  in  divorce. 


SCENE  III. 
Enter  SOSIA. 

I'm  here. — Command  me  if  you  want  my  service : 
I  will  obey  your  orders. 

Jup.  You  are  come 

Most  opportunely. 

Sos.  Is  it  peace  betwixt  you  ? 

I  am  rejoic'd  to  see  you  in  good  humour. 
A  trusty  servant  still  should  fashion  him 
So  as  to  be  himself  as  is  his  master, 
To  set  his  face  by  his  face,  to  be  grave 
If  he  is  grave,  and  merry  if  he  is  merry: — 
But  come  now.  tell  me,  are  you  reconciled  ? 

Jup.  You  jeer  me  now,  as  if  you  did  not  know 
That  what  I  said  before,  was  but  in  jest 

Sos.  In  jest  you  said  it?  By  my  troth,  I  thought 
You  spoke  it  seriously,  in  sober  sadness. 

Jup.  I've  cleard  myself:  we've  made  peace. 

Sos.  Best  of  all. 

Jup.  I  have  a  solemn  business  to  transact, 
Within,  which  I  have  vow'd. 

Sos.  Ay,  I  suppose  so. 

Jup.  Go  to  the  vessel,  in  my  name,  invite 
The  master,  Blepharo,  to  dine  with  me 
After  the  sacrifice. 

Sos.  I  shall  be  here, 

Ere  you  can  think  me  there. 

Jup.  Return  with  speed. 

\Exit  SOSIA. 

Me.  Would  you  ought  else?  or  shall  I  now 

go  in, 
That  what  is  needful  be  prepar'd. 

Jup.  Pray,  go, 

And  to  your  best  see  ev'ry  thing  be  ready. 

Ale.  Come  in,  what  time  you  will :  I'll  take 

due  care 
That  nothing  shall  be  wanting. 

Jvp.  'Tis  well  spoken, 

Like  an  observant  wife.  [ALCMENA  goes  in. 

SCENE  IV. 
JUPITER  alone. 

So,  both  of  these, 

The  servant  and  the  mistress,  are  deceiv'd 
In  thinking  me  Amphitryon. — Now  Mercury, 
Now  my  immortal  Sosia,  be  at  hand. 
(You  hear  me,  though  not  present :) — You  must 

bar 

Amphitryon's  entrance,  and  contrive  to  fool  him, 
While  I  indulge  me  with  this  borrowed  wife. 
Look  to  it, — you  know  my  pleasure,— and  assist 

me, 
While  to  myself  I  offer  sacrifice. 

ACT  IV.    SCENE  I. 
Enter  MERCURT  running,  at  the  further  end  of  the 

Stand  by.  make  room,  all  clear  the  way  before  me, 
Nor  any  be  so  bold  to  stop  my  speed. 

(To  the  Spectators.) 

I  am  Jove's  messenger,  and  hither  now 
Have  hied  me  at  his  bidding :  therefore  is  it 
More  fitting,  they  should  clear  the  way  for  me. 
My  father  calls,  I  follow  him,  and  pay 
Attention  to  his  orders :  I'm  to  him 


304 


PLAUTUS. 


Such  as  a  good  son  should  be  to  his  father. 
I  second  his  amours,  encourage  him, 
Assist  him,  counsel  him,  rejoice  with  him : 
If  any  thing's  a  jjjeasure  to  my  father, 
The  pleasure  is  to  me  the  greater  far. 
Now  would  he  have  Amphitryon  play'd  upon : — 
I'll  do  it  rarely, — here  before  your  eyes, 
E'en  now — I'll  place  a  chaplet  on  my  head,* 
And  sham  the  drunkard,  get  me  up  above, 
And  drive  him  hence,  this  husband,  with  a  ven- 
geance. 

As  soon  as  he  approaches,  from  above 
I'll  give  him  such  a  sluicing,  ye  shall  say 
He's  sober,  yet  in  liquor.     Sosia  then 
Will  suffer  fort,  accus'd  of  having  done 
What  I  shall  do. — But  what  is  that  to  me  ? 
It  is  my  duty  to  obey  my  father, 
And  be  subservient  to  his  will  and  pleasure. — 
But  lo !  Amphitryon  comes. — Now,  if  you'll  lend 
Attention,  ye  shall  see  him  bravely  fool'd.— 
I'll  in,  and  straight  equip  me  for  my  part, 
Then  to  the  house-top,  and  thence  drive  him  off. 
[MERCURY  goes  in. 

SCEKE  II. 
Enter  AMPHITRYON". 

This  Naucrates,  whom  I  did  wish  to  meet, 
Was  not  on  board ;  nor  found  I  any  one, 
At  home,  or  in  the  city,  that  had  seen  him. 
I've  travers'd  every  street,  been  at  the  riding 

house, 

At  the  perfumer's,  the  exchange,  the  market, 
The  wrestling  ring,  the  forum,  at  the  barber's, 
Th'  apothecaries'  shops,  at  all  the  temples.—— 
I'm  tired  with  searching ; — no  where  can  I  find 

him. — 

I'll  now  go  home,  and  of  my  wife  proceed 
To  make  inquiry, — who  'twas,  for  whose  sake 
She  gave  her  body  up  to  prostitution? 
For  it  were    better  I  were  dead,  than  leave 
This  search  unfinished. 

(finds  the  door  shut.)  They  have  barr'd  the  door! 
'Tis  very  fine ! — just  like  their  other  doings ! — 
But  I'll  make  bold  to  knock,  and  soundly  too. 

(knocks.) 

Open  the  door — holloa  there — who's  within  ? 
Open  the  door,  I  say, — will  no  one  open? 

SCEJTE  III. 

MERCURY  appears  above,  with  a  chaplet  on  his  head, 
pretending  to  be  drimk. 

Merc.  Who's  at  the  door  ? 

Jlmph.  'Tis  I. 

Merc.  I  ?  Who  is  I  ? 

Amph.  'Tis  I,  I  tell  you. 

Merc.  Jove  and  all  the  gods 

Owe  you  a  spite,  you  bang  so  at  the  door. 

Jlmph.  How  ? 

Merc.  How?  that  you  may  live  a  wretch  for 
ever. 

Jlmph.  Sosia. 

Merc.  Ay,  I  am  Sosia : — you  don't  think 

That  I've  forgot  my  name  ? — What  is't  you  want  ? 

*  It  was  a  custom  among  the  ancients  to  wear  chaplets 
at  their  carousals. 


Jlmph.  Ask  what  I  want,  villain? 

Merc.  Yes,  you  fool ; 

You've  almost  torn  our  door  here  off  its  hinges : 
Think  you  we're  furnish'd  at  the  public  charge 
With  doors  ? — You  numskull !  Why  do  ye  stare 

so  at  me  ? 
What  would  you  have? — Who  are  you? 

Jlmph.  You  whipp'd  knave  : 

D'ye  ask  who  I  am  ? — You  hell  of  elm-rods  !* 
Slave!  I  will  have  you  tortur'd  for  this  language. 

Merc.  I  sacrifice  to  you. 

Jlmph.  How? — M-hat  dye  mean? 

Merc.  I  offer  a  libation  of  ill  luck,  (throwing 

water.} 

(  What  follows  is  supplied  by  another  hand,  the  ori- 
ginal being  lost.) 

Jlmph.  Is  this  your  off 'ring,  rascal? — If  the  gods 
Preserve  me  what  I  am,  your  back  shall  bend 
With  many  a  leathern  thong,  laid  heavy  on  it; 
Victim  of  Saturn  !  Yes — I'll  sacrifice  you — 
With  torture  on  the  gallows. — Come  you  out, 
You  hang-dog. 

Merc.  Apparition!  What,  you  think 

To  fright  me  with  your  threats?  But  if  you  don't 
Take  to  your  heels,  if  you  dare  knock,  or  touch 
Our  door  here  even  with  your  little  finger, 
I'll  beat  about  your  pate  so  with  this  tile, 
You'll  sputter  tongue  and  teeth  out  all  together. 

Jlmph.  You  rascal !  won't  you  suffer  me  to  come 
Into  my  own  house?  knock  at  my  own  door? — 
I'll  pluck  it  off"  the  hinges,  (beating  vehemently?) 

Merc.  You  persist? 

Jlmph.  I  do. 

Merc.  Take  this  then,  (^throwing  a  tik.') 

Jlmph.  Villain!  at  your  master? 
If  I  but  catch  you,  to  such  misery 
I  will  reduce  you,  you  shall  live  a  wretch 
For  evermore. 

Merc.  You've  play'd  the  Bacchanalian, 

Old  grey-beard. 

Jlmph.  Why  ? 

Merc.  To  think  I  am  your  slave. 

Jlmph.  Not  think  it  ? 

Merc.  Plague  confound  you !  for  I  own 

No  master  but  Amphitryon. 

Jlmph.  Have  I  lost 

My  form? — 'Tis   strange  that  Sosia  should  not 

know  me. 

I'll  make  a  further  trial. — Holloa!  tell  me 
Whom  do  I  seem?  is't  plain  I  am  Amphitryon? 

Merc.  Amphitryon  ?  Are  you  mad  ?  I  told  you, 

dotard, 

That  you  had  play'd  the  Bacchanalian, 
To  ask  another,  who  you  are  ! — But  go, 
Go,  I  advise  you,  and  make  no  disturbance : — 
Amphitryon  has  returned,  and  is  at  rest, 
A-bed  now  with  his  wife. 

Jlmph.  What  wife. 

Merc.  Alcmeina, 

Jlmph.  Who  is  ? 

Merc.  How  often  would  you  have  me  tell  you? 
Amphitryon  my  master.  Don't  be  troublesome. 

Jlmph.  Who  is  he  with  ? 


*  Ulmorum  Jlchernus.  That  is,  one  whose  back  devours 
as  many  elm-rods  as  Acheron  does  souls. 


PLAUTUS 


305 


Beware  you  do  not  seek 

Your  own  mischance  in  trifling  with  me  thus. 
JJmph.  Nay,  prithee  tell  me,  my  good  Sosia,  do. 
Merc.    Now    you   bespeak    me    fairly! — with 

Alcmena. 

Jlmph.  In  the  same  chamber. 
Merc.  The  same  chamber, — yes, 

And  the  same  bed  too. 

Jlmph.  0,  I  am  most  wretched. 

— Sosia ! 

Merc.  Well — what  a  plague  now  would  you 

have 
With  Sosia, — Sosia? 

Jlmph.  Don't  you  know  me,  sirrah? 

M'rrr.  I  know  you  for  a  wrangling  sancy  fellow. 
Jlmph.  Yet  once  more,  tell  me,  am  I  not  Am- 
phitryon, 
Your  master? 

Merc.  You  are  Bacchus,  not  Amphitryon. 
How  often  would  you  have  me  tell  it  you? 
.A  nst  I  repeat  it?     Our  Amphitryon's  here, 
And  hugging  his  sweet  spouse.     If  you  persist 
I'll  bring  him  hither, — to  your  cost  I  warrant  you. 
Amph.  I  would  that  you  would  call  him  here. — 

(aside.)  Pray  heav'n, 
I  may  not  lose  for  my  good  services 
Y.y  country,  houso,  wife,  family,  and  myself! 
Merc.  I'll  call  him  !     But  meanwhile  get  from 

the  door. 

The  sacrifice  is  ended,  I  suppose, 
And  now  to  dinner.     Prithee  don't  disturb  us 
Or  I  will  make  a  sacrifice  of  you. 

[MtncrBT  irithdrau's. 
Jlmph.  Ye  gods!  what  madness  has  possess'd 

our  house  1 

What  wonders  have  T  soon  since  my  arrival! — 
!Vow  d(i  I  hold  those  fabulous  tales  for  true 
V.'hieh  I  have  heard  of  old,  that  Attic  men 
"Were  in  Arcadia  turn'd  to  savnge  boasts, 
So    that  their  friends  could  never   know  them 
after. 

SCBXK  IV. 
Enter  BLF.PHAHO  and  SOSIA  at  a  distance. 

Blcph.  How  Sosia; — Tis   most  strange  what 

you  r< 

You  found  at  home  another  Sosia,  say  you, 
; 

Sos.  I  did  I  say. — But  hark  ye, 

Sinro  I  my-olf  liavo  -pawu'd  an>  •• 
Amphitryon  an  Amphitryon,  how  d'ye  know 
I'ut  you  too  perad  \  •••nder 

Another  Blepharo?      Would  to  heav'n,  that  you 
Wi-ro  thump'd   and    bruis'd,  your   teetli    knock'd 

out.  and  kept 

Without  a  d inner;  then  yon  might  believe  me: 
For  I,  that  other  Sosia.  who  am  yonder, 
Maul'd  me  most  grievously. 

•  nk.  Tia  wondv 

But  we  must  mend  our  pa.-,-  ;  for  at>  1  see, 
Amphitryon's  waiting,  and  my  empty  stomach 
Hep  ins  to  grumble. 

.  />»/'/;.  (to  hinifrlf.)    Wherefore  should  I  talk 
Oi' foreign  legends,  when  they  tales  recount 
More  wondrous  of  the  founder  of  our  Thebes  ? 
30 


This  mighty  searcher  of  Europa  lost, 
Having  subdued  the  Mars-engender'd  beast, 
Rais'd  on  the  spot  a  troop  of  armed  men 
By  sowing  of  the  serpent's  teeth  : — these  parted, 
And  'twixt  the  two  bands  a  dread  fight  ensued ; 
With  spear  and  helmet  brother  press'd  on  brother. 
Nor  is  this  all.     Epirus  has  beheld 
The  author  of  our  race,  together  with 
His  spouse  Hermione,  fair  Venus'  daughter, 
Creep  in  the  form  of  serpents.     Jove  supreme 
Did  thus  ordain  from  high,  thus  will'd  the  Fates. 
All,  all  the  noblest  chieftains  of  our  house 
Have  for  their  bright  achievements  been  pursued 
With  dire  afflictions;  and  the  same  sad  fate 
Now  presses  me : — yet  could  I  stand  its  force, 
And  suffer  miseries  scarce  to  be  endur'd, 
Were  but  Alcmena  honest. 

Sos.  Blepharo ! 

Bkph.  What  ? 

Sos.  I  fear  there's  some  mischance  or  other. 

Blcph.  Why  ? 

Sos.  Look  you, — our  door  is  shut,  and  there's 

my  master 

Sauntering  before  it,  like  an  humble  courtier, 
Waiting  to  bid  good-morrow. 

Blcph.  Poll !  that's  nothing, 

He's  walking  only  for  an  appetite. 

Sos.  A  curious  thought  indeed ! — to  shut  the 

door 
Lest  it  should  come  too  early. 

Bleph.  Cease  your  yelping, 

You  puppy  you. 

Sos.  I  neither  yelp  nor  bark. 

If  you'll  be  rul'd  by  me,  pray  let's  observe  him : 
Something  he's  musing  on,  I  know  not  what : 
He's  reckoning  some  account  methinks :  I  here 
Can  overhear  him.     Don't  be  in  a  hurry. 

Jlmph.  O  how  I  fear  me,  lest  the  gods  should 

raze 

The  glory  I  have  gnin'd  in  vanquishing 
Our  foes  the  Teleboans!     All  our  family 
I  find  in  strange  confusion  and  disorder: 
My  wife  too!  0  she  kills  me,  she's  so  full 
Of  stain,  of  prostitution,  and  dishonour. — 
But  I  do  marvel  iiineh  about  the  cup; 
For  yet  the  seal  was  whole.      What  shall  I  say? 
She  told  me  the  particulars  of  the  fight, 
And  how  King  Pterelas  I  bravely  slew 
With  my  own  hand.    Oh,  now  I  know  the  trick! 
»ia'a  doinir.  who  has  Ir.ul  the  impudence 
before  me  here. 

>'".-•-  He  talks  of  me, 

And  little  to  my  liking. — I  beseech  you 
Don't  let  us  tar--  him.  till  he  has  discover'd 
What  'tis  broils  in  his  stomach. 

Blcph.  As  you  will. 

siniph.  If  I  but  lay  hold  on  him, — a  whipp'd 

-lave! 

I'll  teach  him  what  it  is  with  tricks  and  threats 
To  put  upon  a  master. 

Sos.  Do  you  hear  him  ? 

Bleph.  Yes,  very  plain. 

Sos.  The  burthen  on't  will  light 

Upon  my  shoulders. — Prithee  let's  accost  him. — 
Do  you  not  know  the  saying? 

Bfeph.  Troth  I  know  not 

2A  2 


306 


PLAUTUS. 


What  you'll  be  saying,  but  I  shrewdly  guess 
What  you'll  be  suffering. 

Sos.  An  old  proverb — "Hunger 

And  a  slack  guest  breed  anger." 

Bleph.     .  By  my  faith 

A  true  one.     Let's  accost  him  then  directly. 
Amphitryon ! 

Jlmph.  Sure  'tis  Blepharo's  voice  I  hear. 

I  wonder  wherefore  he  should  come  to  me ! 
He  comes  though  opportunely  to  assist 
In  proving  my  wife's  baseness. — Blepharo, 
What  brings  you  hither  ? 

Bleph.  How !  have  you  forgot 

So  soon  your  sending  Sosia  to  the  ship 
This  morning  to  invite  me  here  to  dinner? 

Jlmph.  I  never  did.     May  I  perish,  Blepharo, 
If  I  have  been  within  yet,  or  e'er  sent  him. 
Where  did  you  leave  me  ?     Speak. 

So*.  At  your  own  house, 

And  with  my  lady, — when  I  parted  from  you 
I  flew  to  the  port,  and  in  your  name  invited 
Blepharo  here  to  dinner.     We  are  come ;— — 
I  never  saw  you  after  till  this  instant. 

Jlmph.  How  villain,  with  my  wife  ?  You  shall 

not  hence 
Without  a  drubbing.  (strikes  him.') 

Sos.  Blepharo ! 

Bleph.  (interposing.}  Good  Amphitryon 

Let  him  alone  now  for  my  sake,  and  hear  me. 

Jlmph.  Well — speak  your  pleasure. 

Bleph.  He  has  lately  told  me 

Of  things  most  strange.     Some  juggler,  perad- 

venture, 

Or  sorcerer,  has  enchanted  all  your  family. 
Inquire  into  it,  see  what  it  can  be, 
And  do  not  torture  this  poor  wretch,  until 
You've  learn'd  the  truth. 

Jlmph.  You  counsel  me  aright. 

Let's  in :  I'd  halve  you  for  an  advocate 
Against  my  wife.         (they  move  towards  the  door.] 

SCENE  V. 
Enter  JUPITER. 

Who  is  it  with  such  vast 

And  vehement  bangs  hath  almost  shook  our  door 
From  off  it's  hinges'?     Who  is  it  hath  rais'd 
Such  foul  disturbance  for  so  long  a  time 
Before  the  house  ?    Whom  if  I  once  can  find, 
By  Jove,  I'll  sacrifice  him  to  the  souls 
Of  slaughter'd  Teleboans. — Nothing  now 
Speeds,    as   they    say,    right    with    me.     I    left 

Blepharo 

And  Sosia,  to  go  seek  my  kinsman  Naucrates : 
Them  I  have  lost,  and  him  I  have  not  found. 

Sos.  Blepharo !  That's  my  master,  just  come  out ; 
But  this  here  is  the  sorcerer. 

Bleph.  0  Jupiter, 

What  do  I  see  ?     This  is  not,  but  that  is 
Amphitryon  ;  or,  if  this  be  he,  that  cannot; 
Except  indeed  he's  double. 

Jup.  See — here's  Sosia 

And  Blepharo  with  him  :  I'll  accost  them  first. 
So,  are  you  come  at  last?  I  die  with  hunger. 

Sos.  Did  not  I  say,  this  other  was  the  sorcerer? 
{pointing  to  Amphitryon.} 


Jlmph.  That  is  the  sorcerer,  my  fellow  The- 

bans, 

Who  has  seduc'd  my  wife,  and  stor'd  my  house 
With  shame  and  prostitution. 

Sos.  (to  Jup.)  My  good  master, 

You  may  be  hungry ;  for  my  part  I've  had 
My  belly-full  of  cuffs. 

Jlmph.  Still  prating,  rascal  ? 

Sos.  Hie  thee  to  Acheron, thou  damned  sorcerer! 

Jlmph.  Ha! — dost   thou   call  me   sorcerer? — 
Then  have  at  thee.  (strikes  him.} 

Jup.  Stranger!    what  wild  distemperature  is 

this, 
Tli at  you  should  strike  my  servant? 

Jlmph.  Thine. 

Jup.  Yes,  mine. 

Jlmph.  Thou  liest. 

Jup.  Sosia  go  in,  and  see  the  dinner 

Got  ready,  whilst  I  sacrifice  this  fellow. 

Sos.  I'll  go — Amphitryon  will,  as  I  suppose, 
Receive  Amphitryon  with  like  courtesy 
As  I,  the  other  Sosia,  did  receive 
Me  Sosia. — In  the  meantime,  while  they're  squab- 
bling, 

I'll  to  the  kitchen,  there  lick  all  the  platters, 
And  empty  all  the  cups.  [Exit  SOSIA. 

SCENE  VI. 
Remain  JUPITEK,  AMPHITRYON,  and  BLEPHARO. 

Jup.  Say'st  thou  I  lie  ? 

Jlmph.  Thou    liest,    I    say, — corrupter   of  my 
family. 

Jup.  Now  for  these  scurvy  terms   I'll  throttle 
thee.  (takes  him  by  the  collar.) 

Jlmph.  Oh,  oh ! 

Jup.  You  should  have  look'd  to  this  before. 

Jlmph.  Help,  Blepharo. 

Bleph.  They  are  both  so  like  each  other, 

I  know  not  which  to  side  with ;  but  I'll  try 
To  finish  their  contention,  if  I  can. 
Amphitryon  do  not  kill  Amphitryon :  pray 
Let  go  his  collar. 

Jup.  Call'st  thou  him  Amphitryon  ? 

Bleph.  Why  not  ?     He  was  but  one,  but  now 

he's  double, 

What  though  you  say  you  are,  the  other  too 
Is  still  Amphitryon  in  his  form.     Then  pray 
Let  go  his  collar. 

Jup.  Well ;  but  tell  me  truly, 

Does  he  appear  to  you  to  be  Amphitryon  ? 

Bleph.  Both  verily. 

Jlmph.  0  highest  Jupiter ! 

When  did  you  take  away  this  form  of  mine? — 
But  I'll  examine  him. — Art  thou  Amphitryon  ? 

Jup.  Dost  thou  deny  it  ? 

Jlmph.  Surely,  since  there  is 

No  other  of  that  name  in  Thebes  but  I. 

Jup.  No  none  but  I: — then  Blepharo,  be  thoa 

judge 
Betwixt  us. 

Bleph.          I  will  make  this  matter  clear 
By  tokens  if  I  can.  (to  Jlmph.)  You  answer  first. 

Jlmph.  Most  willingly. 

Bleph.  What  orders  did  you  give  m<? 

Ere  you  began  the  battle  with  the  Taphians  ? 


PLAUTUS. 


307 


Jlmph.  To  hold  the  ship  in  readiness,  and  stick 
Close  to  the  rudder. 

Jup.  That  in  case  our  troops 

Were  routed,  I  might  find  a  safe  retreat. 

Amph.  And  for  another  reason  : — to  secure 
The  bag,  well  loaded  with  a  store  of  treasure. 

Jap.   What  money  was  ihere  ? 

Bleph.  Hold,  you  : — 'tis  for  me 

To  put  the  question,  (to  Jup.)  Do  you  know  the  sum? 

Jnp.  Yes,  fifty  Attic  talents. 

Bleph.  To  a  jot. 

And  you — (to  dmph.)   how  many  Philippeans 
were  there  ? 

Jlmph.  Two  thousand. 

Jup.  And  of  Oboli  twice  as  many. 

Bleph.  Both  hit  the  mark  so  truly,  one  of  them 
IN [ust  needs  have  hid  him  in  the  bag. 

Jnp.  Attend. 

With  this  right  arm,  (as  you  are  not  to  learn) 
I  slew  King  Pterelas;  seized  on  the  spoils, 
And  in  a  casket  brought  the  golden  cup, 
W4iieh  he  was  wont  to  drink  from.    This  I  gave 
A  present  to  my  wife,  with  whom  to-day 
I  bath'd,  I  sacrific'd,  I  lay. 

jlmph.  Ah  me ! 

What  do  I  hear?  I  scarcely  am  myself! 
Awake  I  sleep  ;  awake  I  dream  ;  alive, 
la  health,  and  in  perfect  mind,  I  perish. 
I  am  Amphitryon,  nephew  of  Gorgophone 
Commander  of  the  Thebans,  favourite 
Of  Creon,  conqueror  of  the  Teleboans, 
Who  vanquish'd  with  his  might  the  Arcananians 
And  Taphians,  by  his  warlike  prowess  slew 
Their  monarch,  and  appointed  Cephalus 
Their  governor,  son  of  Deioneus. 

Ji'l>.  I  by  my  bravery  in  the  battle  crush'd 

hostile  ra  va  ire  rs,  that  had  destroy'd 
Klectryon,  and  the  brothers  of  our  wife, 

M  wand'ring  through  th'  Ionian,  the  ^Egean, 
And  Cretan  seas,  with  pow'r  piratical 
Laid  waste  Achaia,  Phocis,  and  ^Etolia. 

.-luiph.  O,  ye  immortal  gods!  I  scarce  can  have 
Faith  in  myself,  so  just  is  his  relation. 
What  say  you,  Blepharo? 

BU'f>h.  One  thing  yet  remains: 

If  that  appear,  be  double,  both — Amphitryons. 

Jup.  1   know  what  you  would   say;   that  scar 

yon  mean 

Upon  my  right  arm  from  the  wound  by  Pterelas, 
Deeply  intrem.-h'd. 

lilcph.  The  - 

dtnph.  Well  thought  on. 

Jup.  See  you  ? 

Lo!  look! 

Bleph.        Uncover,  and  I'll  look. 

Jup.  We  have 

Uncover'd :  look ! 

(the y  both  shmo  their  arms.) 

TWrph.  O  Jupiter  supreme  ! 

What  do  I  see  ? — On  both  of  you  most  plainly, 
Upon  the  right  arm.  in  the  sell--;une  place, 

•if-same  token  does  appear. — •  - 
New-closing,  of  a  reddish  wannish  hue! 
All  reasoning  fails,  and  judgment  is  struck  dumb. 
[  know  not  what  to  do. 

(Here  ends  the  suppositions  part.) 


Between  yourselves 

You  must  decide  it :  I  must  hence  away 
I've  business  calls  me. — Never  did  I  see 
Such  wonders ! 

Jlmph.  I  beseech  you,  Blepharo,  stay 

And  be  my  advocate ;  pray  do  not  go. 

Bleph.  Farewell. — An  advocate  how  can  I  be 
Who  know  not  which  to  side  with? 

Jup.  I'll  go  in : 

Alcmena  is  in  labour. 

[BLEPHARO  goes  off,  and  JUPITER 
goes  into  the  house. 

SCE*E   VII. 

AMPHITRTOX  alone. 

Woe  is  me ! 

What  shall  I  do,  abandon 'd  by  my  friends, 
And  now  without  an  advocate  to  help  me  ? 
Yet  shall  he  ne'er  abuse  me  unreveng'd, 
Whoe'er  he  is. — I'll  straight  unto  the  king 
And  lay  the  whole  before  him. — I'll  have  ven- 
geance 
On    this    damn'd    sorcerer,   who   has    strangely 

turn'd 

The  minds  of  all  our  family. — But  where  is  he? — 
I  doubt  not,  but  he's  gone  in  to  my  wife. 
Lives  there  in  Thebes  a  greater  wretch  than  I  ? — 
What  shall  I  do  now,  since  all  men  deny  me, 
And  fool  me  at  their  pleasure  ? — 'Tis  resolv'd, 
I'll  burst  into  the  house,  and  whomsoe'er 
I  set  my  eyes  on,  servant  male  or  female, 
Wife  or  gallant,  father  or  grandfather, 
I'll  cut  them  into  pieces : — Nor  shall  Jove, 
Nor  all  the  gods,  prevent  it,  if  they  would  ; 
But  I  will  do  what  I've  resolv'd. — I'll  in  now. 
[Jls  he  advances  tmvards  the  door,  it  thunders  and 
and  he  falls  down. — (Thunder  and  lightning.) 

ACT  V.     SCEWE  I. 

Enter  BROMIA. 
(AMPHITRYON  continuing  in  a  swoon.") 

Brorn.  I  have  no  means  of  safety  left;   my 

hopes 

Lie  in  my  breast  extinct  and  buried ;  I 
Have  lost  all  confidence  of  heart  and  spirit ; 
Since  all  things  seem  combin'd,  sea,  earth,  and 

heaven, 

To  oppress  and  to  destroy  me. — I  am  wretched ! — 
I  know  not  what  to  do,  such  prodigies 
Have  been  displny'd  within! — Ah,  woe  is  me  ! 
I'm  sick  at  heart  now, — would  I  had  some  water, 
I  faint,  my  head  aches, — I  don't  hear,  nor  see 
Well  with  my  eyes. — Ah  me !  no  woman  sure 
Was  e'er  so  wretched,  an  event  so  strange 
Has  happen'd  to  my  mi-tre-<  ! — When  she  found 

fin  labour,  she  invok'd  the  gods: — 
Then    what    a    rumbling,    grumbling,    flashing, 

clash  in:/. 

Straitway  ensued  !  how  suddenly,  how  quick, 
How  terribly  it  thunder'd !  All  that  stood 
Fell  flat  down  at  the  noise  :  and  then  we  heard 
Some  one,  I  know  not  who,  with  mighty  voice 
Cry  out — ••  Alcmena,  succour  is  at  hand  : 
Be  not  dismay'd :  the  heaven's  high  ruler  comes 
To  you  propitious  and  to  yours.     Arise,'' 


308 


PLAUTUS. 


Says  he,  "  ye  who  have  fallen  through  the  terror 
And  dread  of  me."     I  arose  from  where  I  lay, 
And  such  a  brightness  stream'd  through  all  the 

house, 

Methought  it  was  in  flames.     Then  presently 
Alcmena  call'd : — I  ran  to  her,  in  haste, 
To  know  what  she  might  want,  and  (bless  my 

eyes !) 

Saw  she  had  been  delivered  of  two  boys ; 
Nor  any  of  us  knew,  or  did  suspect, 
When  she  was  thus  deliver'd. — But  what's  this  ? 
Who  is  this  old  man,  stretch'd  before  our  house  ? 
Has  he  been  thunder-stricken1?  I  believe  so: 
For  he  is  laid  out  as  if  dead :  I'll  go, 
And  learn  who  'tis. — 'Tis  certainly  Amphitryon, 
My  master. — Hoa,  Amphitryon ! 

JLmph.  I  am  dead. 

Brom.  Come,  rise,  sir. 

JLmph.  I'm  quite  dead. 

Brom.  Give  me  your  hand. 

JLmph.  Who  is  it  holds  me  ? 

Brom.  I  your  maid,  sir,  Bromia. 

Jlmph.  I  tremble  every  joint,  with  such  amaze 
Has  Jupiter  appall'd  me !  and  I  seem 
As  though  I  were  just  risen  from  the  dead. 
But  wherefore  came  you  forth  ? 

Brom.  The  same  dread  fear 

Fill'd  us  poor  souls  with  horror.     I  have  seen, 
Ah  me  !  such  wondrous  prodigies  within, 
I  scarce  am  in  my  senses. 

Jlmph.  Prithee  tell  me  ; 

D'ye  know  me  for  your  master,  for  Amphitryon  ? 

Brom.  Yes,  surely. 

JLmph.  Look  again  now. 

Brom.  I  well  know  you. 

JLmph.  She  is  the  only  person  of  our  family 
That  is  not  mad. 

Brom.  Nay,  verily  they  all 

Are  in  their  perfect  senses. 

JLmph.  But  my  wife 

By  her  foul  deeds  has  driv'n  me  to  distraction. 

Brom.  But  I  shall  make  you  change  your  lan- 
guage, sir, 

And  own  your  wife  a  chaste  one ;  on  which  point 
I  will  convince  you  in  few  words.  Know  first, 
Alcmena  is  deliver'd  of  two  boys. 

JLmph.  How  say  you,  two  ? 

Brom.  Yes,  two. 

JLmph.  The  gods  preserve  me. 

Brom.  Permit  me  to  go  on,  that  you  may  know 
How  all  the  gods  to  you  are  most  propitious 
And  to  your  wife. 

JLmph.  Speak. 

Brom.  When  your  spouse  began 

To  be  in  labour,  and  the  wonted  pangs 
Of  child-birth  came  upon  her,  she  invok'd 
Th'  immortal  gods  to  aid  her,  with  wash'd  hands 
And  cover'd  head  ;*  then  presently  it  thunder'd, 
And  with  a  crack  so  loud,  we  thought  at  first 
The  house  itself  was  tumbling,  and  it  shone 
As  bright  throughout,  as  if  it  were  of  gold. 

JLmph.  Prithee  relieve  me  quickly,  since  you 

have 
Perplex'd  me  full  enough. — Whatfollow'd  after? 


*  Agreeably  to  the  religious  ceremonies  of  the  ancients. 


Brom.  Meantime,  while  this  was  done,  not  one 

of  us 

Or  heard  your  wife  once   groan,  or  once  com- 
plain; 
She  was  deliver'd  e'en  without  a  pang. 

JLmph.  That  joys  me.  I  confess,  however  little 
She  merits  at  my  hands. 

Brom.  Leave  that,  and  hear 

What  more  I  have  to  say.     After  delivery, 
She  bade  us  wash  the  boys :  we  set  about  it, 
But  he  that  I  wash'd,  0  how  sturdy  is  he ! 
So  strong  and  stout  withal,  not  one  of  us 
Could  bind  him  in  his  swaddling-clothes. 

Jlmph.  'Tis  wondrous 

What  you  relate  :  if  your  account  be  true, 
I  doubt  not  but  Alcmena  has  been  favour'd 
With  large  assistance  and  support  from  heaven. 

Brom.  You'll  say  what  follows  is  more  won- 
drous still. 

After  the  boy  was  in  his  cradle  laid 
Two  monstrous  serpents  with  high-lifted  crests 
Slid  down  the  sky-light !  in  an.  instant  both 
Rear'd  up  their  heads. 

Jlmph.  Ah  me ! 

Brom.  Be  not  dismayed  : 

The  serpents  cast  their  eyes  around  on  all ; 
And  after  they  had  spied  the  children  out, 
With  quickest  motion  made  towards  the  cradle. 
I,  fearing  for  the  boys,  and  for  myself, 
Drew  back  the  cradle,  stirr'd  it  to  and  fro, 
Backwards    and    forwards,    on    one    side    and 

t'other; 

The  more  I  work'd  it,  by  so  much  the  more 
These  serpents  fierce  pursued.     That  other  boy, 
Soon  as  he  spied  the  monsters,  in  an  instant, 
Leaps  him  from  out  the  cradle,  straight  darts  at 

them, 

And  suddenly  he  seizes  upon  both, 
In  each  hand  grasping  one. 

JLmph.  The  tale  you  tell 

Is  fraught  with  many  wonders,  and  the  deed 
That  you  relate  is  all  too  terrible  ; 
For   horror  at  your  words  creeps   through  my 

limbs. — 

What  happen'd    next?     Proceed    now   in  your 
story. 

Brom.  The  child  kill'd  both  the   serpents. — 

During  this 
A  loud  voice  calls  upon  your  wife. — 

JLmph.  Who  calls? 

Brom.  Jove,   supreme  sovereign  of  gods  and 

men, 

He  own'd  that  he  had  secretly  enjoy'd 
Alcmena,  that  the  boy,  who  slew  the  serpents, 
Was  his ;  the  other,  he  declar'd,  was  yours. 

JLmph.  I  now  repent  me,  an'  it  pleases  him, 
To  share  a  part  with  Jove  in  any  good. 
Go  home,  and  see  the  vessels  be  prepar'd 
For  sacrifice  forthwith,  that  I  may  make 
My  peace  with  Jove  by  offering  many  victims. 

[BROMIA  goes  in.. 

I'll  to  the  soothsayer  Tiresias,  and 
Consult  with  him  what's  fittest  to  be  done : 
I'll  tell  him  what  has  happened — but  what's 

this? 
How  dreadfully  it  thunders ! — Mercy  on  us ! 


PLAUTUS. 


309 


SCENE   II. 

JUPITER  appears  abovf — thunder  and  lightning. 

Be  of  good  cheer,  Amphitryon ;  I  am  come 
To  comfort  and  assist  you  and  your  family. 
Nothing  you  have  to  fear ;  then  let  alone 
All  soothsayers  and  diviners:  I'll  inform  you 
Of  what  is  past,  and  what  is  yet  to  come, 
Much  better  than  they  can,  since  I  am  Jove. 
Know  first  of  all,  I  have  enjoy'd  Alcmena, 
Whence  she  was  pregnant  by  me  with  a  son: 
You  likewise  left  her  pregnaat,  when  you  went 
To  th'  army.     At  one  birth,  two  boys  together 
She  has  brought  forth :  the  one,  sprung  from  my 

loins, 

Shall  gain  immortal  glory  by  his  deeds. 
Restore  Alcmena  to  your  ancient  love : 
In  nothing  does  she  merit  your  reproaches : 
She  was  compell'd,  by  my  resistless  power, 
To  what  she  did. — I  now  return  to  heaven. 

[JUPITER  ascends. 

SCENE  the  Last. 
AMPHITRYON  alone. 

['11  do  as  you  command ;  and  I  beseech  you 
That  you  would  keep  your  promises. — I'll  in 
Unto  my  wife,  and  think  no  more  of  old 
Tiresias. — Now,  spectators,  for  the  sake 
Of  highest  Jove,  give  us  your  loud  applause.* 


THE  CAPTIVES. 


DRAMATIS  PERSOKJE. 


HEGIO. 

PHILOCRATES. 
TYNDARUS. 
ARISTOPHONTES. 


PHILOPOLEMUS. 
ERGASILUS. 
STALAGMUS. 
SERVANTS. 


SCENE. — Calydon  in  JEtolia,  before  HEGIO'S  house. 


HE   PROLOGUE. 


OUR  play  is  not  in  the  common  style,  nor  yet 
Like  other  plays : — here  are  no  ribald  lines 


•  The  Romans  believed  that  this  play  made  much  for 
the  honour  of  Jupiter;  therefore,  afterwards,  it  was 
commonly  acted  in  times  of  public  troubles  and  calamities, 
to  appea>e  his  anui-r. 

There  is  no  doubt  but  that  this  play  ends  happily  and 
seriously  in  our  author,  with  the  vindication  of  Alcmena's 
honour,  entirely  t»  the  sau- fact  ion  of  Amphitryon.    Mo- 
li-re.  t»  a.-c.immod-ite  his  piece  more  to  the  Modem  ta-Me, 
humourously  enough  makes  Sosia  conclude  it  with  savin:.' 
(when  the    company    present    were    fi>r   ron<;ratulating 
Amphitryon  upon  the  honour  done  him  by  Jupiter,) 
Sur  telles  affaires  tonjnurs 
Lc  meilleur  e*t  de  ne  rien  dire. 

Dryden  copies  him  exactly  in  this  speech;  hut  he  gives 
it  (tliouch  not  nearly  so  much  in  character)  to  Mercury, 
who  had  already  declared  his  godship. 

"Jill.  We  all  congratulate  Amphitryon. 

Merc.  Keep  your  congratulation-;  to  yourselves,  gentle- 
men.—"Pis  a  nice  p«.int.  let  me  tell  you  that ;  and  the  less 
that  is  said  of  it  the  better." 


Unfit  to  be  remembered ;  here  you'll  find 

No  infamous,  abandoned  courtezan, 

No  rascal  pimp,  no  braggard  captain  here. 

ACT  I.     SCENE  I. 
Enter  ERGASILUS. 

Because  I  usually  attend  at  feasts, 

An  invocated  guest,  our  sparks  forsooth 

Nickname    me   mistress.*     This,    I    know,   the 

jeerers 

Say  is  absurd. — I  say,  'tis  right. — The  lover 
At  a  carousal,  when  he  throws  the  dice, 
Invokes  his  mistress.     Is  she  invocated, 
Or  is  she  not?  Most  plain,  she  is. — But  yet 
To  say  the  truth,  we  are  termed  Parasites 
For  a  much  plainer  reason. — For,  like  mice,f 
Ask'd  or  not  ask'd,  we  always  live  upon 
Provisions  not  our  own. — In  the  vacation 
When  to  the  country  men  retire,  'tis  also 
Vacation  with  my  teeth. — As  in  hot  weather 
Snails  hide  them  in  their  shells,  and,  if  no  dew 
Should  chance  to  fall,  live  on  their  proper  mois- 
ture, 

We  Parasites,  in  times  of  the  vacation, 
Keep  ourselves  snug;  and  while  into  the  country 
Those  are  retired,  on  whom  we  us'd  to  feed, 
Poor  we  support  our  natural  call  of  appetite 
From  our  own  juices. — We  in  the  vacation 
Are  thin  as  hounds ; — but  when  men  come  to 

town, 

We  are  as  plump  as  mastiffs,  full  as  troublesome, 
And  as  detested.     What  is  worst  of  all, 
Except  we  patiently  endure  a  drubbing, 
And  let  them  break  their  pots  upon  our  heads, 
We  must  submit  to  sit  among  the  beggars 
Without  the  city  gate. — That  this  will  be 
My  lot,  there's  not  a  little  danger,  since 
My  patron  is  a  captive  with  the  enemy. 
Th'  ^Etolians  and  the  ^Elians  are  at  war : 
We  now  are  in  ^Etolia.    Philopolemus, 
Old  Hegio's  son,  whose  house  is  here  hard  by, 
Is  prisoner  now  in  .<Elis. — Sad  indeed 
This  house  to  me!  which,  often  as  I  see  it, 
Brings  tears  into  my  eyes.     The  good  old  father, 
Upon  his  son's  account,  not  in  compliance 
With  his  own  inclination,  has  engaged 
In  an  illiberal  traffic,};  and  by  purchasing 
Of  captives  hopes,  that  in  some  lucky  hour 
He  may  find  one  to  barter  for  his  son. — 
But  the  door  opens,  whence  I've  sallied  forth 
Full  many  a  time,  drunk  with  excess  of  cheer. 


*  Parasites  are  by  our  author  often  called  Mistresses. 
This  humour  of  calling  parasites  by  droll  names,  we  may 
suppose  was  common,  as  we  find  it  again  in  the  Menachmi 
or  YVi/iA-,  where  the.  parasite  is  made  to  say — 
"Our  young  men  call  me  Dishclout, — for  this  reason, 
Whene'er  I  dine,  I  wipe  the  tables  clean. 

f  Diogenes,  the  Cynic,  when  he  saw  mice  creeping 
under  a  table,  used  to  say,  "See  there  Diogenes'  para- 
sites!"— The  same  allusion  we  meet  with  again  in  the 
Permi.  act  i  ,  scene  ii. 

Qi/f?.«i  mures  temper  edere  alienum  cibvm. 

Like  mice,  they  lived  on  victuals  not  their  own. 

|  Qmr.<i inn  inhonestum.  Bo  in  another  place  it  is  called 
qinmtum  carccrurium.  Whence  it  is  plain,  that  dealing 
in  slaves  was  accounted  irreputable. 


310 


PLAUTUS. 


II. 

Enter  HEGIO  and  a  Slave. 

Heg.  Mind  what  I  say : — from  those  two  cap- 
tives there, 

Whom  yesterday  I  purchased  from  the   Quaes- 
tors, 
Take  off  the  heavy  chains  with  which  they're 

bound, 

And  put  on  lighter :  let  them  walk  about 
Within  doors,  or  abroad,  as  likes  them  best: — 
Yet  watch  them  well. — A  free  man,  made  a  cap- 
tive, 

Is  like  a  bird  that's  wild  :  it  is  enough, 
If  once  you  give  it  opportunity 
To  fly  away  5 — you'll  never  catch  it  after. 
Slave.  Freedom  to  slavery  we  all  prefer. — 
Heg.  You  do  not  think  so,  or  you'd  find  the 

means. 
Slave.  If  I  have  nought  to  offer  else,  permit 

me 
To  give  you  for  it  a  fair  pair  of  heels. 

Heg.  And  if  you  do,  I  presently  shall  find 
What  to  bestow  on  you. 

Slave.  I'm  like  the  bird 

You  talk'd  of  even  now. — I'll  fly  away. 

Heg.  Indeed !  Beware  the  cage  then,  if  you 

do.— 

No  more ;  mind  what  I  order'd,  and  begone. — 
Erg.  (aside.'}  May  he  succeed  in  his  design ! — 

If  not, 

And  he  should  miss  redeeming  of  his  son, 
I  have  no  house  to  put  my  head  into. — 
Young  fellows  of  this  age  are  all  self-lovers ; 
I  have  no  hopes  of  'em  ; — but  Philopolemus, 
He  is  a  youth  keeps  up  our  ancient  manners  :— 
I  never  rais'd  in  him  a  single  smile, 
But  I  was  paid  for't ; — and  old  Hegio  here 
Is  just  the  same. — 

Heg.  I'll  now  unto  my  brother's, 

Visit  my  other  captives  there,  and  see 
If  ought  has  been  amiss  last  night  among  them  ; 
Thence  will  I  take  me  home  again  forthwith. 
Erg.  It  grieves  me  much,  that  this  unhappy 

man 

Should  act  so  meanly  as  to  trade  in  slaves, 
On  the  account  of  his  unhappy  son  ; 
But,  if  by  this,  or  any  means  like  this, 
He  can  redeem    him,   let  him    deal    in   men's 

flesh, 
I  can  endure  it. 

Heg.  Who  is  it  that  speaks  there? 

Erg.  'Tis  I,  sir — I,  that  pine  at  your  distress, 
Grow  thin  with  it,  wax  old,  and  waste  away ; 
Nay,  I'm  so  lean  withal,  that  I  am  nothing 
But  skin  and  bone : — whatever  I  eat  at  home 
Does  me  no  good  ;  but  be  it  e'er  so  little 
I  taste  abroad,  that  relishes,  that  cheers  me. 
Heg.  Ergasilus! — Good  day. 
Erg.  (crying.}  Heav'ns  bless  you,  Hegio  ! 

Heg.  Nay,  do  not  weep. 

Erg.  Must  I  not  weep  for  him? 

For  such  a  youth  not  weep  ? 

Heg.  My  son  and  you, 

I  know,  were  ever  friends. 

Erg.  'Tis  then  at  length 


Men  come  to  know  their  good,  when  they  have 

lost  it;* — 

I,  since  the  foe  has  made  your  son  a  captive, 
Find  his  true  value,  and  now  feel  his  want. 

Heg.  If  you,  who  stand  in  no  relation  to  him, 
So  ill  can  bear  his  sufferings,  what  should  I, 
Who  arn  his  father, — he  my  darling  child  ? 

Erg.  I  stand  in  no  relation  to  him  ? — he 
In  none  to  me  ? — Ah,  Hesrio !  say  not  that, — 
And  do  not  think  so  : — if  he  is  to  you 
A  darling  child,  to  me  he's  more  than  darling. 

Heg.  I  cannot  but  commend  you,  that  you  hold 
Your  friend's  mishap  your  own. — Be  comforted. 

Erg.  Ah  me ! 

Heg.  (half  aside.}  'Tis  this  afflicts  him,  that  the 

army, 

Rais'd  to  make  entertainments,  is  disbanded. 
Could  you  get  no  one  all  this  while,  again 
To  put  it  in  commission? 

Erg.  Would  you  think  it  ? 

Since  Philopolemus  has  been  a  captive, 
They  all  decline  the  office. 

Heg.  And  no  wonder, 

That  they  avoid  it. — You  will  stand  in  need 
Of  many  soldiers,  and  of  various  kinds: — 
Bakorians,  Pastry-cookians,  Poultererians, — 
Besides  whole  companies  of  Fishmongerians. 

Erg.  How  greatest  geniusses  oft  lie  conceal'd ! 

0  what  a  general,  row  a  private  soldier! 

Heg.  Have  a  good  heart. — I  trust,  within  these 

few  days 

My  son  will  be  at  home  again  :  for  lo! 
Among  my  captives  I've  an  ./Eolian  youth 
Of  noble  family  and  ample  state.— 

1  trust,  I  shall  exchange  him  for  my  son. 

Erg.  Heav'ns  grant  it  may  be  so ! 

Heg.  But  are  you  ask'd 

Abroad  to  supper  ? 

Erg.  No  where  that  I  know. — 

But  why  that  question  ? 

Heg.  As  it  is  my  birth  day, 

I  thought  of  asking  you  to  sup  with  me. — 

Erg.  Oh !  good,  sir,  good — 

Heg.  If  you  can  be  content 

With  little. 

Erg.  Oil,  sir!  very,  very  little: — 

[  love  it, — 'tis  my  constant  fare  at  home. 

Heg.  Come,  set  yourself  to  sale. 

Erg.  (loud,}  Who'll  buy  me  ? 

Heg.  I,_ 

[f  no  one  will  bid  more. 


*  Very  like  this  is  a  sentiment  in  Horace,  book  ii, 
ode  24. 

— — Virtutem  incohnnem  odimus, 

Sublatam  ex  oculis  quairimvs  invidi. 

Tho'  livina;  virtue  we  despise, 
We  follow  her,  when  dead,  with  envious  eyes. 

Francis. 

And   the   same   sentiment   is  finely  touched   by   Shak- 
peare.— Much  Ado  about  Nothing,  act  iv.,  scene  i. 

For  it  so  falls  out, 

That  what  we  have,  we  prize  not  to  the  value, 
Whilst  we  enjoy  it!  but  being  lack'd  and  lost, 
Why  then  we  rack  the  value;  then  we  find 
The  virtue  that  possession  would  not  show  us, 
Whilst  it  was  ours. 


PLAUTUS. 


311 


Erg.  Can  I  expect, 

I  or  my  friends,  a  better  offer  ? — So 
I  bind  me  to  the  bargain,  all  the  same 
As  though  I  sold  you  terra  firma. 

Say, 

A  quicksand  rather,  that  will  swallow  all. — 
But  if  you  come,  you'll  come  in  time. 

Erg.  Nay,  now 

I  am  at  leisure. 

Heg.  Go,  and  hunt  a  hare  : — 

I've  nothing  but  an  hedge-hog: — you  will  meet 
With  rugged  fare. 

Erg.  Don't  think  to  get  the  better 

Of  me  by  that: — I'll  come  with  teeth  well  shod. 

To  say  the  truth,  my  viands  are  full  hard. 

_r.  You  don't  champ  brambles? 

//•  _r.  Mine's  an  earthly  supper. 

Erg.  A  fine  fat  sow,  why  that's  au  earthly 

animal. 

//I-?.  Plenty  of  vegetables. 
/•:/ --.  The  best  thing 

To  cure  your  sick  with. — Have  you  more  to  say  1 
1  come  in  time. 

Vi'ii  need  not  put  in  mind, 
B  memory  never  fails  him. 

[ERGASILUS  goes  off. 

Hts;.  I  will  in, 

ver  my  accounts,  and  see  what  cash 
:  liave  remaining  in  my  banker's  hands; 
Then  to  my  brother's,  where  I  said  I'd  go.     [Exit. 

ACT  II.     SCEXE  I. 

Enter  Slaves  of  HKRIO,  with  PIIILOCRATES  and 
TYNDARUS. 

A  Slave.  If  the  immortal  gods  have  so  decreed, 
That  this  atlliction  you  should  undergo, 
It  i-  your  duty  patiently  to  bear  it; 
Which  if  you  do,  the  trouble  will  be  lighter. 
When  at  your  home.  y<>u  I  j.rcMiiiic.  were  free: 
But  since  captivity  is  now  your  lot, 
Submission  would  become  you.  and  to  make 
Your  master's  rule  a  mild  and  gentle  one 
By  your  good  disjxjsitions. — Should  a  n. 
Commit  unworthy  action*,  yet  his  slaves 
Mu-t  think  them  worthy  <> 

Phil,  and  Tynd.  Alas!  alas! 

Slav*.  Why   this    bewailing? — tears    but  hurt 

y>ur  eyes  : — 

Our  be-t  support  and  succour  in  distress 
Is  fortitude  of  mind. 

Phil.  But  oh!  it  shanp 

That  we  are  thus  in  chains. 

>7(/rr.  Yet  m i -lit  . 

Our  master  more,  were  he  to  |< *»s,.  your  chains, 
•t  you  be  at  large,  when  he  lias  bought  you. 

Phil.   What  can   he   fear  from  us  ' — VV,.  ;. 

our  duty, 
Were  we  at  lar^e. 

Mure.  You  n  -ape: 

I  know  what  you'd  be  at. 

7J/n7.  We  run  away! 

Ah  !  whither  should  we  run  ? 

To  your  own  country. 

PAi7.  Prithee  no  more:  it  would  but  ill  become  us 
To  imitate  the  part  of  fugitives. 


Slave.  Yet,  by  my  troth !  was  there  an  oppor- 
tunity, 
I  would  not  be  the  man  that  should  dissuade  you. 

Phil.  Permit  us  then  to  ask  one  favour  of  you. 

Slave.  What  is  it? 

Phil.  That  you'd  give  us  opportunity 

To  talk  together,  so  that  you  yourselves, 
Nor  any  of  these  captives  overhear  us. 

Slave.  Agreed. — (to  the  slaves.)  Move    further 

off.— 

(to  his  companions.)  We'll  too  retire, 
But  let  your  talk  be  short. 

Phil.  'Twas  my  intention 

It  should  be  so. — A  little  this  way,  Tyndarus — 

(to  the  otfur  nijitivcs.  and  retires  with  them.') 

Slave.  Go  farther  from  them. 

Tynd.  We  on  this  account 

Are  both  your  debtors. 

Phil.  Farther  off,  so  please  you.  (to  Tynd.) 
A  little  off,  that  these  may  not  be  witnesses 
Of  what  we  have  to  say,  and  that  our  plot 
Be  not  discovered. — For  not  plann'd  with  art, 
Deceit  is  no  deceit,  but  if  discovered, 
It  brings  the  greatest  ill  to  the  contrivers. 
If  you,  my  Tyndarus,  are  to  pass  for  me, 
And  I  for  you, — my  master  you,  and  I 
Your  servant, — we  have  need  of  foresight,  cau- 
tion, 

Wisdom  and  secrecy, — and  we  must  act 
With  prudence,  care,  and  diligence. — It  is 
A  business  of  great  moment,  and  we  must  not 
Sleep,  or  be  idle  in  the  execution. 

Tynd.  I'll  be  what  you  would  have  me. 

Phil.  So  I  trust. 

Tynd.  Now  for  your  precious  life  you  see  me 

stake 
My  own,  that's  no  less  dear  to  me. 

PkU.  I  know  it. 

Tynd.  But  when   you   shall  have  gained  the 

point  yon  aim  at, 

Foriret  not  then  ! — It  is  too  oft  the  way 
With    most    men ; — when    they're    suing    for   a 

favour, 

While  their  obtaining  it  is  yet  in  doubt, 
They  are  most  courteous,  but  when  once  they've 

got  it, 

They  change  their  manners,  and  from  just  become 
Dishonest  and  deceitful. — I  now  think  you 
All  that  I  wish,  and  what  I  do  i\-' 
I  would  advise  the  same  unto  my  father. 

Phil.    And  verily,  if  I  durst.  I'd  call  you  father; 
For  next  my  father  you  are  nearest  to  me. 

Tynd.    I  understand. 

Phil.  Then  what  I  oft  have  urg'd, 

Remember. — I  no  longer  am  your  master. 
But  now  your  servant. — This  1  beg  then  of  you, — 
Since  the  immortal  gods  will  have 
That  I.  from  bei;  r  master,  now 

Should  be  your  fellow-lave.  I  do  entreat, 
r.y  Prayer.*  a  favour  which  I  could  command, 
Once  as  my  riirht. — By  our  uncertain  Bfc 
By  all  my  father's  kindness  shown  unto  you 
By  our  joint  fellowship  in  slavery, 
Th'  event  of  war.  bear  me  the  same  regard, 


*  Per  Precem.  According  to  HOIIKT,  who  makes  Prayer 
a  goddess,  and  one  of  the  daughters  of  Jupiter. 


312 


PLAUTUS. 


As  once  I  bore  you,  when  I  was  your  master, 
And  you  my  slave  ;  forget  not  to  remember, 
What  once  you  have  been,  and  who  now  you  are. 

Tynd.  I  know  —  I  now  am  you,  and  you  are  I. 

Phil.  Forget  not,  —  and  there's  hope  our  scheme 
will  prosper. 


II. 


Enter  HEGIO  speaking  to  those  within. 

When  I'm  inform'd  of  what  I  want  to  know, 
I  shall  come  in  again.  —  Where  are  those  captives, 
I  ordered  to  be  brought  before  the  house  ? 

Phil.  Chain'd  as  we  are,  and  wall'd  in  by  our 

keepers, 

You  have  provided,  that  we  shall  not  fail 
To  answer  to  your  call. 

Heg.  The  greatest  care 

Is  scarce  enough  to  guard  against  deceit  ; 
And  the  most  cautious,  even  when  he  thinks 
He's  most  upon  his  guard,  is  often  trick'd.  — 
But  have  I  not  just  cause  to  watch  you  well, 
When  I  have  bought  you  with  so  large  a  sum  ? 

Phil.  'Twould  not  be  right  in  us  to  blame  you 

for  it  ; 

Nor,  should  occasion  offer  to  escape, 
Would  it  be  right  in  you  to  censure  us, 
That  we  made  use  of  it. 

Heg.  As  you  are  here, 

So  in  your  country  is  my  son  confm'd. 

Phil.  What!  Is  your  son  a  captive?  — 

Heg.  Yes,  he  is. 

Phil.  We    are    not   then,  it   seems,  the   only 
cowards. 

Heg.  (to  Phil,  supposing  him  servant  to  Tynd.) 
Come  nearer  this  way  —  something  I  would  know 
In  private  of  you,  —  and  in  which  affair 
You  must  adhere  to  truth. 

Phil.  In  what  I  know 

I'll  do  it,  sir  ;  and,  should  you  ask  me  aught 
I  do  not  know,  I'll  own  my  ignorance. 

Tynd.  (aside.)  Now  is  the  old  man  in  the  bar- 

ber's shop, 

Philocrates  holds  in  his  hand  the  razor, 
Nor  has  he  put  a  cloth  on,  to  prevent 
Fouling  his  clothes;  but  whether  he's  about 
To  shave  him  close,  or  trim  him  through  a  comb, 
I  know  not:  if  he  rightly  play  his  part, 
He'll  take  off  skin  and  all. 

Heg.  Which  would  you  choose? 

To  be  a  slave,  or  have  your  freedom  ?  tell  me. 

Phil.  That  I  prefer,  which  nearest  is  to  good, 
And  farthest  off  from  evil  :  —  though,  I  own, 
My  servitude  was  little  grievous  to  me;  — 
They  treated  me  the  same  as  their  own  child. 

Tynd.   (aside.)  Bravo  !  —  I  would    not   give   a 

talent  now 

To  purchase  even  Thales  the  Milesian;  — 
A  very  oaf  in  wisdom  match'd  with  this  man  : 
How  cleverly  does  he  adapt  his  phrase 
To  suit  a  slave's  condition. 

Heg.  Of  what  family 

Is  this  Philocrates? 

Phil.  The  Polyphusian, 

A  potent  and  most  honourable  house  ! 

Heg.  What  honours  held  he  in  his  country  ? 


Phil.  High  ones, 

Such  as  the  chief  men  can  alone  attain  to. 

Heg.  Seeing  his  rank's  so  noble,  as  you  say, 
What  is  his  substance  ? 

Phil.  As  to  that,  the  old  one 

Is  very  warm. 

Heg.  His  father's  living  then? 

P/u7.  We    left   him    so,    when    we    departed 

thence ; 

But  whether  he  is  now  alive  or  no, 
You  must  ask  further  of  the  nether  regions. 

Tynd.  (aside.)  So — all  is  right, — he's  not  con- 
tent with  lying, 
But  reasons  like  a  wise  man. 

Heg.  What's  his  name  ? 

Phil.  Thesaurochrysonicochrysides. 

Heg.    A    name   bestowed    upon   him   for  his 
wealth  ? 

Phil.  Nay,  rather  for  his  avarice  and  extor- 
tion.— 
His  real  name  was  Theodoromedes. 

Heg.  How  say  you  ? — Is  his  father  covetous  ? 

Phil.  Very. — To  let  you  more  into  his  charac- 
ter,— 

In  sacrificing  to  his  household  genius 
He  uses  nothing  but  vile  Samian  vessels, 
For  fear  the  god  should  steal  them: — mark  by 

this, 
What  trust  he  puts  in  others. 

Heg.  Come  you  this  way. — 

(aside.)  What  further  information  I  require, 
I'll  learn  from  him. 

(addressing  Tyndarus  as  Philocrates.) 

Philocrates,  your  servant 
Has  acted  as  behoves  an  honest  fellow.— 
I've  learn'd  of  him  your  family : — he  has  own'd 

it: — 

Do  you  the  same  ;  'twill  turn  to  your  advantage,— 
If  you  confess  what,  be  assur  d,  I  know 
From  him  already. 

Tynd.  Sir,  he  did  his  duty, 

When  he  confess'd  the  truth  to  you, — although 
I  would  have  fain  conceal'd  from  you  my  state, 
My  family,  and  my  means. — But  now  alas! 
Since  I  have  lost  my  country  and  my  freedom, 
Can  I  suppose  it  rig! it,  that  he  should  dread 
Me  before  you  ?     The  power  of  war  has  sunk 
My  fortunes  to  a  level  with  his  own. — 
Time  was,  he  dar'd  not  to  offend  in  word, 
Though  now  he  may  in  deed. — Do  you  not  mark, 
How  Fortune  moulds  and  fashions  human  beings, 
Just  as  she  pleases  ?     Me,  who  once  was  free, 
She  has  made  a  slave,  from  highest  thrown  me 

down 

To  lowest  state: — Accustom'd  to  command, 
I  now  abide  the  bidding  of  another. — 
Yet  if  my  master  bear  him  with  like  sway, 
As  when  myself  did  lord  it  over  mine, 
I  have  no  dread,  that  his  authority 
Will  deal  or  harshly  or  unjustly  with  me. — 
So  far  I  wished  you  to  be  made  acquainted, 
If  perad venture  you  dislike  it  not. 

Heg.  Speak  on,  and  boldly. 

Tynd.  I  ere  this  was  free 

As  your  own  son. — Him  has  the  power  of  war 
Depriv'd  of  liberty,  as  it  has  me. 


PLAUTUS. 


313 


He  in  my  country  is  a  slave, — as  now 
I  am  a  slave  in  this. — There  is  indeed 
A  God.  that  hears  and  sees  \s  hate'er  we  do: — 
As  you  respect  me.  so  will  He  respect 
Your  lost  son. — To  the  well-deserving,  good 
"Will  happen,  to  the  ill-de.-ervi    -^.  ill. — 
Think,  that  my  father  feels  the  want  of  me, 
A?  much  as  you  do  of  your  son. 

Heg.  I  know  it. — 

But  say,  will  you  subscribe  to  the  account 
Y'Uir  servant  gave? 

Tynd.  My  father's  rich,  I  own, 

My  family  is  noble ; — but,  I  pray  you, 
Let  not  the  thought  of  these  my  riches  bend 
Your  mind  to  sordid  avarice,  lest  my  father, 
Though  I'm  his  only  child,  should  deem  it  fitter 
I  were  your  slave,  clothed,  pamper'd  at  your  cost, 
Than  beg  my  bread  in  my  own  country,  where 
It  were  a  foul  disgrace. 

Hfl.  Thanks  to  the  gods, 

.And  to  my  ancestors,  I'm  rich  enough.— 
Nor  do  I  hold,  that  every  kind  of  gain 
I ;  always  serviceable. — Gain,  I  know, 
Has  render'd  many  great. — But  there  are  times, 
When  loss  should  be  preferr'd  to  gain. — I  hate  it. 
Tis  my  aversion,  money: — many  a  man 
Has  it  enticed  oft-times  to  wrong. — But  now 
Attend  to  me,  that  you  may  know  my  mind. 
My  son's  a  captive  and  a  slave  of  JE\\s  : — 
If  you  restore  him  to  me,  I  require 
No  other  recompense ; — I'll  send  you  back, 
You  and  your  servant  :-^-on  no  other  terms 
Can  you  go  hence. 

Tynd.  You  ask  what's  right  and  just, — 

Thou  best  of  men ! — But  is  your  son  a  servant 
Of  the  public,  or  some  private  person? 

//•  g    A  private — of  Menarchus,  a  physician. 

Phil.  O  'tis  his  father's  client ; — and  success 
Pours  down  upon  you,  like  a  hasty  shower. 

Heg.  Find  means  then  to  redeem  my  son. 

Tynd.  I'll  find  them. — 

But  I  must  ask  you — 

Heg.  Ask  me  what  you  will, 

I'll  do't, — if  to  that  purpose. 

Tynd.  Hear,  and  judge. — 

I  do  not  ask  you,  till  your  son's  return 
To  grant  me  a  di-ini-Mon  ;  but.  I  pray  you, 
Give,  me  my  slave,  a  price  set  on  his  h 
That  I  may  send  him  forthwith  to  my  father, 
To  work  your  son's  redemption. 

Heg.  I'd  despatch 

Some  other  rather,  when  there  is  a  tn; 
Your  father  to  confer  with,  who  may  i 
Any  commands  you  shall  intrust  him  with. 

Tynd.  'T would  be  in  vain  to  send  a  Bt 

to  him  : — 

You'd  lose  your  labour: — Send  my  servant: — he'll 
Complete  the  whole,  a-  |QOD  as  he  an. 
A  man  more  faithful  you  can  never  send, 
Nor  one  my  father  sooner  would  ro!y  on. 
More  to  his  mind,  nor  to  whose  care  and  confi- 
dence 

sooner  tru-t  your  son. — Then  never  fear: 
At  my  own  peril  will  I  prove  his  faith, 
Relying  on  his  nature,  since  he  k> 
I've  borne  me  with  benevolence  towards  him. 
4ft 


Heg.  Well — I'll  despatch  him,  if  you  will, — 

your  word 
Pawn'd  for  his  valuation. 

Tynd.  Prithee  do, 

And  let  him  be  dismiss'd  without  delay. 

Heg.  Can  yon  show  reason,  if  he  don't  return, 
Why  yon  should  not  pay  twenty  minae  for  him?* 

Tynd.  No  surely:  I  a^ 

Heg.  Take  off  his  chains, — 

And  take  them  off  from  both. 

Tynd.  May  all  the  gods 

Grant  all  your   -wishes!    Since   that   you   have 

deign'd 

To  treat  me  with  such  favour,  and  releas'd  me 
From  my  vile  bonds : — I  scarce  can  think  it  irk- 
some 
To  have  my  neck  free  from  this  galling  collar. 

Heg.  The  favours  we  confer  on  honest  souls 
Teem  with  returns  of  service  to  the  giver. — 
But  now,  if  you'd  despatch  him  hence,  acquaint 

him, 

Give  him  your  orders,  and  forthwith  instruct  him 
What  you  would  have  him  say  unto  your  father. — 
Shall  I  then  call  him  to  you  ? 

Tynd.  Do,  sir,— call  him. 

(Hegio  calls  Philocrates,  who  advances.) 

SCEXE  III. 

PmLOCRATES/oins  HEGIO  and  TTNDARUS. 

Heg.  Heav'ns  grant,  that  this  affair  may  turn 

out  happily 

To  me,  and  to  my  son,  and  to  you  both ! — 
(to  PhiL]  'Tis  your  new  master's  order,  that  you 

serve 

Your  old  one  faithfully:  I  have  giv'n  you  to  him, 
Rated  at  twenty  minm :  he  desires 
To  send  you  back  to  JE\\s  to  his  father, 
Thence  to  redeem  my  child,  that  so  there  maybe 
Mutual  exchange  betwixt  us  of  our  sons. 

Phil.  I'm  of  a  pliant  nature,  and  will  bend 
To  either. — You  may  use  me  like  a  wheel ; — 
This  way  or  that  way  will  I  turn  and  twirl, 
As  you  shall  please  to  order. 

Heg.  It  is  much 

To  your  advantage  truly,  that  you  own 
This  easy  nature,  which  enables  you 
To  bear  your  state  of  slavery  as  you  ought. — 
Follow  me  this  way. — (to  Tynd.)  Here  now  is 
the  man. 

Tynd.  I  thank  you  for  the  liberty  you  give  me 
To  send  this  messenger  to  my  relations, 
That  he  may  tell  my  father  all  about  me, 
And  howl  fare,  and"  what  I  would  have  done. — 
We  have  agreed  betwixt  UP,  Tyndarus, 
To  send  you  unto  JE\is  to  my  father; 
And,  if  that  you  return  not,  I  have  bar-ain'd 
To  forfeit  for  your  trespass  twenty  ininre. 

Phil.   Rightly  agreed  : — for  the  old  gentleman 
Expects  me,  or  some  other  messenger, 
!  .e  to  him  from  hence. 

Tynd.  Then  mind  me  now, 

What  I  would  have  you  say  unto  my  father. 


*  According  to  Cook's  tables,  about  64f.  1  Is.  8d.  of  our 
money. 


314 


PLAUTUS. 


Phil.  O  master,  as  I've  hitherto  behav'd, 
My  best  endeavours  I'll  exert ;  what  most 
Will  turn  to  your  advantage,  I'll  pursue 
With  all  my  heart,  my  soul,  with  all  my  power. 

Tynd.  You  act,  as  it  behoves  you. — Now  at- 
tend.— 

First,  to  my  dearest  mother  and  my  father 
Bear  my  respects,  and  next  to  my  relations, — 
Then  to  whatever  other  friend  you  see. 
Inform  them  of  my  health ;  and  tell  them  like- 
wise, 

That  I  am  slave  here  to  this  best  of  men, 
Who  ever  has,  and  still  goes  on  to  treat  me 
With  honourable  usage. — 

Phil.  Don't  instruct  me ; 

This  I  shall  think  of  readily. — 

Tynd.  For  indeed, 

Save  that  I  have  a  guard  plac'd  over  me, 
I  should  conceive  I  had  my  liberty. — 
Acquaint  my  father  with  th'  agreement  made 
'Twixt  me  and  Hegio,  touching  Hegio's  son. — 

Phil.  This  is  mere  hindrance,  to  recount  and 

dwell  on 
What  I  already  am  so  well  appris'd  of. — 

Tynd.  'Tis  to  redeem  the  youth,  and  send  him 

hither 
Exchang'd  for  you  and  me. — 

Phil.  I  shall  remember. — 

Heg.  And  soon  too  as  he  can,  for  both  our 
sakes. 

Phil  You  long  not  more  to  see  your  son  re- 
turn'd, 
Than  he  does  his. 

Heg.  My  son  to  me  is  dear ; 

Dear  is  his  own  to  every  one. 

Phil,  (to  Tynd.'}  Aught  else 

To  bear  unto  your  father  ? 

Tynd.  Say,  I'm  well ; 

And  tell  him,  boldly  tell  him,  that  our  souls 
Were  link'd  in  perfect  harmony  together ; 
That  nothing  you  have  ever  done  amiss, 
Nor  have  I  ever  been  your  enemy ; 
That  in  our  sore  affliction  you  maintain'd 
Your  duty  to  your  master,  nor  once  swerv'd 
From  your  fidelity,  in  no  one  deed 
Deserted  me  in  time  of  my  distress. 
When  that  my  father  is  informed  of  this, 
And  learns,  how  well  your  heart  has  been  in- 

clin'd 

Both  to  his  son  and  to  himself,  he'll  never 
Prove  such  a  niggard,  but  in  gratitude 
He  will  reward  you  with  your  liberty ; 
And  I,  if  I  return,  with  all  my  power 
Will  urge  him  the  more  readily  to  do  it. 
For  by  your  aid,  your  courtesy,  your  courage, 
Wisdom  and  prudence,  you  have  been  the  means 
Of  my  return  to  ^Elis,  since  you  own'd 
To  Hegio  here  my  family  and  fortune, 
By  which  you've   freed  your  master  from  his 
chains. 

Phil.  True,   I  have  acted  as  you  say  ; — and 

much 

It  pleases  rne  you  bear  it  in  remembrance. 
What  I  have  done  was  due  to  your  deserts : 
For  were  I  in  my  count  to  tell  the  sum 
Of  all  your  friendly  offices  towards  me, 


Night  would  bear  off  the  day  ere  I  had  done. 
You've  been  obliging,  been  obsequious  to  me, 
As  though  you  were  my  servant. 

Heg.  0  ye  gods ! — 

Behold  the  honest  nature  of  these  men  ! — 
They  draw  tears  from  me. — Mark,  how  cordially 
Thy  love  each  other !  and  what  praise  the   ser- 
vant 
Heaps  on  his  master  ! 

Phil.  He  deserves  from  me 

An  hundred  times  more  praise,  than   he  was 

pleased 
To  lavish  on  me. 

Heg.  (to  Phil.}      Then,  since  hitherto 
You've  acted  worthily,  occasion  now 
Presents  itself  to  add  to  your  good  deeds, 
That  you  may  prove  your  faithfulness  towards 

him 
In  this  affair. 

Phil.  My  wish  to  compass  it 

Cannot  exceed  th'  endeavours  I  will  use 
To  get  it  perfected. — And  to  convince  you, 
Here  do  I  call  high  Jove  to  witness,  Hegio, 
I  will  not  prove  unfaithful  to  Philocrates. — 

Heg.  Thou  art  an  honest  fellow. — 

Phil.  Nor  will  I 

Act  otherwise  to  Him,  than  I  myself 
Would  act  to  Me. 

Tynd.  Would  you  might  make  your  words 
True  by  your  actions ! — Bear  it  in  your  mind, 
That  I  have  said  less  of  you  than  I  would, 
And  prithee  be  not  angry  with  my  words. 
Think,  I  beseech  you,  that  rny  honour's  staked 
For  your  dismission,  and  my  life  is  here 
A  pledge  for  your  return.     When  out  of  sight, 
As  shortly  you  will  be,  deny  not  then 
All  knowledge  of  me  :  when  you  shall  have  left 

me 

Here  as  a  pawn  in  slavery  for  you, 
Yourself  at  liberty,  desert  not  then 
Your  hostage,  then  neglect  not  to  procure 
His  son's  redemption  in  exchange  for  me. 
Remember,  you  are  sent  on  this  affair, 
Rated  at  twenty  mince.     See,  that  you 
Be  trusty  to  the  trusty : — 0  beware, 
You  are  not  of  a  frail  arid  fickle  faith. — 
My  father  will,  I  know,  do  all  he  ought : 
Preserve  me  then  your  friend  for  evermore, 
And  still  find  Hegio  yours,  as  you  have  found 

him. 

By  your  right  hand,  which  here  I  hold  in  mine, 
I  pray  you,  be  not  you  less  true  to  me, 
Than  I  am  unto  you. — About  it  then ; 
Be  careful  of  this  business  ; — you  are  now 
My  master,  you  my  patron,  you  my  father : 
To  you  I  do  commend  my  hopes,  my  all. 

Phil.  If  I  accomplish  all  that  you  command, 
Will  that  content  you  ? 

Tynd.  I  shall  be. content. 

Phil.  I    will    return    furnish'd    to   both   jour 

wishes. — 
Would  you  aught  else? 

Tynd.  Back  with  what  speed  you  may. 

Phil.  Of  that  the  business  of  itself  reminds  me. 

Heg.  (to  Phil.)  Follow  me  now. — I  will   jive 
you  from  my  banker 


PLAUTUS. 


315 


•  yon  may  want  to  answer  your  expenses 

y<>ur  vnya •_'(•.  at  the  same  time  take 
A  passport  from  the  Praetor. 

Tynd.  Why  a  passport? 

Heg.  Which  he  may  carry  with  him  to   the 

army, 

That  he  may  have  permission  without  let 
To  return  home  to  JE\is.     (to  Tynd.)  Go  you  in. 
Tynd.  Now  speed  you  well,  my  Tyndarua ! 
Phil  Adieu! 

Hi-*,  (aside.')    I've  compass'd    my  design  by 

purchasing 

These  captives  of  the  Qurrstors  from  the  spoil : — 
So  please  the  gods!  I've  freed  my  son  from 

bond  a  ere. — 

Within,  hoa ! — Keep  a  strict  watch  o'er  this  cap- 
tive : 

Let  him  not  budge  a  foot  without  a  guard. — 
I  soon  shall  be  at  home. — Now  to  my  brother's  : 
I'll  go  and  visit  there  my  other  captives, 
At  the  same  time  inquire,  if  any  know 
This  youth  here. — (to  Phil.')  Do  you  follow,  that 

I  may 

Despatch  you  straight ; — for  that's  my  first  con- 
eera. 

[HEGIO  goes  off  with  PHILOCRATES,  and 
TTSDARUS  goes  in  with  the  slaves. 

ACT  III.     SCEXE  I. 
Enter  ERGASILUS. 

t1  case  for  a  poor  wretch  to  prowl 
quest  of  a  meal's  moat,  and  at  the  last 
With  much  ado  to  find  one;  sadder  is  it, 
With  much  ado  to  hunt  upon  the  trail, 
\n  I  at  tin1  last  find  nothing;  but  most  sad, 
To  have  a  keen  and  craving  appetite, 
Without  a  morsel  to  appease  it's  longing. — 
A  plague  upon  this  day ! — I'd  dig  it's  eyes  out, 
Ua-I  I  the  pow'r,  it  has  so  fill'd  mankind 
With  enmity  towards  me. — Never  sure 
Was  there  a  wretch  so  starv'cl,  so  cramm'd  with 

hni:_ 

Or  one,  whose  projects  have  so  little  prosper'd. — 
I  f'-ar,  my  belly  will  keep  holiday. 
Would  it  were  hang'd  for  me.  this  scurvy  trade, 
Thi<  ' — Our  youn-_r  sparks 

Consort  not  now  a-days  with  us  poor  drolls; 
Tlu-y  care  not  for  us  humble  hangers-on, 
Who  are  content  to  take  the  lowest  seat 
At  table,  who  bear  butf'-ts  like  a  Spartan, 
And  have  no  other  fortune  but  our  jests. — 
Their  choice  is  •  with  their  equals 

Who.  having  ate  with  them,  return  the  favour 
At  their  own  hou-'--. — FIT  I  -  they  cater, 

Which  was  the  pro vio  :*es. — 

Shame  on  them  !  they  will  go  into  a  brothel 
Barefaced,  nor  mutlled  up.  but  all  as  publicly 

_ristrat"s  j>a-<  sentence  «n  the  guilty, 
Unveil'd,  in  open  court. — Buffoons  they  imw 
Count  nothing  worth  ;  but  they  are  all  self-lovers. 
For  when  I  went  from  hence  awhile  a 
I  met  some  of  •'  .  men  nt  the  Forum. 

Good  day,  said  I ! — Where  shall  we  dine  together? 
Xo  a  -wer. — What!  will  no  one  speak?  says  I, 
None  promise  me  a  dinner  ? — Silent  all, 


As  they  were  dumb. — Nay,  not  a  single  smile. 
Where  shall  we  sup  then? — Still  no  invitation. 
One  of  my  best  jests,  such  as  heretofore 
Have  got  me  suppers  for  a  month,  I  then 

it  them. — Not  a  soul  vouchsafed  to  smile. 
1  then  found  out,  'twas  a  concerted  matter : 
Not  one  would  deign  to  imitate  a  dog, 
When  he's  provok'd  : — But  if  they  did  not  choose 
To  laugh  outright,  at  least  they  might  have  shown 
Their   teeth,  as    though   they   smiled. — Finding 

myself 
The  scoff  and  mockery  of  these  sparks,  I  leave 

them, 

March  up  to  others,  others  still,  and  others  5 
All  the  same  thing  !  all  in  confederacy, 
Like  the  oil  merchants  in    the    market. — Well 

then, 

Seeing  myself  thus  fool'd,  I  came  back  hither. — 
More  parasites  were  sauntering  at  the  Forum, 
And  to  as  little  purpose  as  myself. — 
I  am  determin'd,  that  the  law  shall  right  me 
Against  all  those,  who  join  in  combination 
To  have  me  starv'd. — 1  will  appoint  a  day 
For  them  to  give  their  answer. — I  will  have 
Large  satisfaction. — Dear  as  are  provisions, 
They  shall  be  fined  at  least  ten  entertainments. — 
Now  to  the  port,  where  I  have  yet  one  hope 
Of  feasting : — if  that  fail  me,  I'll  return 
To  this  old  Hegio,  and  his  scurvy  supper. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  II. 

Enter  HEGIO  with  ARTSTOPHOJTTES  behind. 
What  can  be  more  delightful  than  promoting 
The  public  good,  as  yesterday  I  did 
By  purchasing  these  captives  ?  Ev'ry  one, 
Soon  as  he  sees  me,  straight  makes  up  to  me, 
Congratulates  me  on  it : — they  have  tired  me 
Quite  out,  by  stopping  and  detaining  me : — 
Scarce  have  I  'scaped  alive  from  their  civilities. 
At  length  I  got  me  to  the  Prretor; — there 
Scarce  rested  me  : — I  ask'd  a  passport  of  him  : 
'Twas  granted ;  and  I  gave  it  straight  to  Tyn-  f 

darns, 

Who  is  set  off: — from  thence  I  hurried  home : 
Then  to  my  brother's,  to  my  other  captives. 
I  ask'd,  if  any  one  among  them  knew 
Philocrates  of  ^Elis,  when  this  man 
Cried  out,  he  was  his  friend  and  intimate. 
On  telling  him  he  now  was  at  my  house, 
He  begg'd  me,  I  would  give  him  leave  to  see  him : 
On  which  I  order'd  off  his  chains  that  instant. — 
(to  Arist.)  Follow  me  now,  that  you  may  have 

your  wish, 
And  meet  the  person  you  desire  to  see. 

[Exeunt. 

III. 
Enter  TTNDARCS. 

Would  I  were  dead  now  rather  than  alive, 
As  things  turn  out ! — Hope  has  deserted  me, 
No  succour  will  come  near  me. — See  the  day, 
In  which  there  is  no  chance  to  save  my  life! 
Destruction's  unavoidable, — no  hope, 
That  can  dispel  my  fear, — no  cloak  to  screen 
My  subtle  lies,  false  dealings,  and  pretences : 


316 


PLAUTUS. 


No  deprecation  can  excuse  my  perfidy, 
No  subterfuge  can  palliate  my  offence : 
No  room  for  confidence,  no  place  for  cunning. — 
What  hitherto  was  hid  is  brought  to  light, 
My  tricks  laid  open,  and  the  whole  discover'd : 
Nor  have  I  aught  to  do  but  meet  my  fate, 
And  die  at  once  for  me  and  for  my  master. — 
Aristophontes,  who  is  just  gone  in, 
Has  been  my  utter  ruin ;  for  he  knows  me : 
He  is  a  friend  and  kinsman  to  Philocrates. 
Salvation  could  not  save  me,  if  she  would  :* 
Nor  can  I  'scape, — except  that  I  contrive 
Some  cunning  trick,  some  artifice,     (meditating.) 

A  plague  on't! 
What   can    I   think   of?  —  what    devise  ?  —  my 

thoughts 
Are  foolish,  and  my  wit  quite  at  a  stand. 

(Retires  aside.) 

SCEXE  IV. 
Enter  HEGIO,  ARISTOPHONTES,  and  slaves. 

Hcg.  Where  can  he  now  have  stole  him  out 
of  doors  ? 

Tynd.  (aside.)  'Tis  over  with  me! — Tyndarus, 

your  foes 

Are  making  their  advances  straight  towards  you. 
What  shall  I  say?  what  talk  off?  what  deny, 
Or  what  confess  ? — 'Tis  all  uncertainty  ; 
Nor  know  I  what  to  think  of  or  confide  in. — 
Would  that  the  gods  had  utterly  destroyed  you, 
Aristophontes,  ere  you  lost  your  country, 
To  disconcert  a  scheme  so  well  contrived. 
Our  state  is  desperate,  if  I  don't  devise 
Some  cunning  trick. 

Heg.  (to  Arist.)        Follow  me. — Here  he  is : — 
Approach,  and  speak  to  him. 

Tynd.   (aside,   and  turning  away.)  Can  there 

exist 
A  greater  wretch  than  I  am  ? 

Arist.  Why  is  this, 

That  you  avoid  my  eyes,  and  slight  me,  Tyndarus, 
As  though  I  were  a  stranger,  and  you  ne'er 
Had  known  me. — It  is  true,  I  am  a  slave 
As  you  are  : — though  in  JElis  I  was  free  ; 
You  from  your  youth  have  ever  been  a  slave. 

*  Neque  jam  Salus  servare,  si  volet,  me  potest, 
By  Salus,  which  I  have  rendered  Salvation,  is  meant  the 
goddess  that  was  worshipped  by  the  Romans  under  that 
appellation.  There  is  no  doubt,  but  that  this  passage  was 
proverbial,  since  we  meet  with  it  several  times  in  our 
author  in  so  many  words, — as  in  his  Mostellaria,  act  ii. 
scene  i.,  Cistellaria,  act.  iv.  scene  ii.  Terence  likewise 
introduces  it  in  The  Brothers,  act.  iv.  scene  vii,  where 
the  word  Salus  is,  in  Mr.  Colman's  translation,  properly 
rendered  Providence,  though  it  would  not  be  so  fit  here. 

Ipsa  si  cupiat  salus 

Servare  prorsiis  non  potest  hancfamiliani. 
'Tis  not  in  the  power 

Of  Providence  herself,  where  she  desirous, 
To  save  from  ruin  such  a  family. 

We  meet  with  the  same  expression  also  in  Cicero,  in  one 
of  his  orations  against  Verres — Ecquod  jiidiciiim  ROJIKT 
tain  dissolutum,  tarn  perditum,  tarn  niimmariumforeputasti, 
quo  ex  judicio  te  ulla  SALUS  SERVARE  posset  ?  Is  there, 
thinkest  thou,  in  Rome,  an  opinion  so  dissolute,  so  aban- 
doned, so  corrupted,  as  to  imagine  that  Salvation  can  at 
all  save  you  from  the  sentence  you  deserve? 


Heg.  In  troth  I  am  not  in  the  least  amazed, 
That  he  should  shun  you,  and  avoid  your  sight, 
Or  hold  you  in  despite  and  detestation, 
When  for  Philocrates  you  call  him  Tyndarus. 

Tynd.  Hegio,  this  fellow  was  at  JElis  deem'd 
A  madman : — give  no  ear  to  what  he  says. 
:Tis  there  notorious,  that  he  sought  to  kill 
His  father  and  his  mother,  and  has  often 
Fits  of  the  falling  sickness  come  upon  him, 
Which  makes  him  foam  at  mouth. — Pray  get  you 
from  him. 

Heg.  Here — bear  him  further  off.  (to  the  slaves.) 

Arist.  How  say  you,  rascal ! 

That  I  am  mad  ?  and  that  I  sought  to  kill 
My  father  and  my  mother?  and  have  often 
Fits  of  the  falling  sickness  come  upon  me, 
Which  makes  me  foam  at  mouth  ? 

Heg.  Be  not  dismay'd. 

Many  have  labour'd  under  this  disease, 
And  spitting  has  restor'd  them  to  their  health. 

Tynd.  I  know,  to  some  at  ./Elis  it  has  prov'd 
Of  special  use. 

Jlrist.  And  will  you  credit  him1? 

Heg.  I  credit  him ! — in  what  ? 

Jurist.  That  I  am  mad. 

Tynd.  See  how  he  eyes  you  with  a  furious 

aspect ! — 

'Twere  best  retire. — 'Tis,  Hegio,  as  I  said : — 
His  frenzy  grows  upon  him, — have  a  care. 

Heg.  True, — when  he  call'd  you  Tyndarus,  I 

thought, 
That  he  indeed  was  mad. 

Tynd.  Nay,  but  sometimes 

He  knows  not  his  own  name,  nor  who  he  is. 

Heg.  He  said,  you  was  his  friend. 

Tynd.  I  never  saw  him. 

Alcmaeon,  and  Orestes,  and  Lycunrus,* 
Are  just  as  much  my  friends,  as  he  is,  Hegio. 

Arist.  How,  rascal !  do  you  dare  bespeak  me  ill? 
Do  I  not  know  you  ? 

Heg.  By  my  troth  'tis  plain 

You  know  him  not,  when  for  Philocrates 
You  call  him  Tyndarus : — you  are  a  stranger 
To  him  you  see,  and  name  him  whom  you  see  not. 

Arist.  'Tis  he  pretends  himself  the  man  he  is  not, 
Denies  himself  to  be  the  man  he  is. 

Tynd.  O  to  be  sure,  you'll  get  the  better  of  me 
In  reputation  for  veracity ! 

Arist.  You,  as  it  seems,  my  truth  will  over- 
power 
With  falsehood. — Prithee,  look  me  in  the  face. 

Tynd.  Well. 

Arist.  Speak. — Do  you  deny,  that  you  are  Tyn- 
darus? 

Tynd.  I  tell  you,  I  deny  it. 

Arist.  Will  you  say, 

You  are  Philocrates  ? 

Tynd.  I  say,  I  am. 

Arist.  (to  Phil.)  And  you, — do  you  believe  him  ? 

Heg.  More  than  you, 

Or  than  myself. — The  man,  you  say  he  is, 
Set  out  this  day  for  JElis  to  his  father. 

*  Three  celebrated  madmen  of  antiquity :  the  two  first 
of  whom  became  so  from  having  killed  their  mother,  and 
the  other  from  having  held  in  contempt  the  worship  of 
the  god  Bacchus. 


PLAUTUS. 


317 


Arist.  What  father? — He's  a  slave. — 

Tynd.  And  so  are  you, 

Once  free  as  I  was, — as  I  trust  I  shall  be, 
When  I  have    gaiu'd   this    old    man's    son    his 
liberty. 

Arist.  How,  rascal !  dare  you  call  yourself  a 
freeman  ? 

Tynd.  Not  Freeman,  but  I  say,  I  am  Philo- 
crates. 

Arist.  See,  Heuio,  how  the  rogue  makes  sport 

with  you ! 

For  he's  a  slave,  and  never  own'd  a  slave 
Besides  himself. 

Tynd.  So  then, — because  you  liv'd 

A  beggar  in  your  country,  without  means 
For  your  support,  you  would  have  ev'ry  one 
Plac'd  on  the  self-same  footing  with  yourself. — 
No  wonder : — 'tis  the  nature  of  the  poor 
To  hate  and  envy  men  of  property. 

Arist.    Have  a  care,  Hegio,  how  you  rashly 

credit  him. 

As  far  as  I  can  see,  he  means  to  trick  you : — 
Nor  do  I  like  at  all  his  talking  to  you 
Of  the  redemption  of  your  son. 

Tynd.  I  know, 

You  wish  it  not :  but  with  the  help  of  heav'n 
I  shall  accomplish  it: — I  shall  restore 
His  son  to  him,  and  he  will  send  me  back 
To  lElis  to  my  father  •  for  which  purpose 
Have  I  sent  Tyndarus. 

Arist.  Why  you  are  he ; 

Nor  is  there  any  other  slave  at  ^Elis 
Of  that  name  but  yourself. 

Tynd.  And  will  you  still 

Reproach  me  with  my  state  of  servitude, 
Brought  on  me  by  the  chance  of  hapless  war? 

Arist.  I  can't  contain  myself. 

Tynd.  Ha  !  do  yo  hear  him  ? — 

Will  you  not  fly? — He'll  pelt  us  now  with  stones, 
Unless  you  have  him  seiz'd. 

Arist.  I'm  vex'd  to  death. 

Tynd.  Look,  how  his  eyes  strike  fire! — A  cord, 

a  cord, 

Good  Hegio.     Dou't  you  see  his  body's  charged 
With  livid  spots  all  over? — The  black  bile 
Disorders  him,  poor  fellow! 

Arist.  The  black  pitch* 

"Disorder  you  beneath  the  hangman's  hand, 
And  (if  this  old  man  would  but  serve  you  right.) 
Illuminate  your  head  ! 

Tynd.  How  wild  he  talks! 

He  is  possess'd  by  evil  spirits. 

Heg.  Suppose 

I  order  him  to  be  seiz'd. 


*  Plautus  here  alludes  to  a  punishment  inflicted  on 
malefactors,  liy  wrapping  up  their  bodies,  when  they 
were  to  be  burned,  in  a  garment  smeared  over  with  pitch, 
wax,  and  other  combustibles. 

Juvenal  alludes  to  the  same,  in  his  first  Satire,  v.  155. 
Pone  Tiyellinum,  tnlft  turrhi*  in  illA, 
Q«A  stantcs  ardent,  qiii  fio  fruttitrc  fumant, 
Et  latum  mediA  sulcum  dedurit  arenA. 
Death  is  your  doom,  impal'd  upon  a  stake, 
Smear'd  o'er  with  wax,  and  set  on  fire,  to  light 
The  streets,  and  make  a  dreadful  blaze  by  niuht. 

Dryden. 


Tynd.  'Twere  the  best  way. 

Arist.  It  vexes  me  I  cannot  find  a  stone 
To  dash  the  villain's  brains  out,  who  insists 
That  I  am  mad. 

Tynd.  There — do  you  hear  him,  sir  ? 

He's  looking  for  a  stone. 

Arist.  Shall  I  beg,  Hegio, 

A  word  with  you  alone  ? 

Heg.  Speak  where  you  are, — 

What  would  you? — I  can  hear  you  at  a  distance. 

Tynd.    If  you   permit   him   to  approach  you 

nearer, 
He'll  bite  your  nose  off. 

Arist.  Hegio,  do  not  you 

Believe  that  I  am  mad,  or  ever  was ; 
Nor  have  I  the  disorder  he  pretends. 
If  any  outrage  you  do  fear  from  me, 
Command  me  to  be  bound :  'tis  my  desire, 
So  at  the  same  time  he  be  bound  with  me. 

Tynd.  Let  him  be  bound,  that  chooses  it. 

Arist.  No  more  : — 

I  warrant  I  shall  make  you,  false  Philocrates, 
To  be  found  out  the  real  Tyndarus. — 
Why  do  you  nod  at  me  ? 

Tynd.  I  nod  at  you  ? 

(to  Heg.}  What  would  he  do,  if  you  were  further 
off? 

Heg.  How  say  you?  What  if  I  approach  this 
madman  ? 

Tynd.  He'll  teaze  you  with  his  fooleries,  and 

jabber 

Stuff  without  head  or  tail. — He  only  wants 
The  habit,  else  he  is  a  perfect  Ajax. 

Heg.  No  matter — I'll  go  to  him.  (advances  to 
Arist.} 

Tynd.  I'm  undone.— 

Now  do  I  stand  between  the  stone  and  victim, 
Nor  know  I  what  to  do. 

Heg.  Aristophontes, 

If  you  would  aught  with  me,  I  lend  attention. 

Arist.  Sir,  you  shall  hear  the  real  truth  from  me, 
Which  now  you  deem  a  falsehood. — But  I  first 
Would  clear  me  to  you  from  this  charge  of  mad- 
ness.— 

Believe  me,  Hegio,  I'm  not  mad,  nor  have  I 
Any  complaint  but  this, — that  I'm  a  slave. — 
O  never  may  the  king  of  gods  and  men 
My  native  country  suffer  me  to  see, 
If  this  is  any  more  Philocrates 
Than  you  or  I. 

Heg.  Tell  me,  who  is  he  then  ? 

Arist.  The  same,  I  said  he  was  from  the  be- 
ginning. 

If  you  shall  find  it  other,  I  can  show 
No  cause,  no  reason,  why  I  should  not  suffer 
A  lack  of  liberty,  your  slave  for  ever. 

Heg.  (to  Tynd.)  And  what  do  you  say? 

Tynd.  That  I  am  your  slave, 

And  you  my  master. 

Heg.  I  don't  ask  you  that. — 

Was  you  a  free  man  ? 

Tynd.  Yes,  I  was. 

Arist.  Indeed 

He  never  was:  he  trifles  with  you,  Hegio. 

Tynd.  How  do  you  know  ?  or  was  you  pcrad- 
venture 

•si 


318 


PLAUTUS. 


My  mother's  midwife,  that  you  dare  affirm 
What  you  advance  with  so  much  confidence  ? 

drist.  A  boy  I  saw  you  when  a  boy. 

Tynd.  A  man 

I  see  you  now  a  man. — So — there's  an  answer. — 
If  your  behaviour  was  as  would  become  you, 
You  would  not  interfere  in  my  concerns. — 
Do  I  in  yours"? 

Heg.  (to  jurist.)  Say,  was  his  father's  name 
Thesaurochrysonicochrysides  ? 

Jlrist.  'Twas  not, — nor  did  I  ever  hear  the  name 
Before  to-day : — Philocrates'  father 
Was  called  Theodoromedes. 

Tynd.  I'm  ruin'd ! 

Be  still  my  heart! — prithee  go  hang  yourself — 
Still,  still  will  you  be  throbbing. — Woe  is  me! 
I  scarce  can  stand  upon  my  legs  for  fear. 

Heg.  Can  I  be  sure  this  fellow  was  a  slave 
In  ^Elis,  and  is  not  Philocrates? 

jurist.  So  certain,  that  you'll  never  find  it  other. 
But  where  is  he  now  ? 

Heg.  Where  I  least  could  wish  him, 

And  where  he  wishes  most  himself  to  be. 
Ah  me!  I  am  disjointed,  sawn  asunder, 
By  the  intrigues  of  this  vile  rascal,  who 
Has  led  me  by  the  nose  just  at  his  pleasure. — 
But  have  a  care  you  err  not. 

Jrist.  What  I  say, 

Is  as  a  thing  assur'd,  a  truth  establish'd. 

Heg.  And  is  it  certain  ? 

Jlrist.  Yes, — so  very  certain, 

That  you  can  never  find  anything  that's  more  so. 
I  and  Philocrates  have  been  friends  from  boys. 

Heg.  What  sort  of  person  was  Philocrates  ? 

Arist.  His  hair  incliri'd  to  red,  frizzled  and 

curl'd, 

A  lenten  jaw,  sharp  nose,  a  fair  complexion, 
And  black  eyes. — 

Heg.  The  description's  very  like  him. 

Tynd.  Now  by  my  troth  it  was  a  sore  mis- 
chance, 

My  coming  here : — woe  to  the  hapless  twigs, 
Will  die  upon  my  back. 

Heg.  I  plainly  see, 

I  have  been  cheated. 

Tynd.  Why  do  ye  delay  ? 

Haste,  haste,  ye  chains,  come  and  embrace  my  legs, 
That  I  may  have  you  in  my  custody. — 

Heg.  These  villainous  captives,  how  they  have 

deceiv'd  me! 

He,  that  is  gone  off,  feign'd  himself  a  slave, 
And  this  a  free  man. — I  have  lost  the  kernel, 
And  .for  security  the  shell  is  left  me. — 
Fool  that  I  am !  they  have  impos'd  upon  me 
In  ev'ry  shape. — But  he  shall  never  more 
Make  me  his  sport- — Hoa,  Colapho,  Cordalio, 
Corax,  go  in  and  bring  me  out  the  thongs. 

Slave.  What,  is  he  sending  us  to  bind  up  faggots  ? 
(the  slaves  go  in,  and  return  with  thongs.") 

SCEWE  V. 

HEGIO,  ARISTOPHONTES,  and  slaves. 
Heg.  This  instant  manacle  that  rascal  there. 

(to  his  slaves.) 

Tynd.  Ah !  why  is  this  ?  in  what  have  I  of- 
fended? 


Heg.  What,  do  you  ask?  you  that  have  been 

the  sower, 
The  weeder,  and  the  reaper  of  these  villainies. — 

Tynd.  Why,  first  of  all,  did  you  not  call  me 

narrower  ? 

Husbandmen  always  harrow  first  the  ground, 
Before  they  weed  it. — 

Heg.  See,  with  what  assurance 

He  stands  before  me ! 

Tynd.  It  becomes  a  slave, 

That's  innocent,  unconscious  of  a  crime, 
To  bear  him  with  such  confidence,  especially 
Before  his  master. — 

Heg.  See  you  bind  his  hands, 

And  hard  too. 

Tynd.         I  am  yours,  my  hands  are  yours  ; — 
If  'tis  your  pleasure,  bid  them  be  cut  off. — 
But  what's  the  matter  ? — why  thus  angry  with 
me? 

Heg.    Because    that   by   your    knavish    lying 

schemes 

You  have  destroy 'd,  as  far  as  in  your  power, 
Me  and  my  hopes,  distracted  my  affairs, 
And  by  your  tricks  have  chous'd  me  of  Philo- 
crates. 

I  thought  he  was  a  slave,  and  you  a  free  man. 
For  so  you  said  you  were,  and  for  that  purpose 
You  chang'd  your  names. 

Tynd.  I  own  that  I  have  acted 

E'en  as  you  say,— that  he  has  found  the  means 
For  his  escaping,  and  through  my  assistance. — 
Is  it  for  this  then  you  are  angry  with  me? 

Heg.  What  you   have  done,  you'll  find  will 
cost  you  dear  ? 

Tynd.    Death    I   esteem   a   trifle,   when   not 

merited 

By  evil  actions. — If  I  perish  here, 
And  he  return  not,  as  he  gave  his  word, 
This  act  will  be  remember'd  to  my  honour, 
After  I'm  dead ; — that  I  contriv'd  to  free 
My  master,  when  a  captive,  from  his  state 
Of  slavery  and  oppression  with  the  foe  ; 
Restor'd  him  to  his  country  and  his  father, 
Preferring  rather  to  expose  my  life 
To  danger  for  him,  than  that  he  should  suffer. 

Heg.  Enjoy  that  fame  then  in  the  other  world. 

Tynd.  He  dies  to   live,  who  dies  in  Virtue's 
cause. 

Heg.  When  I  have  put  you  to  severest  torture, 
And  for  your  tricks  have  ta'en  away  your  life, 
Let  them  extol  you,  that  you  are  no  more, 
Let  them  extol  you,  that  you've  lost  your  life, 
Nay,  let  them  say,  that  you  are  still  alive, 
It  matters  not  to  me,  so  you  but  die. 

Tynd.  Do, — put  your  threats  in  force, — you'll 

suffer  for  it, 
If  he  return  here,  as  I  trust  he  will. 

Jliist.  (aside.]  0  ye  immortal  gods ! — I  know 

it  now, 

I  understand  it  all. — My  friend  Philocrates 
Enjoys  his  liberty,  is  with  his  father 
At  large  in  his  own  country. — That  is  well. — 
There's  not  a  man  whom  I  wish  better  to. — 
But  O !  it  grieves  me,  I  have  done  for  him 
So  ill  an  office,  who  alas  !  is  chain'd 
On  my  account  for  what  I  happ'd  to  say. 


PLAUTUS. 


319 


Heg.  Did  I  not  charge  you  not  to  tell  me  false  ? 

Ttf.nl    You  dill. 

Heg.  Then  wherefore  have  you  dared  to  clo  it? 

Tynd.  Truth    would   have    done    him    hurt   I 

wish'd  to  serve  : 
Falsehood  has  done  him  good. 

Heg.  But  hurt  to  you. 

Tynd.  'Tis  best. — I've  serv'd  my  master,  and 

I  joy  in't : — 

My  good  old  master  gave  him  to  my  care. — 
And  do  you  think  this  wrongly. done  in  me? 

Heg.  Most  wrongly. 

Tynd.  I,  who  can't  bat  differ  from  you, 

Say  rightly. — Only  think, — if  any  slave 
Of  your's  had  done  the  same  thing  for  your  son, 
How,  how  would  you  have  thank'd  him !  would 

you  not 
He.ve  given  him  freedom?  would  you  not  have 

held  him 
In  your  esteem  high  above  all  his  fellows? — 

I  prithee  answer  me. 

Heg.  I  think  I  should. 

Tynd.  Why  are  you  angry  then  with  me? 

Heg.  Because 

You  were  to  him  more  faithful  than  to  me. 

Tynd.  What!  could  you  have  expected,  that  a 

man, 

N3wly  a  captive,  and  just  made  your  slave, 
Should  in  one  night  and  day  be  taught  by  you 
More  to  consult  your  interest  than  the  good 
Of  one,  whom  he  had  liv'd  with  from  a  boy? 

Heg.  Seek  your  reward  then  of  that  one. — 

(to  the  slaves.')  Go  bear  him, 
Where    he    may   put  on   large  and  ponderous 

chains. — 

To  the  stone-quarries  after  shalt  thou  go : 
There,  in  the  time,  that  others  dig  out  eight, 
If  ev'ry  day  thou  dost  not  dig  twelve  stones, 
Thou  shalt  be    dubb'd   with   stripes,   Sexcento- 
plagot.* 

jurist.  By   gods  and  men  I  do   conjure    you, 

Hegio, 
0  let  him  not  be  lost. 

Heg.  I'll  look  to  that : 

At  night  he  shall  be  guarded,  bound  with  thongs, 
And  in  the  day  shall  labour  in  the  quarries. 
Ill  keep  him  in  continual  exer.- 
Nor  shall  he  know  the  respite  of  one  day. 

Jlrist.  Is  that  your  resolution  < 

Sure  as  death. — 
Bear  him  dinvtiy  to  Hippolytus 
The  smith,  and  bid  him  clap  upon  his  h-^s 

II  •  mas-y  irons  :  then  without  the  [ 
(Jo,  carry  him  to  Contains  my  free-lman. 


*  BezeeotoplagO  iwmrn  in.Irtur  tilii.  The  meaning  of 
this  is,— thou  shalt  be  called  Sexcentoplncus,  from  hm-in* 
lix  hundred  Stripes  ffofft  tfet.  This  kind  of  pleasantry 
is  not  uncommon  in  modern  as  well  as  ancient  writers. 
The  nickname  of  Don  Clinlirir-Snap-Shorto-de-Trtt,/,  in 
I'ililicr's  h'nji'n  Fortune,  never  fails  to  produce  a  laiiL'li  ; 
and  M.  Ci.stc  lnis  pointed  out  a  >imil,ir  piece  of  humour 
n  Moiiere's  Cuckold  in  Com 'it,  act  i 

'i  Tin  in,  Qu'on  11  r  me  ilira  plus, 
Htl'un  i-n  m'  nppflltr,  SeiL'neur  Cornelius. 
That  is,— I  shall  no  longer  he  known  by  the  name  of  Sga- 
narelle,  they  will  now  call  me  Mr.  Corndiun,  i.  e.  Cuck- 
old. 


That  he  may  make  him  labour  in  the  quarries  ; 
And  tell  him,  'tis  my  pleasure  he  be  used 
No  better  than  the  vilest  slave  I  have. 

Tynd.  Against  your  will  why  should  I  wish  to 

live  ? 

My  loss  of  life  will  be  a  loss  to  you. 
There  is  no  evil  I  need  dread  in  death, 
When  death  is  over.     Were  I  to  survive 
To  th'  utmost  age  of  man,  my  space  of  time 
To  bear  the  hardships,  which  you  threat  me  with, 
Would  yet  be  short.  —  Then  fare  you  well,  —  be 

happy,— 

Though  you  deserve  another  language  from  me. 
And  you,  Aristophontes,  take  from  me 
As  good  a  farewell,  as  you've  merited  : 
For  you  have  been  the  cause  of  this. 

Heg.  Hence  with  him. 

Tynd.  One  thing  I  yet  request,  —  that,  if  Philo- 

crates 

Come  back  again,  I  may  have  leave  to  see  him. 
Heg.  Bear  him  this  instant  from  my  sight,  ye 

slaves, 
Or  you  yourselves  shall  suffer. 

(  The  slaves  lay  hold  on  Tyndarus  and  push 

him  along.} 

Tynd.  This  indeed 

Is  downright  violence,  —  to  be  dragg'd  and  driven. 
(He  is  borne  off  by  the  slaves.) 

SCENE  VI. 

Enter  HEGIO  and  ARISTOPHOXTES. 
Heg.  So  —  he  is  carried  off  to  limbo.  —  Well,  — 
I'll  teach  my  other  captives,  how  to  dare 
Attempt  another  such-like  enterprise  ! 
Had  it  not  been  for  him,  who  made  discovery 
Of  this  device,  they  all  with  knavish  arts 
Had  led  me  by  the  bridle.  —  I'm  resolv'd 
Henceforth  I  will  have  faith  in  none  of  them.  — 
I  have  been  once  impos'd  on  full  enough.  — 
Ah  me  !  I  hop'd  to  have  redeem'd  my  son 
From  slavery.  —  That  hope  is  vanished  quite  !  — 
One  son  I  lost  at  four  years  old  ;—  a  slave 
Then  stole  him  from  me  ;  nor  have  I  once  heard 
From  that  time  of  the  slave  or  of  my  son.— 
My  eldest  is  a  captive  with  the  foe.  — 
Ha!  how  is  this?  as  though  I  had  begot 
My  children  only  to  be  childless.  —  Follow  me; 


And  I'll  conduct  you  to  your  former  station. 
I  am  resolv'd,  to  no  one  will  I  show 
Pity  henceforth,  —  since  no  one  pities  me. 

jlrist.  With  an  ill  omen  freed  from  chains  I 

eaine. 
With  an  ill  omen  I  to  chains  return.        [E< 

ACT  IV.     SCEKK  I. 
Enter  EROASILITS  at  a  distance. 
0  Jove  supreme  !  how  has  thy  providence 

'•\-\\  me!  how  hast  thou  increas'd  my  means, 
And  thrown  most  ample  plenty  in  my  way! 
What  -tore  of  honours  and  emolument, 
Celebrity,  sport,  pastime,  holidays, 
With  ev'ry  choice  proviMon  for  _">od  cheer, 
Potations  deep,  ami  feastings  in  abundance, 
Till  the  gorg'd  appetite  shall  cry,  Enough  !  — 


320 


PLAUTUS. 


'Tis  fix'd,  in  future  I  will  cringe  and  crouch 

To  no  man,  I :  for  now  I  am  possess'd 

Of  means  to  help  a  friend,  or  hurt  an  enemy. 

0  this  delightful  day  has  heap'd  upon  me 
Delights  the  most  delightful : — I  am  master 
Of  an  inheritance  without  encumbrance. — 
Now  will  I  shape  my  course  to  Hegio  here, 
And  bring  him  as  much  happiness,  as  himself 
Could  wish  for  from  the  gods,  and  even  more. 
Well — I    will    throw   my  cloak    then    o'er    my 

shoulder, 

Like  slaves  in  comedies,  for  expedition, 
That  I  may  be  the  first  to  tell  it  him : 
And  for  my  tidings  I  have  hopes  to  get 
Good  eating  with  him  to  eternity. 

SCENE  II. 
Enter  HEGIO. 

The  more  I  think  on  this  affair,  the  more 
Is  my  uneasiness  of  mind  increased. — 
That  they  should  gull  me  in  this  sort! — and  I 
Never  perceive  it! — When  this  once  is  known, 

1  shall  be  made  the  jest  of  the  whole  town ; 
And  soon  as  e'er  I  come  into  the  Forum, 
"That's  the  old  fellow  there,"  they  all  will  cry, 
"  Who  has  been  trick'd." — But  is  not  this  Erga- 

silus, 

I  see  at  distance  ? — Sure  it  is, — his  cloak 
Thrown  o'er  his  shoulder. — What  is  he  about1? 
Erg.  (advancing.}   Haste,    haste,    Ergasilus, — 

look  to  thy  business. 
(loud.)  Hence, — have  a  care, — I  warn  you,  and 

forewarn  ygu, — 

Let  no  man  stop  me  in  my  way,  unless 
He  thinks  that  he  has  had  enough  of  life  ; — 
Whoever  stops  me,  he  shall  kiss  the  ground. 
Heg.  He  puts  himself  in  posture  as  for  box- 
ing.— 
Erg.  I'll  do't,, — by  heav'ns  I'll  do't. — Let  every 

one 

Pursue  his  own  track,  nor  by  any  business 
Clog  up  the  street. — My  fist  is  a  balista, 
My  arm  a  catapulta,  and  my  shoulder 
A  battering-ram. — On  whomsoever  once 
I  dart  my  knee,  I'll  give  him  to  the  ground. — 
Whatever  mortal  I  shall  light  upon, 
I'll  knock  his  teeth  out,  and  employ  the  wretch 
To  pick  them  up  again. 

Heg.  What  mighty  menaces ! 

They  quite  astonish  me. 

Erg.  If  any  dare 

Oppose  my  course,  I'll  make  him  to  remember 
The  day,  the  place  for  evermore,  and  me : 
Who  stops  me,  puts  a  stop  to  his  existence. 
Heg.  What  would  the  man  be  at  with  all  his 

swaggering  ? 

Erg.  I   give   you  notice,  caution  you  before- 
hand, 

That  it  may  be  your  own  fault,  if  you're  caught. — 
Keep  home  then,  guard  you  from  assault. 

Heg.  'Twere  strange  this, 

Had  not  his  belly  got  him  this  assurance. 
I  pity  the  poor  wretch,  whose  cheer  has  swol'n 

him 
To  all  this  insolence. 


Erg.  Then  for  your  bakers, 

Breeders  of  swine,  rascals  who  feed  their  hogs 
With  refuse  bran,  that  no  one  can  pass  by 
Their  bake-house  for  the  stench] — let  me  but  see 
One  of  their  swine  here  in  the  public  way, 
My  fists  shall  give  the  owner  such  a  dusting, 
As  shall  beat  out  his  bran  about  his  ears. 

Heg.  He  issues  royal  and  imperial  edicts! 
His  belly's  full :  his  belly  gives  him  impudence. 

Erg.  Then  for  your  fishmongers,  who  hawk 

about 

Upon  a  four  legg'd  dull  provoking  jade 
Their  stale  commodities,  whose  very  stench 
Drives  off  our  saunterers  in  the  Forum  ; — troth, 
I'll  beat  their  filthy  baskets  'bout  their  chaps, 
That  they  may  know  how  much  offence   they 

give 

To  others'  noses. — Then  too  for  the  butchers, 
Who  under  the  pretence  of  selling  lamb 
Will  put  off  ewe  upon  you,  fob  you  off 
With  ram   for  wether  mutton ; — in  my  way 
If  I  should  chance  to  meet  a  ram  of  theirs, 
Woe  to  the  ram,  and  woe  too  to  it's  owner! 

Heg.  Heyday !  this  swaggering  fellow  issues 

out 

His  edicts  and  commands,  as  though  he  were 
Comptroller  of  the  victualling : — Our  ^Etolians 
Have  made  him,  sure,  inspector  of  the  market. 

Erg.  No  more  a  parasite,  but  I'm  a  king, — 
More  kingly  than  a  king, — a  king  of  kings; 
In  port  I  have  it,  such  an  ample  store! 
Provision  for  the  belly. — Why  do  I 
Delay  to  load  old  Hegio  here  with  transport, 
Who  is  in  truth  the  happiest  man  alive. 

Heg.  What   transport   is    it,    that    himself,   it 

seems, 
Is  in  a  transport  to  impart  to  me  ? 

Erg.  (knocking  at  Hegio's  door.) 
Hoa  there — where  are  ye  ?  some  one,  ope  the 
door. 

Heg.  He's  come  to  sup  with  me. 

Erg.  Ope  both  the  doors, 

Ere  piece-meal  I  demolish  them  with  knocking. 

Heg.  I  have  a  mind  to  speak  to  him. — Ergasilus ! 

Erg.  Who  calls  Ergasilus? 

Heg.  Turn  your  head — look  on  me. 

Erg.    Look   on    you? — That's   what   Fortune 

never  does, 
Nor  ever  will. — Who  is  it  ? 

Heg.  Look. — I'm  Hegio. 

Erg.  (turning.']  Best  of  best  men,  most  oppor- 
tunely met. 

Heg.  You  have  got  some  one  at  the  port  to  sup 

with, 
And  therefore  do  you  treat  me  with  this  scorn. 

Erg.  Give  me  thy  hand. 

Heg.  My  hand  ? 

Erg.  Thy  hand,  I  say. 

Give  it  this  instant. 

Heg.  There  it  is.  (giving  his  hand.} 

Erg.  Be  joyous. 

Heg.  Joyous!  for  what? 

Erg.  Because  it  is  my  order. — 

Come,  come,  be  joyous. 

Heg.  Joy  alas !  with  me 

By  sorrow  is  prevented. 


PLAUTUS. 


321 


Erg.  Do  not  grieve  : 

IM  wipe  away,  this  instant,  ev'ry  stain 
Of  sorrow  from  your  soul. — Pluck  up. — be  joyous. 
UYll. — though  I  know  no  reason  to  re- 

Erg.  That's  bravely  done. — Now  order — * 

Order  what? 
--.  A  monstrous  fire. 

H<i.  A  monstrous  fire? 

Erg.  I  say  it : 

A  huge  one  let  it  be. 

Heg.  Why  liow  now,  Vulture? 

Think  you,  that  I  will  fire  my  house  to  please  you  ? 

Erg.  Nay.  prithee  don't  be  angry. — Will  you 

order, 

Or  will  you  not,  the  pots  to  be  put  on  ? 
The  dishes  to  be  wash'd  ?  the  larded  meats, 
.And  kickshaws  to  be  set  upon  the  stoves? 
Y/ou't  you  send  some  one  to  buy  fish? 

H'-y.  He  dreams 

With  his  eyes  open! 

Erg.  Bid  another  go 

For  pork,  lamb,  pullets  ? 

JI-  ~r.  Yes,  you  understand 

flood  livintr.  had  you  wherewithal  to  get  it. 
Erg.  For  hams,  for  turbot,  salmon,  mackerel, 

cod, 
A  fat  cheese  ? 

Easier  'tis  for  you  to  talk 

Of  all  those  dainties,  than  with  me  to  eat  them. 
Erg.  Think  you,  I  speak  this  on  my  own  ac- 
count ? 
If'-g.  You   will    have    nothing,  don't   deceive 

yourself. 

Like  what  you  talk  off. — Prithee  bring  with  you 
A  stomach  suited  to  such  common  fare, 
As  you  may  meet  with  ev'ry  day. — no  nice  one. 
I-'ry.  But  lot  mo  tell  yon,  I  shall  be  the  author 
Of  your  providing  n  mo<t  sumptuous  treat, 
E'en  though  I  should  forbid  it. 

I? 

Yes,  you. 
Hey  !  you  are  then  my  master. 

I'm  your  friend. — 
nail  I  make  thee  happy? 

inly; 

I'd  rather  so.  than  you  should  make  me  wretched. 
Erg.  Give  me  thy  hand. 

There. — there's  my  hand. 
The  gods, 
Ifl  are  all  your  friends. 

I  feel  it  not. 
Erg.  You  are  not  in  a  thorn-bush,  else  you'd 

f.-el.— 

But  let  your  MOTOd  prepar'd. 

And  bid  them  bring  forthwith  a  fatted  lamb. 
For  what  ? 

To  make  a  sacrifice. 

//•  f.  To  whom  ? 

Which  of  the  gods? 

Erg.  To  me. — For  I  am  now 

Thy  Jupiter  supreme. — I  thy  Salve 
Thy  Life,  thy  Fortune,  thy  Delight,  thy  Joy.— . 
To  make  this  god  propitious  cram  him  well. 

'upiter  and  all  the  gods  e< 
you. 
41 


Erg.  Nay,  you  should  rather  thank  me  for  the 

news 

I  bring  you  from  the  port,  such  gladsome  news. — 
Your  supper  likes  me  now. 

Hcg.  Begone,  you  fool, — 

You're  come  too  late. 

Erg.  Your  words  had  been  more  true, 

Had  I  come  sooner. — Now  receive  from  me 
The  transport  that  I  bring  you. — At  the  port 
Just  now  I  saw  your  son,  your  Philopolemus, 
Alive  and  hearty, — in  the  packet-boat 
I  saw  him, — with  him  too  that  other  spark, 
Your  captive,  he  of  ^Elis, — and  besides, 
Your  slave  Stalagmus.  he  that  run  away, 
And  stole  your  little  boy  at  four  years  old. 

Heg.  Away, — you  joke  with  me. 

Erg.  Holy  Gluttony 

So  help  me, — as  I  wish  for  evermore 
By  her  high  title  to  be  dignified, — 
I  saw — 

Heg.        My  son? 

Erg.  Your  son,  my  genius. 

Heg.  With  him 

The  captive  youth  of  JElis  ? 

Erg.  By  Apollo. 

Heg.  Stalagmus  too,  who  stole  my  child — 

Erg.  By  Sora. 

Heg.  Long  ago, — 

Erg.  By  Praeneste. 

Heg.  Come  ? 

Erg.  By  Signia. 

Heg.  Art  sure  ? 

Erg.  By  Phrysinone. 

Heg.  Have  a  care, 

You  do  not  tell  a  falsehood. 

Erg.  By  Alatrium. 

Hcg.  Why  do  you  swear  thus  by  these  bar- 
barons  cities 
With  uncouth  na; 

Erg.  Because  they  are  as  hard 

As  is  the  supper  which,  you  said,  you'd  give  me. 

Heg.  A  plague  confound  you! 

Why  ?  because  you  won't 

Believe  me.  though  I  speak  in  sober  sadness. — 
But  of  what  country  was  Stalagmus,  when 
He  ran  away  ? 

II<-.  Of  Sicily. 

Erg.  But  now 

He's  no  Sicilian  :  he  is  a  Slave-onian, 
To  a  Slave-onian  yoke-mate  tied  for  life. 
A  fit  match  for  him  to  keep  up  the  family. 

Heg.  And  may  I  then  rely  on  what  you've  said  ? 

Erg.  You  may  rely. 

Heg.  O  ye  immortal  gods ! 

It'  lie  speak  truth,  I  shall  seern  born  again. 

Erg.  And  can  you  doubt  me,  when  I  swore  so 

solemnly? 

If  you  have  little  lUith  then  in  my  oaths, 
Go  to  the  port  yourself. 

Heg.  And  so  I  will. — 

Take  thou  the  necessary  care  within  :* 


1  Our  author's  parasites  have  been  imitated  by  modern 

dramatic  |»irts,  partii-ularly  l>y  Fk'trhrr  in  the  character 
of  Lazarilln  in  his  H'mnnn- Ifater,  and  by  Ma.--. nL-cr  in 
that  of  Justice  Greedy,  in  Ji  New  Way  to  fay  Old  Debts. 
Sir  Giles  Over-reach,  in  the  latter,  giving  the  Justice  the 


322 


PLAUTUS. 


Use,  and  demand,  broach  any  cask  you  like, 
I  make  you  cellar-man. 

Erg.  And  if  you  find  me 

Not  a  true  prophet,  curry  me  with  your  cudgel. 

Heg.  If  your  intelligence  should  turn  out  true, 
I  will  insure  you  everlasting  eating. 

Erg.  From  whence? 

Heg.  From  me  and  from  my  son. 

Erg.  You  promise  ? 

Heg.  I  do. 

Erg.  And  I  too,  that  your  son  is  come. 

Heg.  You'll  manage  for  the  best. 

Erg.  All  good  attend  you. 

[Exit  HEGIO. 

SCENE    III. 

ERGASILTJS  alone. 

He's  gone, — and  has  intrusted  to  my  care, 
The  high  and  grand  concern  of  catering. — 
Immortal  gods  !  how  I  shall  cut  and  quarter ! 
How  I  shall  chop  the  crags  from  off  the  chines! 
What  devastation  will  befall  the  hams ! 
What  a  consumption  rage  among  the  bacon! 
What  massacre  of  fat  sows'  paps !  of  brawn 
What  havoc  will  arise ! — Then  what  fatigue 
Awaits  the  butchers !  what  the  hog-killers  ! — 
But  to  say  more  of  what  concerns  good  eating, 
Is  loss  of  time,  and  hindrance. — I  will  now 
Go  enter  on  my  government,  and  sit 
In  judgment  o'er  the  bacon, — set  at  liberty 
Hams  that  have  hung  untried  and  uncondemned. 

[Exit. 

ACT  V.     SCEXE  I. 

Enter,  from  HEGIO'S  house,  a  LAD,  servant  to  HEGIO. 
May  Jove  and, all  the  gods,  Ergasilus, 
Confound  thee  and  thy  belly,  with  all  parasites, 
And  all  who  shall  hereafter  entertain  them! 
Storm,  tempest,  devastation,  have  just  broke 
Their  way  into  our  house ! — I  was  afraid, 
He  would  have  seiz'd  me,  like  a  hungry  wolf: 
I  was  indeed  in  a  most  piteous  fright, 
He  made  such  horrid  grinding  with  his  teeth. — 
Soon  as  he  came,  he  knock'd  down  the  whole 

larder 

With  all  the  meat  in't: — then  he  snatch'd  a  knife 
And  stuck  three  pigs  directly  in  the  throat ; — 
Broke  all  the  pots  and  cups  that  were  not  mea- 
sure, 

And  ask'd  the  cook,  whether  the  salting-pans 
With  their  contents  might  not  be  clapp'd  upon 
The  fire  together  all  at  once  : — He  has  broke 
The  cellar  door  down,  laid  the  store-room  open. — 
Secure  him,  I  beseech  you,  fellow-servants : — 
I'll  to  my  master,  tell  him  he  must  order 
Some  more  provisions,  if  he  means  to  have 
Any  himself: — for,  as  this  fellow  manages, 
There's  nothing  left,  or  nothing  will  be  shortly. 


command  of  the  kitchen,  and  absolute  authority  there  in 
respect  to  the  entertainment,  (act  iii.,  scene  ii.)  seems 
more  particularly  to  have  had  its  original  from  this  pas- 
sage ;  and  Lazarillo's  drawing  his  sword,  and  demanding 
the  way,  (Woman-Hater,  act  iii.,  scene  iv.,)  seems  not 
unlikely  to  have  been  a  hint  from  the  behaviour  of  Er- 
gasilus in  the  beginning  of  this  scene.  There  is  also  a 
character  in  many  respects  like  it  in  a  comedy,  called 
The  Canterbury  Ouests,  by  Ravenscroft. 


SCENE  II. 

Enter  HEGIO,  PHILOPOLEMUS,  and  PHILOCHATES. 
STALAGMUS  at  a  distance. 

Heg.  (to  his  son,  advancing.)  0  my  dear  boy! — 

To  Jove  and  to  the  gods, 
In  duty  bound,  I  pay  my  utmost  thanks ; — 
That  they  have  thus  restor'd  you  to  your  father; — 
That  they  have  freed  me  from  the  load  of  sorrow 
I've  labour'd  under,  since  depriv'd  of  you; — 
That  I  behold  yon  villain  in  my  pow'r ; — 

(pointing  to  Stalagmus.) 

And  that  this  youth  has  kept  his  word  with  me. 
(pointing  to  Philocrates.) 
No  more, — enough  already  I've  experienc'd 
Of  heart-felt  anguish, — with  disquietude 
And  tears  enough  have  worn  me, — I  have  heard 
Enough  too  of  your  troubles,  which,  my  son, 
You  told  me  at  the  port. — Then  now  to  business. 

Phil.  Well,  sir, — what  recompense  may  I  ex- 
pect, 

For  keeping  of  my  word,  and  bringing  back 
Your  son  in  liberty  ? 

Heg.  You've  done,  Philocrates, 

What  I  can  never  thank  you  for  enough, — 
So  much  you  merit  from  my  son  and  me. 

Philop.  Nay,  but  you  can,  my  father,  and  you 

shall, 

And  I  shall  too : — the  gods  too  will  enable  you 
Amply  to  pay  a  kindness  back  to  one, 
Who  has  deserv'd  so  highly  of  us  both. — 
Indeed,  my  father,  but  you  must. 

Heg.  No  more, — 

(to  Phil.')  I've  no  tongue  to  deny  whate'er  you 
ask. 

Phil.  I  ask  of  you  that  slave  I  left  behind 
An  hostage  for  me,  (one,  who  ever  has 
Preferr'd  my  interest  to  his  own,)  that  so 
I  may  reward  him  for  his  services. 

Heg.  Your  services  I'll  thankfully  repay. — 
That  which  you  ask,  and  that  and  any  thing 
Which  you  require,  you  may  at  once  command. 
Don't  be  offended,  that  your  slave  has  felt 
The  marks  of  my  displeasure. 

Phil.  How  displeasure? 

Heg.  Finding  myself  impos'd  upon,  in  chains 
I  had  him  laid,  and  sent  him  to  the  quarries. 

Phil.  Ah  me !  it  grieves  me,  that  this  best  of 

fellows 
Should  undergo  these  hardships  for  my  sake. 

Heg.  I  will  have  nothing  therefore  for  his  ran- 
som : — 
Freed,  without  cost,  so  take  him. 

Phil.  Kindly  done. 

But  let  him,  pray,  be  sent  for  strait. 

Heg.  He  shall. 

(to  attendants.)  Where  are  you? — Go,  bring  Tyn- 

darus  here  directly. — 
Do  you  go  in. — (to  Phil,  and  Philop.)  Meantime 

will  I  examine 

This  whipping-post,  to  learn  what  he  has  dona 
With  my  poor  younger  son.  —  You'll  bathe  tie 
while. 

Philop.  Philocrates,  you'll  follow. 

Fhil.  I  attend  ycu. 

[Exeunt  PHIIOPOLEMTTS  and  PHILOCKATI  s. 


PLAUTUS. 


323 


SCEKE  III. 

HEOIO  and  STALAGMUS. 
Heg,  My  honest  lad ! — come  hither  ; — my  fine 

slave ! 
Stal  What  d'ye  expect  from  me,  when  such  a 

man, 

As  you  are,  will  tell  lies? — An  honest  lad ! 
A  line  slave !  I  ne'er  was,  nor  ever  shall  be  ; — 
Hope  not  to  make  me  so. 

Heg.  You  see  at  once 

Your  situation: — if  you  speak  the  truth, 
You'll  better  your  bad  fortune: — speak  it  then, — 
Be  true  and  just,  though  you  was  never  so 
In  all  your  life  before. 

Stal  And  do  you  think 

I  blush  to  own  it,  when  yourself  affirm  it? 
Heg.  But  I  shall  make  you  blush ; — nay,  I  will 

make  you 
Redden  all  over. 

Stal  So ! — you  threaten  me 

As  though  I  were  not  used  to  stripes. — Away 

then — 
Say,  what's  your  pleasure? — 'Tis  but  ask,  and 

have. 

Heg.  Fine  talking  this ! — to  cut  the  matter  short, 
Prithee  be  brief. 

Stal.  I'll  do  as  you  command. 

Heg.  O  he  was  ever  an  obedient  lad ! — 
But  to  the  business. — Now  attend,  and  answer  me 
To  what  I  ask  you  : — if  you  speak  the  truth, 
You'll  better  your  condition. 

Stal.  That's  a  joke ! — 

Can  you  imagine,  that  I  do  not  know 
What  I  deserve? 

Heg.  But  yet  you  may  avoid 

A  part,  if  not  the  whole. 

Slal  A  trifling  part : — 

Much  is  my  due; — because  I  ran  away, 
And  stole  your  son,  then  sold  him. 

Heg.  Sold !  to  whom  ? 

Thoodoromedes  the  Polyplusian 
Of  ^Elis,  for  six  rnin:e. 

Heg.  O  ye  gods ! 

He  is  the  father  of  this  same  Philocrates. 

S.'nl.  I  know  him  better  than  I  know  yourself 
And  I  have  seen  him  oft'ner. 

Jove  supreme 
Preserve  me  and  my  son  ! — Hoa  there  ! — Philo 

era1 

I  beg  you,  as  you  love  me,  to  come  forth  : — 
1  have  to  say  to  you — 

,   IV. 

Enter  PHILOCRATES. 
Phil  Behold  me  hero  : 

Command  me  what  you  will:  say,  what's  you 

pleasure  '. 

Has:.  This  fellow  tolls  mo,  that  he  sold  my  son 
A-   .I'.lis  to  your  father  for  six  minre. 
Phil  (to  Stal.)  How  long  wa<  this  ago? 
Stnl.  Near  twenty  yean 

Phil  He  says  what  is  not  true. 
Stal  Or  you  or  I  do. — 

Your  father  save  you.  when  a  child,  a  slave 
Of  four  years  old,  for  your  own  use  and  service 


Phil  What  was  his  name  ? — If  what  you  say 

is  true, 

ell  me  his  name.    - 

Stal.  His  name  was  Paegnimn 

But  afterwards  you  calPd  him  Tyndarus. 
Phil.  How  came  I  not  to  recollect  you  ? 
Stal.  'Tis 

The  usual  way  with  folks  not  to  remember 
Or  know  the  man,  whose  favour  is  worth  nothing. 
Phil  Tell  me, — that  slave,  you  sold  unto  my 

father, 

Who  gave  him  me  for  my  own  service,  was  he 
This  old  man's  son? 
Heg.  Lives  he  ? 

Stal  I  had  the  money, 

'.  car'd  for  nothing  more. 

Heg.  What  says  Philocrates  ? 

Phil.  That  he,  this  very  Tyndarus,  is  your  son, 
The  proofs  jhow. — He  was  brought  up  from  a  boy 
With  me  a  boy  in  modesty  and  virtue 
Even  to  manhood. 

Heg.  If  ye  speak  the  truth,  , 

[  am  indeed  both  happy  and  unhappy. 
[  am  unhappy,  if  he  is  my  son, 
That  I  have  us'd  severity  towards  him. 
Ah  me !  I've  treated  him  with  less  affection, 
And  with  more  cruelty  than  it  behoved  me. 
[t  grieves  me,  I  have  wrought  him   so  much 

harm : — 
Would   it  had  ne'er  been  done ! — But  see,  he 

comes, 
Accoutred  little  suiting  to  his  virtues. 

SCENE  V. 
Enter  TTXDARUS. 
I've  often  seen  the  torments  of  the  damn'd 
In  pictures  represented  :  but  no  hell 
Can  equal  that,  where  I  was,  in  the  quarries. 
That  is  a  place,  where  ev'ry  limb  with  toil 
And  labour  must  be  wearied. — Soon  as  I 
Arriv'd  there, — as  your  brats  of  quality 
Have  daws,  or  ducks,  or  quails  to  play  with, — me 
They  gave,  t'amuse  myself  withal,  a  crow. — 
But  see,  my  master's  here  before  his  door ! 
My  other  master  too,  return'd  from  JElis ! 
Hi-".  Save  you,  my  wish'd  for  son ! 
Tyntl.  Ha!  what?  your  son! 

Yes,  yes,  I  understand  you,  why  you  call 
Yourself  my  father,  me  your  son: — you've  done, 
As  parents  do, — caus'd  me  to  see  the  light. 
Phil  Save  you,  sweet  Tyndarus  ! 
Tijtifl.  And  you  too, — though 

On  your  account  I  undergo  this  trouble. 

Phil  But  through  my  means  you'll  now  arrive 

at  wealth 

And  liberty. — This  is  your  father, — (pointing  to 
Hegio.) 

This  [pcmtingto  Stalagmus.) 
The  slave,  that  stole  you  hence  at  four  years  old, 
And  sold  you  to  my  father  for  six  minoe, 
Who  -ave  you  to  me.  then  a  little  boy 
Like  to  yourself,  for  my  own  use  and  service. 
He  has  coufess'd  the  whole :  we've  brought  him 

back 
From  ^lis  hither. 

Tynd.  Where  is  Hegio's  son  ? 


324 


PLAUTUS. 


Phil.  Your  brother, — he's  within. 

Tynd.  How  say  you  ?  have  you 

Then  brought  him  home  ? 

Phil.  I  tell  you,  he's  within. 

Tynd.  'Twas  rightly  done  in  you. 

Phil.  This  is  your  father, 

And  that  the  thief,  who  stole  you  when  a  boy. 

Tynd.  And  for  that  theft,  now  I'm  a  man  as 

he  is, 
I'll  give  him  to  the  hangman. 

Phil.  He's  deserving. — 

Tynd.  And  I'll  reward  him  equal  to  his  merits. — 
(to  Hegio.}  But  tell  me,  pray. — are  you  indeed 
my  father  ? 

Heg.  I  am,  my  son. 

Tynd.  At  length  I  recollect, 

And  have  a  dark  remembrance,  that  I've  heard 
My  father's  name  was  Hegio. 

Heg.  I  am  he. 

Phil.  0  let  your  son  be  lightened  of  those  chains, 
And  that  slave  loaded  with  them. 

Heg.  :Tis  my  purpose  ; 

I'll  do  it  the  first  thing. — Then  let  us  in, 
And  strait  send  for  the  smith  to  take  the  chains 
From  off  my  son,  and  give  them  to  that  rascal. 

Stal.  'Tis  right  to  give  them  me,  for  I  have 
nothing.  [Exeunt. 

A  Comedian  addresses  the  Spectators. 
Gallants,  this  play  is  founded  on  chaste  manners; 
No  wenching,  no  intrigues,  no  child  expos'd, 
No  close  old  dotard  cheated  of  his  money, 
No  youth  in  love,  making  his  mistress  free 
Without  his  father's  knowledge  or  consent. 
Few  of  these  sort  of  plays  our  poets  find, 
T'  improve  our  morals,  and  make  good   rnen 

better. 

Now  if  the  piece  has  pleas'^,  you,  with  our  acting 
If  you're  content,  and  we  liave  not  incurr'd 
Displeasure  by  it,  give  us  tfien  this  token  : 
All  who  are  willing  that  reward  should  wait 
On  chaste  and  virtuous  manners,  give  applause. 


THE  MISER,  OR  POT  OF  GOLD. 


EUCLID,  the  Miser. 
MEGADORUS. 
LYCONIDES. 
STROBILITS,  Servant 

Lyconides. 
STASIMUS,    Servant 

Mega-dorus. 


DRAMATIS  FERSONJB. 

EUNOMIA,  Mother  of  Ly- 
conides. 

STAPHILA,  Servant  to 
Euclio. 

PHJBDBIA,  Daughter  to 
Euclio. 


to 


AKTHRAX,  "> 

COXGIO,         3 


Cooks. 


SCENE. — Athens,  before  the  houses  of  EUCLIO  and 
MEGADORUS. 


PROLOGUE. 
THE  HOUSEHOLD  GOD.* 

LEST  any  one  should  wonder  who  I  am, 
I'll  tell  you  in  few  words.     I  am  the  god 


*  Lar  Familiaris.  Every  house  among  the  ancients  had 
its  peculiar  tutelary  deity,  which  is  called  Lar. 


Domestic  of  this  family,  from  whence 

Ye  saw  me  come.     It  now  is  many  years, 

Since  I've  possess'd  this  house,  protecting  it 

Both  in  the  grandfather's  and  father's  time 

Of  him  who  now  inhabits  it.     The  grandfather, 

Unknown  to  every  one,  entrusted  me 

With  a  rare  treasure,  all  of  gold  :  for  this 

He  dug  a  hiding-place  beneath  the  hearth. 

Beseeching  me  with  prayers  to  keep  it  for  him. 

He  died,  and  was  withal  so  covetous, 

He  would  not  even  tell  it  to  his  son, 

But  rather  chose  to  leave  him  indigent 

Than   show   him   this   same    treasure.     On   his 

death 

He  left  his  son  a  bit  of  ground,  from  whence 
He  might  pick  up  a  piteous  livelihood 
With  industry  and  labour.     Now  when  he 
Was  dead,  who  with  this  gold  had  trusted  me, 
I  set  me  to  observe,  whether  the  son 
Would  hold  me  in  more  honour  than  the  father 
Had  done  before  him  :  but  he  treated  me 
With  less  regard,  less  honour'd  and  rever'd  me. 
I  did  the  same  with  him.     He  also  died 
And  left  a  son,  who  now  inhabits  here, 
Of  the  same  close  and  niggard  disposition 
As  was  his  father  and  his  grandfather. 
He  has  an  only  daughter  :  she  indeed 
Makes  ev'ry  day  her  constant  supplications 
With  frankincense,  or  wine,  or  something  else, 
And  gives  me  wreaths  of  flowers.     For  her  pake 
Have  I  caus'd  Euclio  to  find  out  this  treasure, 
That,  if  he  please,  he  may  more  readily 
Dispose  of  her  in  marriage  ......... 

But  hark  !  —  I  hear  old  Euclio  now  within 
Making  an  uproar,  as  he's  won't  to  do. 
He's  thrusting  his  old  woman  out  of  doors, 
That  she  should  nothing  know.  Belike  he  wants 
To  see  his  treasure,  if  it  be  not  stolen. 


of  my 


ACT  I.     ScEtfE  I. 
EUCLIO  driving  out  STAPHILA. 

Eucl.  Out  of  my  house    I   say;  —  out 

house  ; 

Nay,  but  you  must  and  shall  ;  —  out  of  my  doors 
Good  gossip  Pry-about,  —  poking  your  eyes 
And  peering,  here  and  there,  in  every  corner. 

Staph.  Why  do  you  beat  me,  a  poor  wretch? 

Eucl.  To  make  you 

A  poor  wretch  ;  —  you  shall  lead  a  sorry  life  on't. 

Staph.  Why  have  you  thrust  me  out  of  doors'? 

Eucl.  You  jade  ! 

Give  you  a  reason?     Get  you  from  the  door,  — 
There,  there.  —  See  how  she   crawls  !  —  Do  you 

know  what? 

If  I  but  take  a  stick  in  hand,  I'll  quicken 
That  tortoise-pace  of  yours. 

Staph.  Would  I  were  hang'cl 

Rather  than  serve  you  at  this  rate. 

Eucl.  The  beldam  ! 

See  how  she  grumbles  to  herself!  —  You  jade, 
I'll  tear  your  eyes  out;  I'll  prevent  your  watch- 

ing — 

Peeping  and  prying  into  all  I  do. 
Get  farther  oif  there,  —  farther,  —  farther  still. 
Farther,  —  so,  —  stand  there.  —  If  you  dare  to  bu  Ige 
A  finger  or  a  nail's  breadth  from  that  place, 


PLAUTUS. 


325 


Or  if  you  turn  your  head  once  till  I  bid  you, 
I'll  send  you  for  a  schooling  to  the  gallows. 
(aside.)  Was  ever  such  a  beldam  ! — I'm  afraid 
She'll  catch  me  unawares,  and  smell  the  place 

out 

Where  I  have  hid  my  money. — The  curs'd  jade ! 
Why,  she  has  eyes  too  in  her  pole — I'll  go 
And  see  whether  my  gold  is  as  I  lodg'd  it, — 
My  gold,   which  gives  me   so  much  pain  and 

trouble.  [Goes  in. 

SCEKE  II. 

STAPHILA  alone. 

"P.trad.  I  can't  tell  what's  come  to  my  master: 
He's    out   of    his    senses. —  Here    now,   in   this 

manner, 

He  turns  me  out  o'doors,  ten  times  a  day, 
Kvn-  so  often. — Troth,  I  can't  imagine 
What  whim-whams  he  has  got  into  his  head. 
He  lies  awake  all  night,  and  then  he  sits 
Puriing  and  poring  the  whole  day  at  home, 
Like  a  lame  cobbler  in  his  stall.    And  then 
My  poor  young  mistress,  she's  upon  the  point 
Oi'  being  brought  to  bed;  and  how  shall  I 
Hide  her  disgrace?  The  best  thing  I  can  do  is 
To  get  a  rope,  and  stretch  me  at  full  length. 

SCENE  III. 
Re-enter  EUCLIO. 

End.  So,  so— my  heart's  at  ease. — all's  safe 
within. 

(to  Staph.)  Come,  hussy,  get  you  in  now,  and  be 

sure 
Take  care  of  all  within. 

/A  Take  care  of  what  ? 

Will   any  one,   think   you,   run  away  with   the 

house  ? 

I'm  sure  there's  nothing  else  to  carry  off, 
Except  the  cobwebs. — Troth,  it's  full  of  empti- 
ness. 
End.  You  hag  of  hags!  why  Jove,  to  satisfy 

you. 

Should  make  me  n.  King  Philip  or  Darius. — 
Harkye,   I'd    have  you    to    preserve    those   Cob- 
webs. 

I'm  poor.  I'm  very  poor,  I  do  coin 
Vet  I'm  content:  I  hear  what  heaven  allots. 
u  in  :  bolt  the  door  after  you; — 
1  shall  be  back  directly;  and  be  sure 
Don't  N't  a  Mud  in. 

/'/i.  What  if  any  one 

Should  beg  some  fire  ? 

End.  I'd  have  you  put  it  Out, 

That  there  maybe  no  plea  to  ask  tor  any. 
If  you  do  leave  a  spark  of  lire  alive, 
I'll  put  out  every  spark  of  life  in  you. 
If  any  body  wants  to  borrow  w:r 
Tell  them,  'tis  all  run  out;  and  if,  as  is 
The  eiistom  amoi,ur  m-iuhbours,  they  should  want 
A  knife,  an  axe.  a  pestle,  or  a  mortar. 
Tell  them  some  rogues  broke  in,  and  stole  them 

all. 

Be  sure  let  no  one  in.  while  I'm  away  : — 
1  charge  you  even  if  (Jood  Luck  should  come, 
't  let  her  in. 


Don 


Staph.         Good  Luck,  quotha  !  I  warrant  you, 
She's  not  in  such  a  hurry :  she  has  never 
Come  to  our  house,  though  she  is  ne'er  so  near. 
Evi-l.  Have  done, — go  in. 

Staph.  I  say  no  more, — I'm  gone. 

Eucl  Be  sure  you  bolt  the  door  both  top  and 

bottom. — 
I  shall  be  back  this  instant. 

[Exit  STAPHILA. 

SCE*E  IV. 
EUCLIO  alone. 

I  am  vex'd, 

Whenever  I'm  oblig'd  to  be  from  home. 
I  don't  care  to  go  out ; — but  now  I  must. 
The  master  of  our  ward  has  given  notice, 
He  shall  distribute  money  to  each  family. 
If  I  forego  my  share,  and  don't  put  in  for  it, 
They  will  suspect  I  have  a  hoard  at  home: 
For  'tis  not  likely  a  poor  man  would  slight 
The  smallest  sum,  and  not  make  application. 
Nay  now  indeed,  maugre  my  utmost  pains 
To  hide  it  from  the  knowledge  of  each  soul,  '    , 
Yet  every  one  seems  to  be  in  the  secret: 
They're  so  much  civiller  than  they  us'd  to  be ; 
They  come  up  to  me,  take  me  by  the  hand, 
Ask  how  I  do,  and  what  I  am  upon. 
Well, — but  I'll  go  now  whither  I  was  going, 
And  make  haste  back  again  as  fast  as  possible. 

[Exit. 

SCEXE  V. 
Enter  EUITOMIA  and  MEGADORUS. 

Eim.  I'd  have  you  think,  my  brother,  what  I 

say 

Arises  purely  from  my  friendship  for  you, 
And  a  regard  for  what  concerns  your  interest, 
Such  as  in  short  becomes  a  loving  sister. 
I  know  we  women  are  accounted  troublesome, 
Nor  without  reason  look'd  on  as  mere  praters. 
'Tis  true,  there  never  was,  in  any  age, 
Such  a  wonder  to  be  found  as  a  dumb  woman. — 
But  to  be  serious;  do  but  think,  my  brother, 
That  I  am  near  to  you,  as  you  to  me : 
We  should  consult  with  and  advise  each  other 
In  ev'ry  thing  we  think  for  our  advantage  ; 
Nor  should  we  hide  from  one  another  aught, 
Or  hoitate  through  fear  about  communicating 
Whatever  may  advantage  either  party 
On  this  account  I've  taken  you  aside 
And  brought  you  out  here,  to  discourse  with  you 
Upon  a  subject  that  concerns  you  nearly. 

Mcs;.  Give  me  thy  hand,  thou  best  of  women. 

Eun.  Ha! 

Where    is    she  ?   and  who   is   she — that  best  of 
women? 

Meg.  Yourself. 

Eun.  What  I  ?  a  pretty  joke  'faith. 

Nay, 
If  you  deny  it.  I  deny  it  too. 

Eun.  You  should   say  nothing  but  the  truth, 

good  brother. 

Your  best  of  women  you  can  pick  out  nowhere : 
One  is  indeed  worse,  brother,  than  another. 
2C 


326 


PLAUTUS. 


Meg.  In  troth  I'm  of  the  same  opinion,  sister, 
Nor  shall  I  differ  with  you  on  that  point. 

Eun.  Joking  apart, — attend  to  me,  I  beg  you. 

Meg.  Use  and  command  me,  as  you  will. 

JEun.  I'm  going 

To  advise  you  what  will  be  most  for  your  in- 
terest, 

Meg.  'Tis  your  way,  sister,  ever. 

Eun.  What  will  bring 

Eternal  satisfaction.     You  should  have 
An  heir  to  your  estate. — Heaven  grant  you  may ! 
What  say  you? — In  a  word,  my  dearest  brother, 
I'd  have  you  marry. 

Meg.  Oh !  I'm  slain. 

Eun.  How  so? 

Meg.  You've  cut   me   to   the   brain  by  what 

you've  said: 
Oh !  you  speak  daggers. 

Eun.  Poh,  now  prithee  do 

As  I  advise. 

Meg.  Well — if  you'll  have  it  so. 

Eun.  It  is  for  your  advantage. 

Meg.  Yes,  to  die 

Sooner  than  marry. — Look  ye,  my  good  sister, 
If  you  will  have  me  wiv'd,  it  shall  be  only 
On  this  condition : — Let  her  be  brought  home 
To-morrow,  and  the  next  day  carried  out.* 
On  these  terms  you  may  marry  me  :  I'm  ready. 

Eun.  I  can  indeed  help  you  to  one,  my  brother, 
That's  very  rich ;  but  then  she  is  not  young ; 
She's  middle-aged.     What  say  you?    Shall  I  ask 

her 
The  question  for  you  ? 

Meg.  Come,  I'll  save  you  trouble. 

Thanks  to  the  gods,  and  to  my  ancestors, 
I'm  rich  enough :  nor  do  I  value  power, 
Pomp,  honours,  acclamations  of  the  people, 
Ivory  cars,  rich  robes,  and  purple  vestments, 
Which  by  their  cost  may  bring  a  man  to  beggary. 

Eun.  Tell  me,  who  is  she  you  would  take  to 
wife  ? 

Meg.  I'll  tell  you.     Do  you  know  our  poor  old 

neighbour, 
Euclio?. 

Eun.      I  know  him, — a  good  sort  of  man. 

Meg.  His  daughter  I  would  marry. — Nay,  nay, 

sister, 
Speak  not  a  word, — I  know  what  you  would 

say,— 
She  has  no  fortune. — What  of  that  ? — I  like  her. 

Eun.  Well  then, — heaven  prosper  you ! 

Meg.  I  hope  the  same. 

Eun.  Any  commands? 

Meg.  Your  servant. 

Eun.  Brother,  yours. 

[Exit  EUNOMIA. 

Meg.  I'll  go  meet  Euclio,  if  he  be  at  home — 
But  see  he's  coming  hither,  whence  I  know  not. 

SCENE  VI. 
Enter  EUCLIO. 
Eucl.  My  mind  misgave  me,  as   soon   as   I 

went  out, 
That  I  should  go  on  a  fool's  errand :  therefore 

*  Buried. 


I  went  against  the  grain.     There  was  not  one 
Of  all  our   ward  there, — no  one  there,  whose 

business 

'Twas  to  make  distribution  of  the  money. — 
So  now  I'll-  hie  me  home  as  fast  as  possible, 
For  though  myself  am  here,  my  mind's  at  home. 

Meg.  May  health  and  happiness  attend  you, 
Euclio ! 

Eucl.  Heaven  bless  you,  Megadorus ! 

Meg.  How  is't  with  you? 

Are  you  as  hearty  and  as  well  in  health 
As  you  could  wish  to  be  ? 

Eucl.  (aside.)  'Tis  not  for  nothing, 

When  a  rich  man  speaks  kindly  to  a  poor  one. 
Now,  to  be  sure,  he  knows  I  have  got  money ; 
And  therefore  he's  so  wondrous  complaisant. 

Meg.  How  are  you  ? 

Eucl.       'Faith  but  poorly  as  to  circumstances. 

Meg.  If  you  are  but  content,  you  have  enough 
To  live  upon  with  comfort. 

Eucl.  (aside.)  The  old  woman 

Has  told  him  of  the  gold  : — yes,  all's  discover'd : — 
The  jade !  I'll  cut  her  tongue  out,  tear  her  eyes 

out, 
When  I  get  home. 

Meg.  What  is  it  you  are  mutteing  ? 

Eucl.  I  was  lamenting  of  my  poverty  : 
I  have  a  great  girl  unprovided  for, 
And  can't  dispose  of  her  without  a  portion. 

Meg.  No  more ; — take  courage ; — she  shall  be 

dispos'd  of; — 

I'll  stand  your  friend  ; — say  what  you  want,  com- 
mand me. 

Eucl.  (aside.")  He  asks  and  promises  both  in  a 

breath  : 

He's  gaping  for  my  treasure,  to  devour  it. — 
And  so  he  thinks  to  entice  me,  like  a  dog, 
By  holding  bread  in  one  hand,  and  a  stone, 
Ready  to  knock  my  brains  out,  in  the  other ! 
I  place  no  confidence  in  your  rich  man, 
When  he's  so  monstrous  civil  to  a  poor  one : 
If  he  holds  out  his  hand  to  you  in  courtesy, 
'Tis  with  design  to  gripe  you. — Ah,  I  know  'em ; 
They  are  a  kind  of  polype,  that  hold  fast 
Whatever  they  once  touch. 

Meg.  Attend  a  while ; 

I've  something,  Euclio,  to  communicate 
In  common,  that  concerns  both  you  and  me. 

Eucl.  (aside.}  Undone  ! — my  money's  stole, — 

and  now  he  wants 

To  enter  into  composition  with  me. — 
I'll  in.  (going.) 

Meg.  Where  going? 

Eucl.  I'll  be  back  this  instant. — 

There's  something  I  must  look  into  at  home. 

[EucLio  goes  in. 

Meg.  I  verily  believe,  that  when  I  come 
To  ask  him  to  bestow  his  daughter  on  me, 
He'll  think  I  only  mean  to  make  a  jest  of  him. 
Never  was  man  so  close  and  niggardly ! 

Eucl.  (returning.)  Well,  heaven  be  prais'd  all's 

safe:  if  nothing's  lost, 
All's  right. — But  I  was  terribly  afraid ; 
Before  I  went  in,  I  was  almost  dead.— 
(to  Meg.)  You  see  I  am  come  back ; — your  plea- 
sure, sir? 


PLAUTUS. 


327 


Meg.  I  thank  you. — Prithee  now  resolve  me 
1^1  readily 

In  what  I  ask. 

Eucl.  Provided  you  don't  ask 

What  I  don't  choose  to  answer. 

Meg.  Tell  me  then, 

What  think  you  of  my  family? 

Eucl  Tis  good. 

Meg.  My  honour  ? 

End.  Strict. 

Meg.  My  actions  ? 

Eucl.  Neither  bad, 

Nor  wicked. 

Meg.  Do  you  know  what  age  I'm  off? 

Eucl.  I  know  you  are  advanc'd  in  years,  as 

also 
Advanc'd  in  circumstances. 

Meg.  I  have  always 

Thought  you  an  honest  fellow  free  from  guile, 
And  think  so  still. 

Eucl.  Oh  ho,  he  scents  the  money. — 

Would  you  aught  farther  ?  (going.") 

Meg.  Since  we  know  each  other, 

And  what  we  are,  I  you,  you  me,  I  ask 
Your  daughter  for  a  wife ;  and  may  it  prove 
A  blessing  to  us  all,  to  me,  to  you, 
And  to  your  daughter! — Give  me  your  consent. 

Eucl.  O  Megadorus,  it  but  ill  becomes 
Your  character  to  mock  a  poor  man  thus, 
Who  never  gave  offence  to  you  or  your's, 
Or  ever  merited  in  word  or  deed 
That  you  should  treat  me  as  you  do. 

Meg.  By  heavens, 

I  come  not  to  deride ;  I  do  not  mock  you, 
Nor  do  I  think  you  merit  it. 

Eucl.  Then  why 

D'ye  ask  my  daughter  for  a  wife  ? 

Meg.  To  serve  you, 

And  to  promote  my  good  through  you  and  your's. 

Eni-l.   I'm  thinking.  Meiradorus  ; — you  are  rich 
And  powerful ;  I  am  of  poor  men  the  poorest 
Now  if  I  give  my  daughter  to  your  worship — 

Meg.  'Tis  for  your  interest,  the  nearer  you 
Can  form  aiiinity  with  men  of  worth 
And   means.     Accept   my  proffer;    hearken  to 

me, 
And  give  me  your  consent. 

Km  I.  But  I  can  give 

No  portion  with  her. 

Meg.  You  her  none. 

.:iieient  dower. 

I  tell  it  you.  because  you  may  not  think 
I've  found  a  treasure. 

Say  no  more ;  I  know  it. — 
You'll  give  her  to  me  then  ? 

Eu.-l.  0  Jupiter! 

I  am  undone  !  I'm  ruin'd  ! 

What'?  the  matter? 

What  noi<e  was  that  there,  like  the  crash 
of  iron  ? 

[F.rcLio  runs  in  hastily. 

Meg.  They're  diguing  in  my  garden. — Hey! 

whore  is  he  ? 

He's  gone,  and  left  me  in  uncertainty. — 
He  treats  me  with  disdain,  because  he  sees 
I  court  his  friendship.     'Tis  the  way  of  them  : 


If  a  rich  man  seek  favour  from  a  poor  one, 
The  poor  man  is  afraid  to  treat  with  him, 
And  by  his  awkward  fears  hurts  his  own  in- 
terest ; 

Then,  when  the  opportunity  is  lost, 
Too  late  he  wishes  to  recover  it. 

Eucl.  (returning,  and  speaks  to  his  maid  within.) 
If  I  don't  tear  your  tongue  out  from  the  root, 
I'll  give  them  leave  to  unman  me. 

Mcs.  Oh,  I  see 

You  think  me  a  fit  object  for  your  sport, 
Though  at  these  years;  but  sure  I  don't  deserve  it. 

Eucl.  Not  I  indeed ; — nor  could  I,  if  I  would. 

Meg.  Well,  will  you  now  betroth  your  daughter 
to  me  ? 

Eucl.  Upon  the  terms'  I  said, — without  a  por- 
tion. 

Meg.  You  do  betroth  her  then  ? 

Eucl.  I  do  betroth  her. 

Heavens  prosper  it ! 

Meg.  I  say  the  same. 

Eucl.  Remember, 

'Tis  the  agreement,  that  she  brings  no  dowry. 

Meg.  I  shan't  forget  it. 

Eucl.  But  I  know  your  tricks : 

'Tis  off  or  on,  'tis  done  or  not  done,  with  you, 
Just  as  you  like. 

Meg.  We  shall  have  no  dispute. 

What  hinders  but  the  wedding  be  to-day? 

Eucl.  'Tis  best. 

Meg.         I'll  go  then,  and  get  all  things  ready. 
Would  you  aught  else  ? 

EucL  Nothing  but  what  you  say. 

Meg.  It  shall  be  done.     Your  servant. — 
(calling  at  the  door  of  his  house.)       Stasimus— 

(Stasimus  enters.) 
Here,  follow  me  directly  to  the  market. 

[MEGADORUS  goes  off  with   STASIMUS. 

SCENE   VII. 
EUCLIO  alone. 

He's  gone. — Ye  gods,  what  cannot  money  do ! 
He  must  have  heard,  that  I've  a  hoard  within : 
'Tis  that  he  wants;  and  therefore  has  he  been 
So  obstinately  bent  on  this  alliance. 
(calling.)  Where  are  you? — you,  that  have  run 

gossiping, 

And  chitter-chattering  to  all  the  neighbours, 
That  I  would  give  a  portion  with  my  daughter? 
Hoa,  Staphila,— .1  call  you. — don't  you  hear  ? 

SCENE  VIII. 

Enter  STAPHILA. 

Eucl.  Make  haste,  and  clean  the  vessels  for  a 

sacrifice. 

I  have  betroth'd  my  daughter,  and  to-day 
She  marries  with  our  neighbour  MeLradoru?. 
Staph.  Heavens,  blessings  on't ! — but  'faith  it 

cannot  be : 
It  is  too  sudden. 

Enrl.  Silence,  and  begone  : 

See  that  all  things  be  ready  by  the  time 
I  return  home  from  market;  and  d'ye  hear? 
Fasten  the  door :  I  shall  be  back  directly. 

[Exit  EUCLIO. 


328 


PLAUTUS. 


SQENE   IX. 
STAPHILA  alone. 

What's  to  be  done  now  ?  we  are  both  of  us, 
I  and  my  mistress,  on  the  brink  of  ruin. 
She's  just  upon  delivery,  and  her  shame 
Must  come  at  last  to  light ;  what  hitherto 
We  have  conceal'd.  we  can  no  longer  hide. 
I'll  in,  and  do  what  master  order 'd  me 
Against  his  coming.     Troth,  I'm  sore  afraid, — 
Poor  I  shall  have  a  bitter  pill  to  swallow. 

[Exit 

ACT  II.     SCENE  I. 

Enter  STASIMUS   with  ANTHRAX   and  CONGRIO, 

cooks,  music-girls,  and  others  carrying  provisions. 

Stas.  After  my  master  had  bought  these  provi- 
sions, 

And  hir'd  these  cooks  and  music-girls,  he  bade  me 
Divide  them  equally  into  two  parts. 

Cong.  In  troth  you  shan't  split  me,  I  tell  you 

bluntly  : 
If  you  will  have  me  whole,  I'm  at  your  service. 

Stas.  You  put  a  wrong  construction   on  my 

words ; — 
My  master's  to  be  married. 

Cong.  Ay !  to  whom  ? 

Stas.  The  daughter  of  our  neighbour  here,  old 

Euclio; 

And  therefore,  he  has  bid  me  give  him  half 
Of  these  provisions,  with  one  cook,  one  music-girl. 

Jlnth.  So  he's  to  have  one-half,  and  you  the 
other. 

Stas.  Just  as  you  say. 

Jlnth.  What !  could  not  he  himself 

Make  entertainment  at  his  daughter's  wedding1? 

Stas.  Pshaw! 

Jlnth.  What's  the  matter  ? 

Stas.  What's  the  matter,  ask  you? 

A  pumice  stone  is  not  so  dry  as  he. 

Jlnth.  And  is  it  as  you  say  ? 

Stas.  Be  judge  yourself. — 

He's  ever  crying  out  on  gods  and  men 
That  he  is  ruin'd,  absolutely  mtirder'd, 
If  any  smoke  comes  from  his  kitchen-chimney. 
Nay,  when  he  goes  to  bed,  he  ties  a  bag 
Close  to  his  gullet. 

Jlnth.  Why  ? 

Stas.  That  he  may'nt  lose 

The  smallest  portion  of  his  breath  in  sleeping. 
Do  you  know  further1?  He  will  even  weep 
To  throw  away  the  water  he  has  wash'd  with. 

Jlnth.  Think  you,  we  can  persuade  the  old 

curmudgeon 
To  give  us  a  round  sum  to  buy  our  freedom  ? 

Stas.  Were  you  to  ask  for  hunger,  he'd  refuse 

you. 

When  t'other  day  the  barber  cut  his  nails, 
He  gather'd  up  and  brought  away  the  parings. 

Jlnth.  'Tis  a  most  stingy  wretch,  as  you  describe 
him. 

Stas.  A  kite  once  stole  his  scrap  of  supper : 

straight 

Our  don  went  howling  to  the  Praetor,  begging  him 
To  make  the  thief  give  bail  for  his  appearance. 
A  thousand  other  things  I  could  relate, 


If  I  had  leisure. — But  come,  follow  me. 

(Stasimus  goes  tip  to  Eudio's  house.') 

Ho !  Staphila ! — open  the  door. 

Staph.  (within.)  Who  call's  there  1 

Stas.  Stasimus. 

SCENE  II. 
Enter  STAPHILA. 

Staph*  What  is't  you  want? 

Stas.  Take  in  these  cooks,  this  music-girl,  and 

these 

Provisions  for  the  wedding. — Megadorus 
Has  order'd  me  to  send  them  in  to  Euclio. 

Staph.  This   wedding   is    in   honour  then   of 

Ceres  ? 
Stas.  Why? 
Staph.  As   I   understand,  you've   brought  no 

wine. 

Stas.  But  'twill  be  brought  anon,  when  sir  re- 
turns 
From  market. — Shew  them  in : — 

Staph.  Come,  follow  me. 

[STAPHILA,  cooks,  fyc.,  go  into  EUCLID'S  house,  and 

STASIMUS,  with  the  rest,  go  into  MEGADORUS'. 

SCENE  IV. 
Enter  EUCLIO. 

I  would  at  last  have  found  it  in  my  heart 
To  have  done  things  handsome  at  my  daughter's 

wedding. 

I  went  to  th'  market,  ask'd  the  price  of  fish, — 
And   found   it  very  dear,  —  lamb  dear,  —  beef 

dear, — 

Veal  dear, — nay,  ev'ry  thing  in  short  was  dear : 
What  made  them  dearer  still,  I  had  not  money. 
Seeing  that  there  was  nothing  I  could  purchase, 
I  came  away  in  rage,  and  bade  adieu 
To  the  vile  rascals.     As  I  trudg'd  along, 
I  with  myself  reflected,  "  Feast  to-day, 
Makes  fast  to-morrow  :"  so  I  brought  my  mind 
And  stomach  to  this  wise  resolve, — to  marry 
My  daughter  with  as  little  charge  as  possible.— 
But  ha  !  what  do  I  see  ?  The  door  is  open  ! 
And   there's    a  noise   within!    I'm   robb'd,  I'm 

plunder'tl ! 
Cong,  (within.]  Go  borrow  if  you  can,  a  larger 

pot 

Among  the  neighbourhood  :  this  is  too  little  ; 
It  will  not- hold  enough. 

Eucl.  O,  I'm  undone! 

They've  seiz'd  my  gold,  they're  asking  for  my  pot. 
I'm  a  dead  man,  if  I  don't  run  this  instant. 
Apollo,  come  to  my  assistance,  kill 
These  robbers  with  your  arrows:  you  have  help'd 

me 

Upon  a  like  occasion  heretofore. 
But  why  do  I  delay  from  running  in, 
Before  I'm  ruin:d  past  recovery  ? 

[Runs  in  hastily. 

ACT  III.     SCENE  I. 
Enter  ANTHRAX  from  MEGADORUS'  house. 

(Speaking  to  some  one  within.) 
Here,  Dromo,  scale  those  fishes, — and  do  you, 
Machaerio,  split  that  conger  and  that  lamprey, 


PLAUTUS. 


329 


As    fast   as   possible, — d'ye    hear?  —  and   bone 

them. 

I'm  only  stepping  to  next  door  to  borrow 
A  baking-pan  of  Congrio. — See,  you  pick 
That  capon  clean  as  a  young  actor's  chin.— 
How  now?    what   means   this   uproar  at    next 

door? 

The  cooks  are  at  it,  I  suppose.    I'll  in, 
For  fear  that  ours  should  make  the  same  disturb- 
ance. [Goes  in. 

SCENE    II 

Enter  CONGRIO  hastily  from  EUCLIO'S  house. 
Room,  room,  good  citizens,  dear  countrymen, 
Inhabitants,  and  strangers,  give  me  way, 
Let  me  have  room  to  run,  clear  all  the  streets 
Before  me. — Never  did  I  till  this  day 
Go  cook  for  Bacchants  at  a  Bacchanal's ; 
I  and  my  comrades  are  so  bruis'd,  so  cudgel'd,* 
I'm  sore  all  over,  I  am  scarce  alive, 
The  old  hunks  has  belaboured  me  so  lustily 
By  way  of  exercise. — I  never  saw 
A  man  in  all  my  life  so  generous, 
So  liberal  of  his  wood  rf  for  he  has  loaded 
Me  and  my  fellow-cooks  with  sticks  in  plenty. 
Ha !  I  am  ruin'd,  I  am  dead,  I'm  done  for : 
The  Bacchanal  now  opens, — here  he  comes, 
Close  after  me : — I  know  what  I'm  to  do, — 
Take  to  my  heels, — for  so  my  master  taught  me. 

[Going  off. 

SCENE  HI. 
Enter  EUCLIO. 
Eucl.  Come  back, — where  are  you  running  ? — 

Stop  him,  stop  him. 
Cong.  You  fool,  why  do  you  bawl  so? 
Kin-1.  I  will  give 

Your  name  in  to  the  magistrate. 

Cons.  For  what? 

Eucl.  Because  you  have  a  knife  stuck  in  your 

girdle. 

Cong.  Why  so  a  cook  should  have,  (brandish- 
ing if.) 

Eucl.  What !  do  you  threaten  me  ? 

Cong.  By  good  rights,  I  should  sheath  it  in  your 

iTIltS. 

Eucl.  There's  not  a  greater  rascal  breathing, 

one 
That  I  should  take  so  much  delight  to  cudgel. 

Cong.  You  need  not  tell  me  so ;  the  thing  is 

man 

I  know  it  with  a  witness :  you  have  made 
My  limbs  as  soft  and  pliant  as  a  tumbler's. 
But  prithee,  you  poor  dog.  what  ha<  pnivnk'd  you 
To  treat  us  in  this  manner  ?   what's  the  matter  < 

Eucl.  D'ye  ask  ?  What,  have  I  not  giv'n  you 
enough?  (going  to  strike  Aim.) 

Cons.  Let  me  alone. — If  this  head  think  at  all, 
I'll  make  you  suffer  fur't. 

End.  I  can't  toll  what 

Your  head  will  think;  I  now  know  what  it  feels. 


*  This  alludes  to  the  feasts  of  Karelin*.  :it  which  the 
Bacchanalian  women  ran  about  with  frightful  costures, 
striking  every  one  tln-y  met  with  tln>ir  thyrs',  or  wands. 

t  This  is  a  joke  in  the  original,  alluding  to  firewood  for 
dressing  victuals,  and  cudgels. 
42 


But  pray  what  business  had  you  in  my  house, 
When  I  was  absent?  Did  I  send  you  there? 
I  should  be  glad  to  know. 

Cong.  Don't  make  a  noise  then. — 

We  came  to  dress  the  wedding  supper. 

Eucl.  Plague ! 

What  is't  to  you,  whether  I  eat  my  meat 
Or  dress'd  or  raw,  except  you  are  my  guardian? 

Cong.  I  should  be  glad  to  know,  whether  or 

not 
You'll  let  us  dress  the  supper? 

End.  And  I  too, 

I  should  be  glad  to  know,  whether  my  house 
Is  safe. 

Cong.     I  wish  I  had  my  things  again, 
Which  I  brought  with  me ;  I  should  hardly  meddle 
With  anything  of  yours. 

Eucl.  Well,  say  no  more. 

Cong.  But  wherefore  won't  you  let  us  dress 
the  supper? 

Eucl.  D'ye  ask,  you  rascal,  when  ye  have  been 

prying 

In  every  nook  and  corner  of  my  house, 
Made  it  a  downright  thoroughfare? — But  had 

you 

Stuck  to  your  fireside  as  it  was  your  business. 
You  had  not  had  your  crown  split,  as  you've 

merited. 
But  now,  that  you  may  know  my  mind,  I'll  tell 

you; 

Come  but  a  step  here  nearer  to  the  door, 
Unless  I  order  you,  and  I  will  make  you 
The  most  unhappy  of  all  mortals. — So, — 
D'ye  know  my  mind  now?  Whither  are  you 

going  ? 
Come  back  again.  [Eucuo  goes  in. 

Cong.  Laverna  be  my  friend.* 

(holloaing  after  Euclio.) 

Hark  ye  me  now,  if  you  don't  give  me  back 
The  utensils  I  brought  here,  I  will  expose  you 
Before  your  own  door. — What  now  shall  I  do  ? 
I  have  been  hired  for  a  good  round  sum, 
But  it  will  cost  me  more  to  pay  the  surgeon. 

SCENE  IV. 
Re-enter  EUCLIO  with  the  pot  of  money. 

Eucl.  Well,  by  my  faith,  this  shall  accompany 

me 

Where'er  I  eo,  I'll  always  bear  it  with  me, 
Nor  will  I  ever  trust  it  in  such  danger. — 
(to  Cong,  fyc.)  Get  ye  all  in,  cooks,  music-girls, 

and  all ; 

Nay,  you  may  introduce  too  a  whole  tribe 
Of  hirelings,  if  you  will.       Fry,  stew,  bake,  boil, 
Make  as  much  stir  and  bustle  as  you  please. 
Cong.  Faith  in  good  time,  when  you  have  cleft 

our  skulls. 
Euc.  Get  you  in,  sirrah. — You  was  hired  to 

work, 
Not  prate. 

Cong.         Ha!  are  you  there,  old  gentleman ? 


*  The  goddess  to  whom  thieves  addressed  themselves. 
So  Horace,  in  his  sixteenth  epistle,  book  i. 

Pnlchra  Laverna, 

Da  mini  fallere,  da  justo  sanctoque  videri. 
2c  2 


330 


PLAUTUS. 


I  shall  expect  you'll  pay  me  for  my  bruises  : 
For  I  was  hired  to  cook,  not  to  be  drubb'd. 

End.  The  law  is  open :  don't  be  troublesome. 
Go  dress  the  supper,  or  go  hang  yourself. 

Cong.  Nay,    prithee    go   yourself,    sir,   if  you 
please.  [CoxGRio  goes  in. 

SCEXE  V. 
EUCLID  alone. 

He's  gone. — Good  heavens!  how  rash  a  thing  it  is 
For  a  poor  man  like  me  to  have  concern 
Or  dealings  with  a  rich  one.     Megadorus 
Tries  to  surprise  me  every  way  whatever. 
Under  pretence,  forsooth,  to  do  me 'honour, 
He  sent  these  cooks  in  to  purloin  this  from  me. 

(pointing  to  his  pot.} 

The  cock  too,  which  belongs  to  the  old  jade, 
Had  near  undone  me :  he  began  to  scratch 
The  ground  up  all  about,  where  this  was  buried. 
It  so  provok'd  me,  that  I  took  a  stick, 
And  knock'd  him  on  the  head  at  once ; — the  thief! 
I  caught  him  in  the  very  act. — No  doubt 
The  cooks  had  promis'd  to  reward  the  villain, 
If  he  could  make  discovery  ;  but  I  snatch 'd 
The  means  out  of  their  hands, — to  say  no  more, 
I  slew  the  dunghill  knave. — But  Megadorus, 
My  son-in-law,  comes  hither  from  the  market. 
I  dare  not  pass  him :  I  must  stop,  and  speak  to  him. 

SCENE  VI. 

Enter  MEGADOB.TJS  at  a  distance. 
Meg.  I  have  communicated  my  design, 
Touching  this  match,  to  many  of  my  friends : 
They're  lavish  in  their  praises  of  the  girl, 
And  say,  'tis  wisely  and  discreetly  done. 
Indeed,  were  other  men  to  do  the  same, 
If  men  of  ample  means  would  take  for  wives 
The  daughters  of  the  poorer  sort  unportioned, 
There  would  be  greater  concord  in  the  state, 
We  should  have  Jess  of  envy  than  we  have, 
Wives  would  be  more  in  dread  of  acting  wrong 
Than  now  they  stand  in,  husbands  too  would  live 
At  less  expense  than  they  are  at,  at  present. 
The  greater  part  would  be  advantag'd  by  it;— 
Though  a  few  niggard  wretches  might  object, 
Whose  greedy  and  insatiate  dispositions 
No  law  can  check,  no  magistrate  set  bounds  to. 
But  'twill  be  said, — suppose  this  rule  should  hold 
In  favour  of  the  poor,  how  shall  the  rich, 
Those  maidens  that  have  portions,  get  them  hus- 
bands ? 

Why  let  them  marry  whom  they  will,  provided 
Their  portion  do  not  go  along  with  them. 
Were  this  the  case,  our  girls  would  be  solicitous 
About  their  manners,  rather  than  their  portions. 
End.  (overhearing.}  Now,  by  the  gods,  I  hear 

him  with  delight : 
I'm  sure  he  loves  economy  by  his  talk. 

Meg.  No  wife  would  then  say  twittingly, — 

"I've  brought  you 

A  larger  portion  than  your  own  estate : 
It  is  but  just  then  I  should  have  fine  clothes, 
Maids,  mules,  and  muleteers,  lackeys,  and  lads 
To  carry  how-d'yes,*  carriages  to  ride  in." 

*  Salutigerulos  pueros. 


End.  How  well  he  knows  the  fashions  of  our 

ladies ! 

Would  he  were  made  inspector  of  their  mo- 
rals! 

Meg.  Go  where  you  will,  you'll  see  more  car- 
riages 

Than  in  the  country  at  a  country  villa. — 
But  this  is  light,  compar'd  to  other  charges. — 
The  scourer  comes  for  payment,  the  embroid- 
erer, 

The  jeweller,  the  clothier,  tissue-weavers, 
Dyers  in  sundry  colours,  mantuaTmakers, 
Perfumers,  haberdashers,  linen-drapers, 
Shoemakers,  milliners,  and  many  more, 
Who  gain  a  livelihood  by  women's  gear. 
Well, — these  are  satisfied :  a  thousand  others 
Block  up  your  gates  like  guards  before  a  prison. 
You  pay  them  :  these  are  satisfied  :  yet  still 
More  come,  and  more ;  still  one  damn'd  plague 

or  other, 

To  tease  and  press  you  evermore  for  money. 
All  these,  and  many  other  inconveniences 
With  unsupportable  expenses,  wait 
On  ample  portions :  maidens,  that  come  dower- 
less, 

Are  ever  in  their  husbands'  power ;  but  dames 
With  full-swoln  portions,  are  their  plague  and 

ruin. 

But  see — my  father-in-law  before  his  door. — 
(advancing}  Euclio!  how  fares  it? 

End.  I've  been  greedily 

Devouring  your  discourse. 

Meg.  You've  overheard  me  ? 

Eud.  From  the  beginning,  ev'ry  word. 

Meg.  Methinks 

You  should  be  somewhat  smarter,  better  dress'd, 
Upon  your  daughter's  wedding  day. 

Eud.  Why,  ev'ry  one 

Should  cut  his  coat  according  to  his  cloth: 
Those,  that  have  wherewithal,  should  bear  in 

mind 

To  act  becoming  of  their  birth  and  station. 
My  circumstances  rank  me  with  the  poor, 
Nor  are  they  better  than  opinion  speaks  them. 

Meg.  Surely  they  are,  and  may  the  gods  still 

add 
To  what  you  have  at  present. 

Eud.  (aside.]  Have  at  present! 

I  don't  like  that. — He  knows  what  I  have  got 
As  well  as  I  myself:  th'  old  jade  has  told  it. 

Meg.  Why  do  you  talk  apart? 

Eud.  I  was  considering, 

How  I  should  rate  you  soundly. 

Meg.  What's  the  matter? 

Eud.  D'ye  ask  me,  what's  the  matter  ?   You've 

undone  me. 

Fill'd  every  nook  and  corner  of  my  house 
With  thieves  and  pick-locks. 

Meg.  Come,  come,  I  intend 

To  take  a  cup  with  you. 

Eud.  I  shall  not  drink. 

Meg.  I'll  bid  them  bring  a  cask  of  good  old 

wine 
From  my  own  cellar. 

Eud.  I'll  not  touch  a  drop, 

I  am  resolv'd  to  drink  nothing  but  water, 


PLAUTUS. 


331 


Meg.  You    shall   be    soak'd  with  wine,   seas 

over,  you 

That  are  resolv'd  to  drink  nothing  but  water. 
Eucl.  (aside.)  I    know  what   he    designs :    he 

goes  the  way 

To  knock  me  up  with  drinking,  and  transport 
That  which  I  hold  here  to  another  quarter. 
But  I'll  prevent  him :  for  I'll  hide  it  somewhere 
Out  of  the  house :  so  shall  he  lose  his  labour, 
And  wine,  too,  in  the  bargain. 

Me*.  Have  yon  any 

Further  commands  with  me  <    I'll  go  and  bathe, 
So  shall  I  be  prepar'd  to  sacrifice.* 

[Exit. 

SCENE  VII. 
EUCLID  alone. 

.Afy  dear  Pot!  thou  hast  many  enemies, 
So  has  the  gold  committed  to  thy  care. — 
The  best  that  I  can  do  now  is  to  carry  thee 
Straight  to  the  temple  of  the  Goddess  Faith, 
There  hide  thee. — Faith,  thou  know'st  me,  and  I 

thee. 
Beware   thee,   that   thou   dost   not   change    thy 

name, 

[f  I  intrust  thee  with  this  charge. — I  come, 
Good  Faith,  relying  on  thy  confidence. 

[Goes  into  the  temple  of  Faith. 

ACT  IV.     SCENE  I. 
Enter  STROBILUS. 

Tis  a  good  servant's  duty  to  behave 
As  I  do, — to  obey  his  master's  orders 
Without  delay  or  grumbling:  for  whoever 
Seeks  to  demean  him  to  his  master's  liking, 
Ouirlit  to  be  quick  in  what  concerns  his  master, 
And  slow  to  serve  himself:  his  very  dreain^. 
When  sleeping,  should  remind  him  what  he  is. 
If  any  serve  a  master  that's  in  Jove, 
(As  I  do  for  example)  and  he  find 
His  passion  has  subdued  him,  'tis  his  duty 
!  \>  him  back,  restrain  him  for  his  good, 

Not  push  him  forward,  where  his  inclinations 
Hurry  him  on.     As  boys  that  learn  to  swim, 

n  a  kind  of  raft  compos'd  of  rushes, 
That  they  may  labour  less,  and  move  their  hands, 

.vim  more  easily;  so  should  a  servant 
Buoy  up  his  master,  that  is  plung'd  in  love, 
From  sinking  like  a  plummet. — Such  a  one 
Will  read  his  master's  pleasure  in  his  looks, 
And  what  he  orders  haste  to  execute, 
As  quick  as  lightning.      Whatsoever  servant 

••.  \vili  never  feel  the  lash. 
Nor  make  his  fetters  bright  by  constant  wear. 
My  master  is  enamour'd  with  the  daughter 
Of  this  poor  fellow  Euclio,  and  has  learn'd 
She's  to  be  married  to  our  Megadorus. 
He  therefore  sent  me  hither  as  a  spy, 
To  inform  him  of  what  passes. — I  may  seat  me 
1  liy  this  altar  here  without  suspicion  : 

Whence  I  can  learn  what's  doing  on  all  sides. 

(Sits  dmon  by  an  «//</r.) 

*  The  ancients  never  set  about  any  thins  of  conse- 
quence without  making  a  sacrifice,  before  which  they 
used  to  bathe,  that  they  might  come  pure  to  the  altar. 


SCENE  II. 

Enter  ErcLio/row  the  temple  of  Faith. 
Good  Faith,  discover  not  to  any  one, 
That  here  my  gold  is  plac'd  :  I  have  no  fear, 
That  any  one  will  find  it,  it  is  lodg'd 
So  privily. — On  my  troth,  if  any  one 
Should  find  this  pot  cramm'd  full  of  gold,  he'd 

have 

A  charming  booty  on't :  but  I  beseech  you 
Prevent  it,  Faith !  [Exit. 

SCENE  HI. 

STROBILUS  from  his  lurking-place. 
What  did  I  hear  him  say  ? — Immortal  gods ! 
That  he  had  hid  a  pot,  brimfull  of  gold, 
Here  in  this  temple. — I  beseech  you,  Faith, 
Be  not  to  him  more  faithful  than  to  me. 
This  is  the  father,  if  I  don't  mistake, 
Of  her  my  master  is  enamour'd  with. 
I'll  in,  and  rummage  the  whole  temple  o'er 
To  find  this  treasure,  now  that  he's  employ'd. 
If  I  do  find  it,  Faith,  I'll  offer  you 
A  gallon  full  of  wine,  and  faithful  measure 
I'll  offer,— but  I'll  drink  it  all  myself. 

[Goes  to  the  temple  of  Faith. 

SCENE  IV. 
EUCLIO  returning. 

'Tis  not  for  nothing  that  I  heard  the  raven 
On   my  left   hand :   and   once   he    scrap'd    the 

ground, 

And  then  he  croak'd  :  it  made  my  heart  to  jump 
And  flutter  in  my  breast.    Why  don't  I  run. 

SCENE  V. 

EUCLIO  dragging  out  STROBILUS. 
Out,  earthworm,  out,  who  but  a  moment  past 
Crept  under  ground,  wert  no  where  to  be  seen ; 
But  now  thou  dost  appear,  'tis  over  with  thee. 
Rascal,  I'll  be  thy  death. 

Strob.  What  a  plague  ails  you  ? 

What  business  have  you,  you  old  wretch,  with 

me? 

Why  do  you  lug  me  so?  what  makes  you  beat  me  ? 
Eucl.  D'ye  ask  ?  you  whipping-stock !  you  vil- 
lainous thief! 

Not  one  alone,  but  all  the  thieves  together ! 
Strob.  What  have  I  stolen  of  yours  ? 
Eucl.  Restore  it  to  me. 

Strob.  Restore  it  ?  what  ? 
/•:/"/.  D'ye  ask? 

Strob.  I've  taken  nothing. 

r.nrl.  Come,  give  me  what  you've  got. 
Strob.  What  are  you  at? 

Eucl.  What  am  I  at  ? — You  shall  not  carry  it  off. 
Strob.  What  is  it  you  would  have  ? 
Em!.  Come,  lay  it  down. 

Strob.  Why  we   have  laid   no  wager,  that  I 

know  of. 
Eucl.  Come,  come,  no  joking ;   lay  it  down,  I 

.        say. 
Strob.  What  must  I  lay  down?  tell  me,  name 

it  to  me : 

I  have  not  touch 'd,  nor  taken  any  thing. 
Eucl.  Show  me  your  hands. 


332 


PLAUTUS. 


Strob.  Here  they  are. 

Eud,  Show  them  me. 

Strob.  Why  here  they  are. 

Eucl.  I  see — show  me  your  third  hand. 

Strob.  (aside.)  Sure  the  old  fellow's  crazy;  he's 

bewitch'd. 
Prithee,  now  don't  you  use  me  very  ill? 

Eucl.  Very  ill  truly,  not  to  have  you  hang'd, — 
Whicli  I  will  do,  if  now  you  don't  confess. 

Strob.  Don't  confess  what? 

Eud.  What  did  you  take  from  hence  ? 

Strob.  May  I  be  curs'd,  if  I  took  any  thing 
Belonging  to  you,  or  desired  it,  I — 

Eud.  Come,  come,  pull  off  your  cloak. 

Strob.  (pulling  it  off.)  Just  as  you  please. 

Eud.  You  may  have  hid  it  under  your  clothes. 

Strob.  Search  where  you  will. 

Eud.  (aside.)  The  rogue,  how  civil  is  he 

That  I  may  not  suspect! — I  know  his  tricks. 
Once  more  show  me  your  right  hand. 

Strob.  Here  it  is. 

Eud.  Well — now  show  me  your  left. 

Strob.  Here  they  are  both. 

Eud.  Come, — I  will  search  no  further, — give 
it  me. 

Strob.  What  must  I  give  you  ? 

Eud.  Pshaw !  don't  trifle  with  me. 

You  certainly  have  got  it. 

Strob.  Got?  Got  what? 

Eud.  So, — you  would  have  me  name  it ; — but 

I  will  not. 
Restore  whatever  you  have  got  of  mine. 

Strob.  You're  mad  sure. — You  have   search'd 

me  at  your  pleasure, 
And  you  have  found  nothing  of  yours  upon  me. 

Eud.  Stay,  stay, — who  was  that  other  with  you 

yonder  ? 

(aside.)  I'm  ruin'd!  he's  at  work  within;  and  if 
I  let  him  go,  this  other  will  escape. 
I've  search'd  him,  it  is  true,  and  he  has  nothing. 
(to  Strob.)  Go  where  you  will,  and  may  the  gods 
confound  you! 

Strob.  I'm  much  oblig'd  to  you  for  your  kind 
wishes. 

Eud.  I'll  in,  and,  if  I  light  on  your  accomplice, 
I'll  strangle  him. — Out  of  my  sight — begone. 

Strob.  I  go. 

Eud.  And  never  let  me  see  you  more. 

[EucLio  goes  into  the  temple. 

SCENE  VI. 
STROBILUS  alone. 

I'd  rather  die  the  worst  of  deaths,  than  now 
Not  lay  an  ambush  for  this  old  man's  money. 
He  will  not  dare  to  hide  it  here,  I  fancy ; 
But  he  will  bring  it  out  with  him,  and  change 
Its  situation. — Hush,  the  door  is  opening, 
And  out  he  comes,  the  old  hunks,  with  his  trea- 
sure. 
I'll  draw  a  little  nearer  to  the  gate  here. 

[Skulks  on  one  side. 

SCENE  VII. 

Euctio  returns  with  his  pot  of  money. 
Now, — let  me  see — where  can  I  find  a  place, 
A  lonely  one,  where  I  may  hide  this  treasure? 


(meditating.)  There  is  a  grove,  without  the  city 

walls, 

That's  sacred  to  Sylvanus,  unfrequented, 
Thick  set  with  willows :  on  that  spot  I'll  fix. 
Sylvanus  will  I  sooner  trust  than  Faith. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  VIII. 
STROBILUS  alone. 

I'll  run  before  him,  climb  into  a  tree, 
And    watch   where   this   old   fellow  hides   his 

money. 

My  master  bade  me  wait  here, — but  no  matter; 
I'll  risk  mishap  in  quest  of  such  advantage. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  IX. 

Enter  LYCONIDES  and  ETTNOMIA. 
Lye.  I've  told  you  all,  good  mother :  you  are 

now 

As  well  acquainted  as  myself  with  all 
Concerning  Euclio's  daughter.     My  dear  mother 
I  now  unask  you  what  I  ask'd  before : — 
Impart  it  to  my  uncle,  I  beseech  you. 

Eun.  Your  will,  you  know,  is  mine,  son ;  and 

I  trust 

I  shall  obtain  my  brother's  approbation ; 
And  there  is  reason  good,  if,  as  you  say, 
You  us'd  her  unbecomingly  in  liquor. 

Lye.  You  cannot  think  I'd  tell  you  an  untruth. 

PH^DRIA  urithin. 
My  pangs  come  on — Help,  help,  nurse  I  I  shall 

die ! 
Juno  Lucina,  save  me  !* 

Lye.  Hark,  good  mother ! 

This  is  a  further  proof:  she's  crying  out, 
She's  now  in  labour. 

Eun.  Come  then,  my  dear  son, 

You  shall  go  in  here  with  me  to  my  brother, 
And  I'll  persuade  him  to  forego  his  marriage. 
Lye.  I'll  follow  you  this  instant. 

[EUNOMIA  goes  in. 

SCENE  X. 
•  LYCONIDES  alone. 

I'm  amazed 

Where  Strobilus  can  be,  when  I  had  order'd  him 
To  wait  me  here.     And  yet,  upon  reflection, 
If  he  is  absent  now  to  do  me  service, 
It  would  be  wrong  to  be  offended  with  him. 
I'll  in  then,  where  they  sit  in  judgment  on  me. 

[Exit. 

ACT  V.     SCENE  I 

Enter  STHOBILUS  with  the  pot  of  money. 
The  griffins,  dwelling  on  the  golden  mountains. 
Are  not  so  rich  as  I. — Of  other  kings 
I  speak  not,  beggarly,  poor,  abject  fellows, — 
I  am  King  Philip's  self. — Fine  day  for  me ! 
Parting  from  hence  I  got  there  long  before  him, 

*  The  goddess  supposed  to  preside  over  child-birth. 
The  same  circumstance  with  this  occurs  twice  in  Ter- 
ence, in  the  jiudrian  and  Brothers,  in  both  which  plays  s. 
very  humorous  use  is  made  of  it.  This  circumstance,  (at 
Mr.  Coleman  remarks,)  "is  not  easily  to  be  reconciled  tc 
modern  notions  of  decency,  though  certainly  considered 
as  no  indecorum  in  those  days." 


PLAUTUS. 


333 


Climb'd  up  a  tree,  and  waited  to  observe 
Where  the  old  fellow  would  conceal  his  treasure. 
When  he  was  gone,  down  slid  I  from  the  tree, 
And  dug  his  pot  up  full  of  gold  : — I  then 
Saw  him  come  back  to  the  same  place  again ; 
."But  me  he  saw  not,  for  I  turn'd  a  little 
Out  of  his  way. — Ah!  here  he  is  himself. 
I'll  go,  and  lay  this  pot  up  safe  at  home. 

[Exit. 

SCEXE  II. 
Enter  Euc^io. 

Tin  dead !  kill'd !  murder'd  !— Whither  shall  I  run  ? 
Whither  not  run? — Stop  thief!  stop  thief! — Who? 

what? 

I  know  not, — I  see  nothing. — I  walk  blind, — 
I  cannot  tell  for  certain  where  I'm  going, 
Or  where  I  am,  or  who  I  am. 

(to  the  spectators.}  *Good  people 
I  pray  you,  I  implore  you,  I  beseech  you, 
Lend  me  your   help, — show  me  the  man  who 

took  it. 

See !  in  the  garb  of  innocent  white  they  skulk 
And  sit  as  they  were  honest. 
(to  one  of  the  spectators.)  What  say  you? 

I  will  believe  you  : — You're  an  honest  fellow, — 
I  read  it  in  your  countenance. — How's  this  ? 
What  do  you  laugh  at? — O,  I  know  you  all; 
I  know  that  there  are  many  thieves  among  you. 
Hey! — none  of  you  have  got  it? — I  am  slain! — 
Tell  me  who  has  it  then? — You  do  not  know  ! 
Ah  me !  ah  woe  is  me !  I'm  lost !  I'm  ruin'd  ! 
Wholly  undone!  in  a  most  vile  condition! 
Such  grief,  such  groaning,  has  this  day  brought 

on  me. 

Hunger  and  poverty ! — I  am  a  wretch, 
The  vilest  wretch  on  earth ! — Oh,  what  have  I 
To  do  with  life,  depriv'd  of  such  a  treasure? 
A  treasure  that  I  kept  so  carefully, 
And  rnbb'd  in  v>elf  of  comfort ! — Others  now 
Rejoice   through   my   mishap,   and   make    them 

merry 
At  my  expense. — Oh  !  oh  !  I  cannot  bear  it. 

(Runs  a! unit  <rying,  stamping,  $r.) 

•  r.   III. 

LTCONIDES  entering. 

Who  can  this  bo.  that  moans  so  bitterly 
Before  <>ur  house  ? — Ha  !  it  is  Kuclio  >ure  ; 
Tis  he  I  think. — I'm  rniu'd.  all's  di~c..\-er'd. 
Hr  is  acquainted  with  his  daughter's  labour. — 
What  shall  I  do  ! — I'm  all  uncertainty. — 
Were't  best  to  go  or  stay  '. — Shall  I  accost  him, 
Or  shun  his  sight? — I  know  not  what  to  do. 
Em  I.    Who's  that,  that  speaks  t!, 


*  Molicro,  who  has  imitated  this  whole  soliloquy.  has 
not  scrupled  to  make  hia  miser  also  address  himself  to 
the  audience  in  lik»>  manner : 

"Que  de  gens  assemblers'.  Je  ne  jette  mes  regards  sur 
persnnne  (]ui  ne  me  donne  des  soupc.ons  el  tout  me  semble 
ni'in  voultMir.  I'.li  *  de  quoi  est  ce  qu'ori  parli;  l:i  \  decelui 
qui  m'a  derobe"  1  Quel  bruit  fait  on  la-haut '?  Est  ce  mon 
vouleur  qin  '.'»n  fait  de-s  noiivelles  do 

mon  voulcur  j»:  supplie  que  Ton  III'IMI  disc.  Vest-il  point 
cache"  la  parmi  vous  1  Us  me  regardent  tous,  et  se  met- 
tentarire." 


Lye.  I  sir, 

Eucl  I,  sir.  am 

A  wretch,  a  ruin'd  wretch,  such  dread  calamity, 
Such  sorrow,  has  befallen  me. 

Lye.  Take  courage. 

Eucl.  Prithee  how  can  I  ? 

Lye.  Since  the  deed,  that  now 

Troubles  your  mind,  I  did, — and  I  confess  it. 

Eucl.  What  do  I  hear  you  say  ? 

Lye.  the  truth. 

Eucl.  Young  man, 

In  what  have  I  deserv'd  such  usage  from  you, 
That  you  should  treat  me  thus,  and  go  the  way 
To  ruin  me  and  my  poor  child  ? 

Lye.  A  god  * 

Was  my  enticer ;  he  allur'd  me. 

Eucl  How  ? 

Lye.  I  own  my  crime, — I  know  I  arn  to  blame, 
And  therefore  come  I  to  implore  your  pardon. 

Eucl.  How  durst  you  lay  violent  hands  on  that 
You  had  no  right  to  touch  ?* 

Lye.  'Tis  past. — What's  done 

Cannot  be  undone. — I  believe  the  gods 
Would  have  it  so :  if  not,  it  had  not  been. 

Eucl.  I  believe  the  gods  would  have  me  hang 

myself 
Before  your  face. 

Lye.  Ah !  say  not  so. 

Eucl.  But  why 

Would  you  lay  hands,  I  pray,  on  what  was  mine, 
Against  my  inclination  ? 

Lye.  Love  and  wine 

Did  prompt  me. 

Eucl.  What  consummate  impudence  ! 

How  dare  you  come  to  me  with  such  a  speech  ? 
If  this  is  right,  if  this  excuse  will  hold, 
Why  we  may  strip  a  lady  of  her  jewels 
In  open  daylight, — then,  if  we  are  taken, 
Plead  in  excuse,  forsooth,  that  love  and  wine 
Led  us  to  do  it. — Oh,  this  love  and  wine 
Are  of  great  value,  if  they  can  empower 
The  lover  and  the  drunkard  to  indulge 
In  whatsoever  likes  him  with  impunity. 

Lye.  I  come  to  beg  you  to  forgive  my  folly. 

Eucl.  I  relish  not  these  fellows,  who  commit 
A  misdemeanor,  and  then  dare  defend  it. 
You  knew  you  had  no  right ;  not  being  yours, 
You  should  have  kept  hands  off. 

Lyr.  But  as  I  dar'd 

Make  the  attempt,  I  shall  have  no  objection 
To  have  and  hold. 

Eucl.  To  have  and  hold  what's  mine, 

At  my  disposal? — and  against  my  will  ? 


*  This  whole  scene  very  humourously  turns  upon  Eu- 
clio  and  l.yconides  mistaking  one  another's  iiit:aiiinir ; 
Euclio  all  the  while  Mipposins  that  l.yconides  is  talking 
of  the  pot,  when  he  is  speaking  of  the  old  man's  dauirhtcr. 
Thin  is  happily  expressed  in  the  original,  on  account  of 
the  Latin  idiom,  the  word  olla  (which  signifies  n  pot.) 
having  a  feminine  termination.  Molierc.  ben 
of  the  same  advantage  in  the  French  tongue,  lias  avnilt-d 
himself  of  it,  and  has  managed  the  ai,ibi»uity  of  this  cir- 
ciimstanre  with  more  art  and  address  than  our  country- 
men have-  done. 

It  bein::  impossible  to  preserve  the  equivoque  of  the 
original  exactly,  I  have  been  obliged  to  use  some  latitude 
in  the  translation. 


334 


PLAUTUS. 


Lye.  Against  your  will  I  ask  not ; — but  I  think 
It  is  my  right,  and  you  yourself  will  find 
I  have  a  just  claim.* 

Eucl.  If  you  don't  return  me — 

Lye.  Return  you  what  ? 

Eucl.  What  you  have  stolen  of  mine, 

I'll  have  you  'fore  the  Preetor  and  commence 
A  suit  against  you. 

Lye.  Stolen  of  your's  ?  how  ?  where  ? 

What  is't  you  mean  ? 

Eucl.  As  if  you  did  not  know  ! 

Lye.  Not  I,  except  you  tell  me  what  it  is. 

Eucl.  The  pot  of  gold,  I  say,  which  you  con- 

fess'd 
You  stole, — restore  it  to  me. 

Lye.  I  ne'er  said 

A  syllable  about  it,  nor  have  taken  it. 

Eucl.  Will  you  deny  it  ? 

Lye.  Yes,  deny  it  wholly: 

Nor  do  I  know  what  gold,  what  pot,  you  mean. 

Eucl.  That  which  you  stole  out  of  Sylvanus' 

grove. 

Come,  give  it  me : — I'll  rather  halve  it  with  you. 
Though  you  have  robbed  me,  I'll  not  trouble  you: 
Come  then,  restore  it  to  me. 

Lye.  Are  you  mad, 

To  call  me  thief? — I  thought  that  you  had  got 
Scent  of  another  matter,  that  concerns  me  : 
'Tis  of  importance,  and  if  leisure  serves, 
I  should  be  glad  to  talk  with  you  upon  it. 

Eucl.  Tell  me,  upon  your  faith :  you  have  not 

stolen 
This  gold  ? 

Lye.  Upon  my  faith. 

Eucl.  And  if 

You  shall  discover  him,  you'll  reveal  him  to  me  ? 

Lye.  I'll  do't. 

Eucl.  Nor  will  you  take,  whoe'er  he  be, 

A  portion  of  the  spoil,  to  hide  the  thief? 

Lye.  I  will  not. 

Eucl.  What  if  you  deceive  me  ? 

Lye.  Then 

May  Jupiter  do  with  me  what  he  will! 

Eucl.  I'm  satisfied. — Now  tell  me,  what's  your 
pleasure  ? 

Lye.  If  you're    a   stranger    to    my  birth  and 

family, 

Know,  Megadorus  yonder,  is  my  uncle, 
My  father  was  Antimachus,  my  name 
Lycomdes,  Eunomia  is  my  mother. 

Eucl.  I  know  your  family. — Then  what's  your 

business  ? 
I  should  be  glad  to  learn. 

Lye.  You  have  a  daughter. 

Eucl.  I  have ;  she  is  within. 

Lye.  If  I  mistake  not, 

You  have  betroth'd  her  to  my  uncle. 

Eucl.  Right. 

You  know  the  whole. 

Lye.  He  has  commanded  me 

To  bring  you  his  refusal. 

Eucl.  How  ? — refusal, 


*  According  to  the  Roman  laws,  whoever  had  debauched 
a  girl  that  was  free,  was  obliged  either  to  marry  her 
himself,  without  a  portion,  or  to  give  her  such  a  portion 
as  was  suitable  to  her  station. 


When  every  thing  is  ready  for  the  wedding? 
May  all  the  gods  confound  him!  for  through  him, 
Wretch  that  I  am !  I've  lost  so  great  a  treasure.  . 

Lye.  Be  comforted :   don't  curse :   but  let  us 

hope, 

That  this  affair  will  turn  out  happily 
To  you  and  to  your  daughter. — Say,  heaven  grant 
It  may ! 

Eucl.     Heaven  grant  it  may ! 

Lye.  And  to  me  too. — 

Now  give  me  your  attention.     Never  was  there 
A  man  so  worthless,  that  had  done  a  fault, 
But  was  asharn'd,  and  sought  to  clear  himself; 
I  do  conjure  you,  Euclio,  to  forgive  me 
If  all  unwittingly  I  have  offended 
You  and  your  daughter :  give  her  me  to  wife, 
According  to  the  laws  :  for  I  confess 
That,  on  the  night  of  Ceres'  festival, 
Heated  with  liquor,  and  impell'd  by  youth, 
I  injur'd  her  fair  honour. 

Eucl.  Out  alas ! 

What  do  I  hear  ?  0  monstrous  villainy ! 

Lye.  Why  do  you  howl  thus?  It  is  true,  I've 

made  you 

A  grandsire  on  your  daughter's  wedding  day : 
She's  brought  to  bed,  ten  months  are  past,  pray 

reckon. 

On  this  account  my  uncle  Megadorus 
Sent  a  refusal.     But  go  in,  inquire 
If  'tis  not  as  I  say. 

Eucl.  Undone  for  ever! 

So  many  evils  are  conibin'd  to  plague  me. 
I'll  in,  and  know  the  truth. 

Lye.  I'll  follow  you. 

[EucLio  goes  in* 


*  As  this  scene  is  admirably  worked  up  in  Moliere,  the 
reader  will  not  perhaps  he  displeased  with  seeing  it  in  an 
English  dress.  It  is  sufficient  to  premise,  that  Valere,  a 
young  gentleman,  who  was  in  love  with  the  miser's 
daughter,  had  got  into  his  service  in  disguise;  and  when 
the  miser  had  lost  his  money,  which  his  son's  servant 
had  stolen,  Valere  was  accused  by  another  servant,  out 
of  pique,  of  having  taken  it. 

Enter  VALERE  to  HARPAGON. 

Harp.  Come,  and  confess  an  action  the  most  black, 
The  foulest  and  most  horrible  attempt, 
That  ever  was  committed. 

Vol.  What  d'ye  mean,  sir! 

Harp.  How,  traitor!  don't  you  blush  at  your  offence? 

Vol.  At  what  offence? 

Harp.  At  what  offence?  you  villain! 

As  if  you  did  not  know  what  I  would  say. 
But  'tis  in  vain  you  offer  to  disguise  it : 
The  affair's  discover'd  :  they  have  told  me  all. 
How,  how  could  you  abuse  my  kindness  thus, 
And  introduce  yourself  into  my  house 
On  purpose  to  betray  me,  to  deceive, 
And  play  me  such  a  scurvy  trick? 

Val.  Since  all 

Has  been  discover'd,  sir,  I  will  not  seek 
To  put  a  gloss  on,  or  deny  the  matter. 
'Twas  my  design  to  speak  to  you ;  I  waited 
But  for  a  fit  and  favourable  time  : 
But  since  it  thus  has  happen'd,  I  conjure  you 
Don't  be  displeas'd,  but  deign  to  hear  my  reasons. 

Harp.  And  what  fine  reasons  can  you  give?  vile  thief! 

Val.  I  have  not  merited  these  names.    'Tis  true, 
I  have  committed  an  offence  against  you : 
But,  after  all,  my  fault  is  pardonable. 


PLAUTUS. 


335 


SCENE  IV. 
LYCOJTIDES  alone. 

So,  ev'ry  thing  is  safe,  as  it  should  seem. — 
Bat  where  is  Strobilus?  I  can  find  him  nowhere. 


Harp  How!  pardonable?  what!  a  wilful  murder  ? 
A  foul  assassination  of  this  kind? 

Val.  For  heaven's  sake,  don't  put  yourself  in  rage. 
When  you  have  heard  me,  you'll  perceive  the  damage 
Is  not  so  great  as  you  imagine. 

Harp.  Not 

So  great  as  I  imagine  ?   What !  my  blood, 
My  bowels,  rogue  ? 

Vol.  Your  blood,  sir,  is  not  fall'n 

Into  bad  hands.    I'm  of  a  rank  as  will  not 
Let  it  be  wrong'd  :  there's  nothing  in  all  this, 
For  which  I  cannot  make  full  reparation. 

Harp.  'Tis  my  intention  to  oblige  you  to  it, 
Make  you  restore  what  you  have  ravish'd  from  me. 

^al.  Your  honour  shall  be  fully  satisfied. 

Harp.  Honour?  that's  not  the  question.— But  inform  me, 
What  led  you  to  this  action? 

Val.  Can  you  ask  ? 

Harp.  Yes  truly,  I  do  ask. 

Val.  A  deity, 

That  carries  his  excuse  for  all  he  does ; 
Love. 

Harp.  Love? 

Val.  Yes,  Love. 

Harp.  Fine  love !  fine  love,  i'  faith ! 

Love  of  my  louis  d'ors. 

Val.  'Tis  not  your  wealth 

Mas  tempted  me,— that  has  not  dazzled  me ; 
And  I  protest,  that  I  will  never  make 
The  least  pretence  to  any  of  your  fortune, 
Provided  you  will  let  me  keep  possession 
Inly  of  what  I  have. 

Harp.  I  will  not  do  it, 

Ry  all  the  fiends  I  will  not  let  you  have  it.— 
Behold!  what  insolence,  to  wish  to  keep 
What  he  has  robb'd  me  of! 

Val.  A  robbery 

!)•>«•  call  it,  sir? 

Harp.  A  robbery  do  I  call  it  ? 

A  treasure  such  as  this  ! 

Val.  True,  'tis  a  treasure, 

And  doubtless  the  most  precious  that  you  have : 
But  'twill  not  be  to  lose  it,  to  permit  me 
To  have  and  hold.     Upon  my  knees  I  ask  it, 
This  treasure  full  of  charms;  and,  to  do  justice, 
You  ought  to  grant  it  me. 

Harp.  I  will  not  do  it. — 

What  can  this  mean? 

Val.  We've  promis'd  one  another 

A  mutual  faith,  and  we  have  ta'en  an  oath 
Not  to  forsake  each  other. 

Ifurp.  Faith,  the  oath" 

Is  admirable,  and  the  promise  droll! 

Val.  We  are  engag'd  for  ever  to  each  other. 

Harp.  But  I  shall  break  the  contract,  I  assure  you. 

Val.  Nothing  but  death  can  part  us. 

Harp.  Yes  indeed, 

He's  devilishly  smitten  with  my  money. 

Val.  I've  told  you,  sir,  already,  'twas  not  interest, 
That  push'd  me  on  to  do  what  I  have  <Jone. 
My  In-art  \va*  never  wrought  on  by  such  springs 
As  you  imagine,  and  a  nobler  motive 
In>|>ir'd  the  resolution. 

Hurp.  So, — you'll  see 

'Tis  out  of  Christian  charity  forsooth, 
H.-'d  have  my  money.— But  I'll  find  redress; 
And  justire,  you  audacious  villain,  justice 
Shall  see  me  righted. 

Val.  Use  me  as  you  will, 

I'll  suffer  ev'ry  outrage  that  you  please  : 


Where  can  he  be? — I'll  wait  a  while  here;  then 

I'll  after  the  old  fellow :  in  the  interim 

I  will  allow  him  time  to  make  inquiry 

Of   the    old    maid,    his    daughter's   nurse;    she 

knows 
The  whole  affair. 

SCEXE  V. 
Enter  STBOBILUS. 

Strob.  0  ye  immortal  gods ! 

What  joys,  what  transports  have  you  heap'd  upon 

me! 

To  have  a  pot  of  gold  in  my  possession, 
Of  four  pounds  weight! — Who  is  so  rich  as  I? 
Was  ever  man  so  favour'd  of  the  gods? 
Lye.  Surely  I  hear  a  voice. 

But  let  me  beg,  you  will  at  least  believe, 
If  any  harm  is  done,  'tis  I  alone 
You  should  accuse  ;  your  daughter  in  all  this 
It;  no  way  culpable. 

Harp.  I  do  believe  it. 

It  had  been  strange,  if  my  own  child  had  been 
Accomplice  in  the  crime. — But  I  desire 
To  have  my  own  again  :  prithee  confess, 
Where  you  have  lodg'd— 

Val.  Lodg'd?  Nowhere  but  within. 

Harp.  O  my  dear  casket! — Not  remov'd,  you  say, 
Out  of  the  house? 

Val.  No,  sir. 

Harp.  But  tell  me  now, 

Ha'n't  you  been  dabbling? 

Val.  I,  sir,  dabbling?  Ah! 

You  wrong  us  both  :  the  flame,  with  which  I  burn, 
Is  pure,  full  of  respect. 

Harp.  Burn  for  my  casket ! 

Val.  I  would  have  perish'd  sooner  than  have  shown 
A  single  thought,  that  could  offend  such  prudence, 
Such  honour. 

Harp.  Hey!  the  honour  of  my  casket! 

Val.  All  my  desires  were  stinted  to  the  joys 
Of  sight  alone,  and  nothing  criminal 
The  passion  has  profan'd,  which  those  fair  eyes 
Inspir'd  me  with. 

Harp.  The  fair  eyes  of  my  casket! 

He  talks  on't  like  a  lover  of  his  mistress. 

Val.  Dame  Claude,  sir,  knows  the  truth  of  this  adven- 
ture, 
And  she  can  testify, — 

Harp.  How !  is  my  maid 

Accomplice  in  th'  affair? 

Val.  Yes,  she  was  witness 

Of  our  engagement;  when  she  understood 
The  honourable  purpose  of  my  flame, 
She  was  confederate  with  me  to  persuade 
Your  daughter  to  exchange  her  troth  with  mine. 

H/irp.  Hey!  does  the  fear  of  justice  make  him  rave? 
What  mean  you  by  this  stuff  about  my  daughter? 

::•  li.-v  me,  sir,  'twas  with  the  utmost  pains 
I  won  her  modesty  to  give  consent 
To  what  my  love  requested. 

Harp.  Modesty! 

Of  whom? 

Val.  Your  daughter.     'Twas  but  yesterday 

She  brought  her  mind  to't,  that  we  both  should  sign 
A  marriage-contract. 

Harp.  Has  my  daughter  sign'd 

A  marriage-contract  with  you? 

Val.  Yes,  and  I 

Have  on  my  part  sign'd  one  with  her. 

Harp.  O  heaven! 

Another  vile  disgrace!  increase  of  ill! 
Accumulation  of  despair  !  &c. 


336 


PLAUTUS. 


Strob.  (discovering  Lyconides.)  Ha !  don't  I  see 
Lyconides  my  master  ? 

Lye.  Don't  I  see 

My  servant  Strobilus  ? 

Strob.  Tis  he. 

Lye.  No  other. 

Strob.  I  will  accost  him. 

Lye.  Best  to  mend  my  pace, 

I  fancy  he  has  been  with  the  old  woman, 
My  Phsfidria's  nurse,  as  I  commanded  him. 

Strob.  What  if  I  tell  him  I  have  found  this  booty, 
And  ask  my  liberty. — I'll  up,  and  speak  to  him. 
(advancing.)  Sir  ! — I  have  found — 

Lye.  What  have  you  found  ? 

Strob.  Not  that 

Which  boys  in  play  hunt  after  in  a  bean,* 
And  if  they  chance  to  find,  cry  out  for  joy. 

Lye.  What,  at  your  trick  of  joking,  sirrah  ? 

Strob.  Hold, 

I'll  tell  you,  do  but  hear  me. 

Lye.  Well  then,  speak. 

Strob.  I  have  found  riches  in  abundance. 

Lye.  Where? 

Strob.  A  pot  brimfull  of  gold,  of  four  pounds 
weight. 

Lye.  (with  emotion.)  What's  that  you  say  ? 

Strob.  I  stole  it  from  old  Euclio. 

Lye.  Where  is  the  gold  ? 

Strob.  At  home,  sir,  in  a  chest. — 

I  should  be  glad  you'd  give  me  now  my  freedom. 

Lye.  Give  you  your  freedom?  worst  of  rogues! 

Strob.  Go,  go, 

I  know  your  meaning; — I  was  only  trying  you. — 
How  you  snapt  at  it!  what  would  you  have  done, 
If  I  indeed  had  found  it  ? 

Lye.  This  evasion 

Shall  not  avail  you. — Give  me  .up  the  gold. 

Strob.  Give  up  the  gold  ? 

Lye.  Come,  give  it  me,  I  say, 

That  I  may  render  it  to  the  right  owner. 

Strob.  Where  should  I  have  it  ? 

Lye.  You  confess'd  just  now, 

You  had  it  in  a  chest. 

Strob.  Oh,  I  am  used 

To  talk  thus  jokingly. 

Lye.  (threatening.)        But  know  you  what? 

Strob.  Nay,  kill  me,  if  you  please,  you'll  never 
get  it. 

(  The  rest  of  this  play  is  lost.     What  follows  is 
added  by  the  translator.) 

Lye.  How,  rascal ! — I  shall  find  a  way. 

Strob.  You  cannot. — 

Tie  me  up  neck  and  heels;  break  every  limb; 
Load  me  with  chains,  and  ram  me  in  a  dungeon; 
Let  thongs  and  elm-rods  be  my  only  food ; 
You  will  not  get  the  gold. — There  is  a  way, — 
.    Lye.  Speak,  what  way  ? 

Strob.  Set  me  free :  one  stroke  will  do  it. 

Lye.  Though  you  deserve  a  thousand,  I  consent 
For  my  dear  Phaedria's  sake.  Go,  bring  the  pot  here, 
And  I'll  reward  you  with  your  liberty. 

[Exit  SrnoBiLUS. 

*  The  commentators  explain  this  to  mean  a  little  worm 
or  weevil  which  is  ofte.n  found  in  vegetables.  Strobiliis 
intends  by  this  passage,  that  it  is  no  trifling  matter  he  had 
found. 


SCENE  VI. 
LTCOITIDES  alone. 

What  shall  I  do  now  ?  With  the  loss  of  this 
Already  he's  distracted,  and  I  fear  me, 
Now  that  he  knows  his  daughter  was  dishonour'd, 
He  will  suspect  me  partner  in  the  plot 
To  rob  him  of  his  gold,  and  think  I  meant 
To  dig  out  for  myself,  against  his  will, 
A  portion  with  his  daughter. — Here  comes  Stro- 
bilus. 

SCENE  VII. 
Enter  STROBILUS. 

Strob.  Come,  come  along,  thou  muckworm. 

Lye.  Whom  d'ye  speak  to  ? 

Strob.  Euclio. 

Lye.  He's  nowhere  here,  nor  any  other. 

Strob.  Nay,  but  he  is. 

Lye.  (looking  about.}  I  see  him  not. — Where 
is  he? 

Strob.  He's  here. 

Lye.  Here?  where? 

Strob.  I've  hold  of  him ;  he's  here,  (pointing  to 

the  pot.) 

All  that  he  has  of  life  and  soul,  is  here,— 
Lodg'd  in  this  pot ; — the  rest  is  but  his  shadow, 
This  is  his  substance ;  his  heart's  blood,  his  vitals ; 
'Tis  Euclio  all,  altogether. 

Lye.  Peace,  you  rascal ; 

Give  me  the  pot. 

Strob.  Suppose  you  sacrifice  him 

Upon  his  daughter's  wedding-day. — 

Lye.  No  trifling. — 

Strob.  You  will  at  least  invite  me  to  a  share. 

Lye.  Give  it  me,  this  very  instant,  or  I'll  make 
A  sacrifice  of  you. 

Strob.  You'll  give  me  then 

My  freedom,  as  you  promis'd  ? 

Lye.  Never  doubt  me. 

Strob.  Here — take  it.  (giving  the  pot.) 

Lye.  I'll  restore  it  to  old  Euclio, 

Who  will  adore  me  as  his  Joy,  his  Pleasure, 
His  Jove  Protector,  his  supreme  Salvation. — 
I'll    call    him.  —  Euclio! — Hoa!  —  Come    forth 
here. — Euclio ! 

Eucl.  (within.)  Who  calls  a  wretch  like  me? 

Strob.  Your  Joy,  your  Pleasure, 

Your  Jove  Protector,  your  supreme  Salvation. 

Lye.  I  bring  you  tidings  of  your  treasure,  Euclio. 

SCENE  VIII. 
Enter  EUCLIO. 

Eucl.  Where  is  he  ? — have  you  found  him  ? — 

where's  the  thief? 
Where  is  my  gold  ? — Speak,  is  it  safe  ? 

Lye.  How  is  she  ? 

Tell  me,  how  fares  my  Phaedria? 

Eucl.  Is  it  whole  ? 

Is  it  in  nought  diminished  ? 

Lye.  Has  she  bath'd? 

Is  she  refresh'd  ? 

Eucl.  I'm  talking  of  my  gold. 

Lye.  I'm  talking  of  your  daughter. 

Eucl.  I've  no  daughtei, 

No  child,  no  family,  except  my  gold, — 
I've  no  relationship. 


PLAUTUS. 


337 


Strob.  Before  he  lost  them, 

He  had  a  numerous  offspring. 

Lye.  How  d'ye  mean? 

Strob.  Of  yellow  boys. 

Lye.  (to  End.')  Lend  me  your  -serious  ear. 

What  if  I  find  the  thief,  who  stole  your  treasure, 
And  force  him  to  make  restitution  ? 

Strob.  Hold,  sir ; 

Let  me  impose  conditions. 

Lye.  Speak,  what  are  they? 

End.  I  will  consent  to  any  thing,  to  have 
JMy  gold  again. 

Strob.  First  you  shall  give — 

Eud.  Give!  what? 

(iside.)  I  smell  him,  I  perceive  what  he's  about : 
He  means  to  share  it  with  me. 

Strob.  You  shall  give 

Your  daughter  to  Lyconides  in  marriage. 

Eucl.  With  all  my  heart. 

Strob.  And  with  her — 

Eud.  The  old  jade, 

Her  nurse :  let  him  take  her  too. 

Strob.  You  shall  give 

A  portion. 

Eud.         How !  a  portion  ? 

Strob.  From  the  pot. 

Eud.  I'm  dead!  I'm  slain!— 

Strob.  And  then,  since  Megadorus 

At  his  own  cost  has  furnish'd  the  repast 
In  honour  of  the  wedding,  in  your  turn 
You  shall  provide  a  sumptuous  entertainment, 
Lamb,  pork,  veal,  pullets,  hams, — 

Eud.  Have  mercy  on  us ! 

The  very  sound's  enough  to  breed  a  famine. 

Strob.  All  kinds  of  fish,  cod,  salmon,  turbot, 
mackarel — 

Eucl.  Would  you  were  chok'd,  I  say ! 

Strob.  A  ton  at  least 

Of  nardine.* 

Eud.  Peace,  you  rascal ! 

Strob.  You  must  hire 

A  do/on  cooks,  as  many  music-girls.— 

Eud.  A  dozen  hangmen. 

Strob.  Your  relations,  friends, 

Must  be  invited ;  the  whole  city  ask'd  ; — 
You  shall  keep  open  house,  sir,  for  a  month. 

Eurl.    You  >hall  provide  my  feral  supper  lirst.t 

Strob.  One  more  condition,  and  I've  done:  I'm 

sure 
T \vill  please  you. 

Eud.  Speak,  what  is  it  ? 

Strob.  You  shall  marry. 

l-lnd.   I'll  hang  first. 

Lye.       Prithee  now  what  kind  of  step-mother 
Wmild  you  provide  me? 

Strob.  A  staid,  prudent  dame, 

No  mettlesome  young  flirt,  but  past  the  age 
Of  having  children;  no  cost  to  be  dreaded 
On  that  account;— one  that  will  live  on  little, 
And  be  a  frugal  house-wile; — with  a  portion, — 
/.  A  portion? 

Strob.  Yes,  an  ample  one. 

H«i\v  much  ? 


*  A  kind  of  scented  wine  in  high  estimation  among  the 
ancients. 

t  A  funeral  entertainment. 
43 


Strob.  As  much  as  all  the  gold  that's  in  the  pot. 

Eud.  (aside,)  That's  something. — 
(to  Strob.)  Old,  you  say? 

Strob.  Just  ripe  for  Acheron. 

Eud.  (aside.}  That's  well.— 
(to  Strob.)  Will  live  on  little? 

Strob.  Oh,  on  nothing 

But  whey  and  butter-milk. 

Eud.  Her  portion — 

Strob.  Paid 

Upon  the  nail. 

Eud.  (aside.)    That's  good. 

Lye.  (aside.)  I  marvel  much 

What  he  can  mean. 

Eud.  Agreed : — I'll  take  her. — Speak, 

Who  is  she  ? 

Strob.  Staphila. 

Eud.  Confound  you! — She 

A  portion? 

Strob.          Yes. 

Eud.  Who'll  give  it  ? 

Strob.  I. 

Eud.  What!  you? 

Strob.  Yes,  I. 

Eud.  Whence  can  you  have  it? 

Strob.  From  my  own 

Peculiar  stock.* 

Eud.  What  mean  you  ? 

Strob.  From  the  pot. 

Eud.  Away, — begone. — They  fool  me  to  dis- 
traction !— 

I'll  to  the  Praetor; — if  there's  any  law, 
Or  right,  I'll  have  him  hang'd, — I'll  hang  you  all,— 
Hang  all  the  world, — and  then — I'll  hang  myself. 

[Running  off. 

Lye.  (showing  the  pot.)  Turn,  Euclio,  turn,  and 
see  your  treasure  here. 

Euc.  (turning.)  0  give  it  me!  let  me  once  more 

embrace  it! 
Villain,  wilt  hold  it  from  me  ? 

Lye.  No,  'tis  yours ; 

And  in  return  you'll  give  your  daughter  to  me. 

Eud.  Ay,  any  thing. — I'll  give  an  arm,  a  leg, 
Rather  than  lose  my  gold. 

Lye.  You  do  betroth 

Your  daughter  then? 

7-/"7.  I  do.    Heaven  prosper  it! 

Lye.  I  say,  heaven  prosper  it! 

Slrob.  Suppose  you  took 

The  kernel,  and  gave  him  the  shell:  :tfs  all 
He  has  occasion  for. 

Lye.  (xii'in"  I' lud.  the  pot.)  Here  is  your  treasure 
Whole,  iindimini.-h'd. 

Eud.  (rml>rnri,i«  H.)  O  my  life!  my  soul! 
My  joy!  my  all! — Nothing  shall  part  us  more. 

Strob.  He   talks  of  it,  as  though  it  were  his 

mistress ! 
Yot  he's  afraid  to  touch  her. 

Kvd.  0  my  gold ! 

Where  shall  I  carry  thee  ?  where  hide  thee? — 

Nt". 

Will  I  lose  sight  of  thee  again  : — day,  night, 
I'll  have  thee  near  me  . — I'll  not  eat,  nor  drink, 


*  This  alludes  to  the  property  which  slaves  were  al- 
lowed to  have  in  their  own  right,  and  was  termed peculium. 
2D 


338 


PLAUTUS. 


Nor  take  my  rest  without  thee : — while  one  eye 
Is  closed  in  sleep,  the  other  shall  keep  watch. 
Rather  than  lose  thee,  I  will  dig  a  pit, 
And  bury  in't  thee  and  myself  together. 

[Exit  ETTCLIO. 

SCENE  IX. 

STROBILUS  and  LYCONIDES. 
Strob.  The  wretch! — I  wish  I  could  devise  some 

means 
To  plague  him  more  and  more. 

Lye.  Impossible. — 

Not  Tantalus,  amidst  the  refluent  flood, 
Suffers  such  keen  and  cruel  punishment : 
No  tortures  of  the  damn'd  can  equal  what 
The  miser  feels:  himself  is  his  own  hell. 

Strob.  Now,  sir,  my  freedom,  as  you  promised 

me. 
Lye.  (striking  him.}  There, — take  it. — Go,  and 

call  Eunomia  hither, 
And  Megadorus,  to  the  sacrifice. — 
I'll  in. — Spectators,  do  not  imitate 
The  old  man's  nature :  grudge  not  your  applause  : 
Be  liberal,  and  freely  clap  your  hands. 


THE  SHIPWRECK.' 


DRAMATIS  PERSOKJE. 


ARCTTJRUS. 


LAB  RAX,  a  Girl-mer- 

chant. 
CHARMIDES. 

SCEPARJTIO,")  c, 

„  servants 

GRIPUS, 

„,  >to  Dcemo- 

lURBALIO,     I 

SPARAX.       J  ms' 


PLEUSIDIPPUS,  a  young 

•Athenian. 
TRACHAUO,  Servant  to 

Pleusidippus. 
PTOLEMOCRATIA. 
PALESTRA. 
AMPELISCA. 
Fishermen  of  Cyrene. 
Slaves. 


SCENE. — near  Cyrene. 

PROLOGUE. 

ARCTURUS. 

WITH  him,  who  sways  all  nations,  sea  and  earth, 
I  dwell  in  fellowship,  a  denizen 
Of  heaven's  high  city,  the  abode  of  gods. 


*  Tbe  title  to  this  play  in  the  original  is  Rudens,  which 
signifies  The  Cable,  and  it  is  so  called  from  the  rope,  by 
which  a  fisherman  drags  his  net  to  shore,  in  which  is 
contained  the  wallet,  or  vidulus,  which  contributes  to  the 
catastrophe.  But  as  this  would  sound  rather  uncouth  to 
the  English  ear,  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  following  the 
example  of  Madam  Dacier,  who  has  translated  this  play 
into  French,  and  called  it  L'Heureux  Naufrave. 

This  play  is  remarkable  for  its  scenical  decorations, 
which,  as  it  was  thought  necessary  by  the  ancients  to 
preserve  the  unity  of  time  inviolably,  are  presented  to 
the  spectator's  eye  all  at  once  in  a  most  agreeable  pros- 
pect, and  disposed  in  a  very  picturesque  manner.  Madam 
Dacier  has  observed,  that  a  want  of  attention  to  this  par- 
ticular has  induced  some  to  find  fault  with  the  conduct 
of  the  piece  ;  and  as  it  is  necessary  to  have  a  perfect  idea 
of  the  scenery,  in  order  to  understand  the  business  of  the 
fable,  it  will  be  proper  to  give  a  description  of  it,  partly 
taken  from  that  lady. 

At  the  further  end  of  the  stage  is  a  prospect  of  the  sea, 
intersected  by  many  rocks  and  cliffs,  which  project  con- 


I'm.  as  you  see,  a  fair  and  splendid  star, 

Keeping  my  regular  and  fixed  course 

On  earth  here,  and  in  heaven :  my  name  Arcturus. 

By  night  I  shine  in  heaven  among  the  gods, 

And  in  the  day-time  mix  with  mortal  men, 

Passing,  with  other  stars,  from  heaven  to  earth. 

Jove,  supreme  sovereign  of  gods  and  men, 

Spreads  us  throughout  all  nations  several  ways, 

To  mark  the  people's  actions,  learn  their  manners, 

Their  piety  and  faith,  that  so  each  man 

May  find  reward  according  to  his  virtues. 

Those,  who  suborn  false  witnesses  to  gain 

A  villainous  suit  in  law,  who  shuffle  off 

Due  payments  by  false  swearing,  we  return 

Their  names  in  writing  to  high  Jove :  each  day 

He  is  inform'd  of  those  that  call  for  vengeance, 

And  seek  their  own  perdition  by  their  crimes. 

Whoe'er  by  perjury  obtain  their  cause, 

Or  bribe  the  judge  to  an  unfair  decision, 

The  case  adjudg'd  he  judges  o'er  again, 

And  does  amerce  them  in  a  larger  fine 

Than  they  were  'vantag'd  by  the  foul  decree. 

In  other  registers  are  noted  down 

The  upright  and  the  good.— Yet  wicked  men 

Fondly  imagine  they  can  Jove  appease 

With  gifts  and  sacrifice ;  and  thus  they  lose 

Their  labour  and  their  cost:  for  no  petition 

Is  acceptable  to  him  from  bad  men. 

He  that  is  good  and  just,  will  sooner  find 

Grace  from  above,  in  praying  to  the  gods, 

Than  will  the  wicked.    Therefore  I  advise  you, 

You  that  are  just  and  good,  who  pass  your  days 

In  piety  and  virtue,  persevere, 

That  so  you  may  rejoice  from  all  your  doings. 

Now  will  I  tell  the  subject  of  our  play, 
Which  is  my  errand  hither. — First  of  all 
Know,  Diphilus  has  nam'd  this  place  Cyrene; 
There  in  a  neighbouring  villa,  on  that  spot 

(pointing.') 

Adjoining  to  the  sea,  dwells  Dremones, 
A  good  old  gentleman,  who  hither  fled 
From  Athens ;  not  that  any  misdemeanor 
Forc'd  him  to  leave  his  country,  but  himself 
By  saving  others  was  involv'd  in  ruin: 
By  gentle  courtesy  his  means  were  wasted. 
He  had  a  daughter  when  a  little  child 
Kidnapp'd  away,  whom  a  girl-merchant  bought, 
A  villainous  knave,  and  brought  her  to  Cyrene. 
A  young  Athenian  spark,  now  of  this  city, 
Saw  her  returning  from  the  music-school, 
And  grew  enamour'd  of  her:  straight  he  comes 
To  the  girl-merchant,  bargains  for  the  wench 
At  thirty  rninie,  gives  him  earnest,  binds  him 
Moreover  with  an  oath.     The  merchant,  like 
A  villain  as  he  is,  card  not  a  rush 
For  honour,  honesty,  or  all  he  swore. 
He  had  a  certain  guest,  like  to  himself, 
A  villainous  old  rascal, — a  Sicilian, 
From  Agrigentum, — of  so  vile  a  stamp, 

siderably  forward  upon  the  stage.  On  one  side  of  thi 
stage  is  represented  the  city  of  Cyrene  at  a  distance  ;  on 
the  other,  the  temple  of  Venus,  with  a  sort  of  court  be- 
fore it,  surrounded  by  a  wall  breast-high,  and  in  the  middJ.; 
of  this  court  is  an  altar.  Adjoining  to  the  temple,  on  thi! 
same  side,  is  Djcmones'  house,  with  some  scattered  cot- 
tages at  a  distance. 


PLAUTUS. 


339 


That  he  was  even  traitor  to  his  country. 
This  rogue  extols  the  beauty  ofthe  girl, 
And  ofthe  other  damsels,  which  our  merchant 
Held  in  possession,  and,  in  short,  persuades  him, 
To  go  with  him  to  iSicily :  "There,"  says  he, 
"The  men  are  debauchees;  there  you  may  soon 
Grow  rich ;  there  damsels  bear  the  best  of  pi 
Well, — he  prevails.     A  ship  is  hired  by  stealth; 
All  that  he  had  our  merchant  puts  on  board 
By  night;  and  tells  the  youth  that  bought  the  girl, 
He's  going  to  perform  a  vow  to  Venn-. — 
(pointing:.)  This  is  her  temple,  where  he  has  invited 
The  spark  to  dinner. — 'Presently  he  gets 
On  board,  and  carries  all  his  damsels  with  him. 
The  young  man  was  inform'd  from  other  hands, 
How  matters  were  transacted,  how  the  merchant 
Was  fairly  gone :  he  hastens  to  the  port; 
But  now  the  vessel  was  far  off  at  sea. 
I,  seeing  that  the  girl  Avas  borne  away, 
Brought  her  relief,  and  ruin  to  her  owner. 
1  rni.x'd  a  hurricane,  and  stirr'd  the  billows: 
For  I,  Arcturus,  am,  of  all  the  signs, 
3Io.-t  turbulent;  outrageous,  when  I  rise, 
And  at  my  sotting  more  outrageous. — Now 
The  merchant  and  his  comrade  are  both  cast 
Upon  a  rock,  their  ship  dash'd  all  in  pieces. 

iid,  affrighted,  and  a  damsel  with  her, 
Have  leap'd  into  the  boat,  and  now  the  surge 
Drives  them  aloof  off  from  the  rock  to  land, 

>  the  old  man's  villa,  which  the  storm 
Has  stripp'd  of  all  its  tiles,  and  quite  uncover'd  it. 
This  is  the  servant,  that  is  coming  forth. 
The  spark,  that  bought  the  damsel  of  the  mer- 
chant, 

Will  presently  arrive,  and  you  shall  see  him. 
Now  fare  ye  well,  and  heartless  be  your  foes! 

ACT  I.     SCEXE  I. 

Enter  SCEPARXIO,  mth  a  spade,  as  going  to  ivork. 
H:ive  mercy  on  us!   what  a  dreadful  storm 

;>tune  sent  us  over-niidit ! — The  wind 
Our  whole  house  has  uncover'd. — In  a  word, 
It  was  no  wind  ; — but  'twas  the  rattling  peal 
In  the  Alt-menu  of  Kuripidcs.* 
Troth,  it  has  stripp'd   the  roof,  tore  all  the  tiles 

otf,— 

our  lmii.se  lighter, — giv'n  it  store  of  win- 
do  v. 

SCEXK    II. 

Enter  PLETSI  in  IMMS.  tulkiti"  to  three  friends  at  a 

I  have  withdrawn  you  from  your  own  concerns; — 
Nor  has  the  pii'  :  «  \vhi<-!i  ,•:• 

I  brought  you  out  with  me. — I  could  not  lind 
This  villainous  procurer  at  the  port. — 
Vet  I'm  unwilling  to  forego  all  hope 
Through  my  remi^sne>>: — Wherefore  I  have  still, 
lends, detain'd  \""ii  for  >ome  longer  space.— 
•nus'  temple  am  I  no\v  come  hither, 
Where,  he  inform d  me.  he  desi^n'd  to  sacrifice. 

*  This  is  supposed  to  allude  to  a  tragedy  of  Euripides, 
called  j3/cmcna,  in  which  a  storm  was  represented  in  so 
lively  a  manner,  that  it  became  afterwards  proverbial  to 
signify  tempestuous  weather. 


Seep,  (at  a  distance,  falling  to  work.') 
;Twere  best  to  set  about  this  plaguy  clay  here, 
Though  I  am  work'd  to  death  by't. 

Pleus.  Sure  I  hear 

Some  voice  or  other  near  me. 

SCEWE  III. 

Enter  D.EMOXES  from  his  house. 
Deem.  Ho!  Sceparnio! 

Seep.  Who  calls  me  by  my  name  ? 
Dfem.  Why,  he  that  bought  you. 

Seep.  That  is  to  say,  you  are  my  master. — 

(turning.)  Daemon es ! 
Deem.  Come,  dig  away;  much  stuff  will  be 

requir'd ; 

For,  as  I  find,  the  whole  house  must  be  cover'd : 
It  has  as  many  holes  in't  as  a  sieve. 

Pleus.  (advancing.)  Save  you  good  father! — 

Save  you  both  together ! 
Deem.  Save  you ! 

Seep,  (digging.')  But  are  you  man  or  woman,  you 
Who  call  him  father  ? 

Plfus.  Sure,  I  am  a  man. 

Deem.  Then  seek  elsewhere  a  father. — I  had 

once 

An  only  daughter,  and  I  lost  that  one : — 
I  never  had  a  son. 

Pleus.  Pray  heaven  may  send— 

Seep,  (still  digging.)  Send  you  a  mischief,  who- 
soe'er you  are, 

That  seeing  us  employ'd  would  give  us  more 
Employment  with  your  chattering. 

Pleus.  Dwell  ye  here  ? 

Seep.  Why  do  you  ask? — What!  you  survey 

the  premises, 

That  you  may  come  and  plunder  by-and-by. 
Pleus.  That  slave  should  be  a  trusty  and  a  rich 

one, 

Who  lets  his  tongue  run  in  his  master's  presence, 
And  dares  in  scurvy  terms  address  a  free-man. 
Seep.  And  he  should  be  a  filthy  knave,  a  foul 

one, 

An  impudent  base  fellow,  who  will  come 
Of  his  own  motion  to  another's  house, 
That  owes  him  nothing. 

Deem.        Peace,  Sceparnio.  (to  Pleus.)  Prithee, 
Good  youth,  what  would  you  ? 

Pletis.  I  would  ill  to  him 

For  his  unmanner'd  haste  to  speak  the  first, 
When  that  his  master's  by. — But,  sir,  an't  please 

yon. 
I'd  ask,  in  brief,  one  question. 

Deem.  I'll  attend  you, 

Though  I  am  busied. 

(to  Pleus.)          Go  into  the  marsh, 
Wilt  thou  ?  and  cut  some  reeds   to  thatch   our 

house  with, 
While  it  is  fair. 

Deem,  '(to  Seep.)   Peace,    (to  Pleus.)  Tell  me 

what's  your  pleasure  ? 
Pleus.  Inform  me  what  I  ask  you. — Have  you 

seen 

E'er  a  grey-headed,  frizzlc-pated  fellow, 
A  scurvy,  perjur'd  knave,  a  fawning  cogger? 

Deem.  Full  many  a  one: — by  reason  of  such  men 
I  now  alas!  live  miserable. 


340 


PLAUTUS. 


Pleus.  He, 

I  speak  of,  brought  two  damsels  with  him  here, — 
To-day  or  yesterday, — to  Venus'  temple, 
In  order  to  prepare  a  sacrifice. 

Deem.  I  have  seen  no  one  sacrificing  there 
These  many  days. — Nor  can  they  sacrifice 
Without  my  knowledge :  Here  they  always  come 
For  water,  fire,  or  vessels,  or  a  knife, 
Spit,  seething-pot,  or  something ;  in  a  word, 
My  well,  my  vessels  are  for  Venus'  use 
More  than  my  own : — But  now,  for  many  days 
There  has  been  intermission. 

Pleus.  What  you  say 

Tells  me  I'm  ruin'd. 

Deem.  'Tis  no  fault  of  mine. 

Seep.  Harkye   me, — you,  sir, — you  that  roam 

about 

To  temples  for  your  belly's  sake, — 'twere  best 
Order  your  dinner  to  be  got  at  home : 
Belike  you  were  invited  there  to  dinner, 
And  he,  who  ask'd  you,  never  came. 

Pleus.  {angrily.}  Most  excellent ! 

Seep.  E'en  take  thee  home  then  with  an  empty 

belly; 
There's  nothing  hinders. — Thou  should'st  rather 

be 

A  follower  of  Ceres  than  of  Venus : 
Love's  her  concern,  but  food  is  Ceres'  care. 

Pleus.  How  scurvily  this  fellow  dares  to  treat 
me! 

Deem,  (looking  towards  the  sea.)  0  ye  good  gods! 

Who  are  those  people  yonder 
Nigh  to  the  shore,  Screpanio  1 — Look. 

Seep.  Methinks 

They've  been  invited  to  a  parting  dinner. 

Deem.  Why  so  ? 

Seep.  Because  they've  bathed  them  after  supper. 
Their  vessel's  gone  to  pieces. 

Deem.  So  it  is. 

Seep.  And  so  indeed  our  house  too  and  its  tiles 
Are  shatter'd  upon  land. 

Deem.  Alas !  alas ! 

What  nothings  are  poor  mortal  men!— See!  see! 
They  are  dash'd  overboard !    Look,  how  they 
swim ! 

Pleus.  I  pray,  where  are  they  ? 

Deem,  (pointing.")  This  way,  to  the  right, — 
D'ye  see  them? — near  the  shore. 

Pleus.  I  see  them. — 

(to  his  companions.)  Follow  me. 
Would  it  were  he  I  seek,  that  worst  of  villains  ! 
Fare  ye  well. 

Seep.  Of  ourselves  we  should  have  look'd 

To  that  without  your  bidding. 

[Exit  PI.EUSIDIPPUS  and  friends. 

SCENE  IV. 

SCEPAUNIO  and  DJEMONES. 
Seep,  (looking  towards  the  sea.)  0  Palsemon,* 
Neptune's  associate,  (nay,  thou'rt  call'd  his  part- 
ner,) 
What  do  I  see  ? 

*  Otherwise  called  Melicertes,  the  son  of  Athamas  and 
Ino.  It  is  fabled,  that  his  mother,  seeing  Athamas  in  his 
frenzy  about  to  kill  them  both,  threw  herself  and  son  into 
the  sea,  whereupon  they  became  sea-deities. 


Deem.  What  do  you  see  1 

Seep.  I  see 

Two  women  sitting  in  a  boat  alone. — 
Poor  creatures,  how  they're  toss'd  I—That's  good,— 

that's  good, — 
Well  done ! — See !  the  surge  drives  the  boat  away 

there 

Off  from  the  rock  towards  the  shore  ! — a  pilot 
Could  not  have  done  it. — In  my  life,  I  think, 
I  never  saw  such  billows. — They  are  safe, 
If  they  can  'scape  those  waves. — Now,  now's  the 

danger ! 

One  is  wash'd  overboard, — but  she  is  lighted 
Upon  a  flat ; — she'll  easily  wade  through  it. — 
0  bravo!  bravo! — See,  the  surge  has  thrown  her 
Upon  the  land ! — She's  risen, — makes  this  way  :— — 
All's  safe. — The  other  too  has  leap'd  on  shore ! 
Ha!    through  her  fright   she's   fall'n   upon  her 

knees 

Into  the  sea! — Oh, — she  is  safe, — has  got 
Out  of  the  water, — and  is  now  on  land. — 
But  she  has  taken  to  the  right ; — poor  creature  ! 
She'll  wander  there  all  day. 

Deem.  What's  that  to  you  ? 

Seep.  If  she  should  topple  from  yon  cliff,  which 

now 

She's  making  to,  she'll  briefly  put  an  end 
At  once  to  all  her  rambling. 

Deem.  If  you  mean 

To  sup  with  them  this  evening,  it  behoves  you 
To  be  concern'd  about  them  ;  but  if  me 
You  think  to  eat  with,  you  must  mind  my  busi- 
ness. 

Seep.  0  to  be  sure. 

Deem.  Then  follow  me. 

Seep.  I  follow. 

[Exewit. 

SCENE  V. 

Enter  PALAESTRA,  from  amomg  the  cliffs,  at  a 
distance. 

The  storied  miseries  of  men's  mishaps 
(How  sad  soe'er  relation  sets  them  forth)  *. 
Are  far  less  sharp  than  those  we  know  and  feel 
Ourselves  from  sore  experience. — Has  it  then 
Pleas'd  heaven  to  cast  me  on  this  stranger  shore, 
With  these  drench'd  garments,  frighted  and  for- 
lorn ? — 

Were  I  but  conscious  that  in  anything 
My  parents  or  myself  had  done  amiss, 
It  less  had  griev'd  me. — But  my  owner's  crimes 
Have  wrought  this  -woe ;  for  his  impiety 
I'm  punish'd. — He  has  lost  his  ship  and  all, 
Wreck'd  in  the  sea ; — And  I,  the  sad  remains 
Of  all  that  he  possess'd  : — the  damsel,  too, — 
She  that  came  with  me  in  the  boat, — is  perish'd. — 
At  least  had  she  been  sav'd,  her  gentle  aid 
Had  sooth'd  and  lighten'd  my  affliction. — Now 
What  hope,  what  help,  what  comfort  can  I  find  ? 
Here  am  I  in  this  lonely  desert;  here 
Stand  rocks  ; — here   roars    the    sea ; — no   living 

wight 

Comes  'cross  my  way; — the  clothes  that  I  have  on 
Are  all  my  riches ;  and  I'm  mainly  ignorant 
How  to  get  food,  or  where  to  find  a  shelter. — 
Have  I  a  hope,  that  I  should  wish  to  live  ? — 


PLAUTUS. 


341 


I  am  a  stranger,  a  new  comer  hither  :— 
Would  I  could  meet  with  some  one,  that  might 

show  me 

A  path  or  road : — my  mind  is  all  uncertain 
Whither  to  make,  to  this  way  or  to  that. — 
No  cultivated  land  I  see  before  me. — 
Ah,  my  poor  parents!  little  do  you  know, 
1  in  now  the  wretch  I  am. — By  birth  I'm  free: — 
But  what  avails  this  freedom?  Am  I  now 
Less  wretched,  than  if  born  a  slave  ? — Ah  me  ! 
I  never  was  a  comfort  or  a  help 
To  those  who  gave  me  birth  and  education. 

SCEWE  VI. 

Enter  AMPELISCA,  coming  forward  from  among 
the  cliff's,  at  the  other  end  of  the  stage. 

Can  I  do  better  ?  were't  not  for  my  good 
To  put  an  end  at  once  to  my  existence? 
I  am  so  wretched,  and  so  many  cares 
Distract  my  breast,  that  weary  out  my  soul ! — 
1  in  prodigal  of  life;  for  I  have  lost 
That  hope,  which  was  my  comfort. — All  around 
In  quest  I've  rambled,  crawl'd  with  patient  step 
Through  every  covert  place,  with  voice,  eyes,  ears 
Trying  to  trace  her  out,  my  fellow-slave. 
Yet  nowhere  can  I  find  her! — I  am  puzzled 
Which  way  to  take,  or  where  to  seek  her  further. 
I  cannot  meet  a  soul,  that  I  might  question : — 
Never  was  place  so  desert  and  forlorn 
As  these  dread  wilds! — yet  will  I  not  desist 
From  searching,  till  at  length  I've  found  her  out, 
If  haply  she's  alive. 

Pal.  (at  a  distance.)  What  voice  is  that 
Sounds  near  me  ? 

Amp.  (overhearing.)  I  am  mightily  afraid. — 
Who  speaks  there  ? 

Pal.  I  beseech  you,  gentle  Hope, 

0  come  to  my  assistance — 

Jimp.  'Tis  a  woman ; — 

A  woman's  voice. — 

Pal.  And  free  me  from  my  dread. 

Amp.  (listening.)  Sure  'tis  a  woman's  voice,  that 
strikes  my  ear. 

Pal.  Is  it  Ampelisca? 

. •/////>.  Is  it  you,  Pala-stra? 

Pal.  Why  don't  I  call  her  by  hor  name  aloud, 
That  she  may  know  me  ?  (tailing.)  Ampelisca! 

Amp.  Ha ! 

Wh..'<  that? 

Pnl.  Tis  I, — Pakestra. 

Amp.  Say,  where  are  you  ?* 

Pal.  Environ'd  with  misfortunes. 

Amp.  I'm  your  partner; 

XIM-  i>  my  share  of  sorrow  less  than  yours. — 

1  lon'j;  to  see  you. 

J',iJ.  In  that  wish  we're  rivals. 

Amp.  Our  voices  be  our  guides. — Where  are 

you? 

Pal.  Here.— 

Come  forward. — here,— come  meet  me. 

Amp.  1  urn  cominir. 

(they  meet.) 

*  They  were  sepir:it«-<1  »>y  the  rliifs,  which  hindered 
them  from  seeing  one  another,  though  they  might  both 
be  visible  to  the  spectators. 


Pal.  Give  me  your  hand. 

Amp.  Here, — take  it. 

Pal.  Prithee  tell  me, 

Are  you  alive? 

Amp.  Aye,  and  would  wish  to  live, 

Since  'tis  permitted  me  to  feel  and  touch  you : — 

(they  embrace.) 
0  how  you  ease  me  now  of  all  my  troubles ! 

Pal.    You   are   beforehand,   have   prevented 

me 
In  what  I  would  have  said. — But  let  us  go. 

Amp.  Go?  whither,  sweet? 

Pal.  We'll  keep  along  the  shore. 

Amp.  I'll  follow  where  you  please. 

Pal.  And  shall  we  roam 

In  these  wet  garments  ? 

Amp.  That  which  is  befall'n  us 

We  must  perforce  endure. — But  prithee  now 
What's  that?  (looking.) 

Pal.  What? 

Amp.  Don't  you  see  a  temple  yonder  ? 

There, — don't  you  see  it? 

Pal.  Where  ? 

Amp.  Upon  the  right. 

Pal.  It  seems,  'tis  deck'd  unto  some  god. 

Amp.  Then  men 

Cannot  be  far  off. — (they  advance  tmvards  it.) 

And  the  site  so  charming! — 
I'll  pray  unto  this  god,  whoe'er  he  be, 
That  he  would  succour  us  poor,  helpless  wretches, 
And  free  us  from  our  sorrows. 

[They  kneel  before  the  temple. 

SCEXE    VII. 

Enter  PTOLEMOCBATIA,  priestess  of  Venus,  from 
the  temple. 

Ptol.  Who  are  these, 

That  lowly  bending  to  my  patroness 
Solicit  her  protection  ?  For  the  voice 
Of  some  poor  supplicants  has  drawn  me  hither. 
Tlit-ir  suit  is  to  a  good  and  gracious  goddess, 
A  patroness  most  gentle,  and  most  kind. 

Pal.  Save  you,  good  mother ! 

Ptol.  Save  you,  my  sweet  girls ! 

Whence  do  you  come,  so  woefully  array'd, 
In  tin-so  wot  garments? 

Pal.  Lastly,  from  a  place 

Not  far  from  hence,  but  'tis  a  great  way  off 
Whence  we  were  borne  at  first. 

Ptol.  Ye  came,  forsooth, 

By  sea  then. 

Pal.  You  judge  right. 

Ptol.  Ye  should  have  come 

Clothed    in    white,   and    bringing   victims   with 

you. — 

Tis  not  tin'  practice  to  approach  our  temple 
In  Mich  habiliments. 

Pal.  Ah!  whence  should  we 

We  that  were  cast  away,  have  got  us  victims? 
In  need  of  succour,  destitute  of  hope, 
In  a  strange  land,  we  now  embrace  your  knees: 
O  let  your  roof  receive  and  shelter  us ; 
H-IVC  pity  on  two  hapless  wanderers, 
Who  have  no  place  of  refuge,  no.  nor  hope, 
Nor  anything  indeed  but  what  you  see. 


342 


PLAUTUS. 


Ptol.  Give  me  your  hands :  rise  both :  no  woman 

ever 

Was  more  inclin'd  to  pity ;  but  alas ! 
My  state  is  poor  and  mean :  hardly  indeed 
I  get  support,  and  for  a  livelihood 
I  serve  our  Venus. 

Pal.  Is  this  Venus'  temple. 

Ptol.  The  same;  and  I'm  her  priestess. — Such 

as  'tis, 

You  shall  find  here  a  courteous  entertainment, 
As  far  as  my  scant  means  will  give  me  power. — 
Come  then  with  me. 

Pal.  You  tender  us,  good  mother, 

With  a  most  kind  affection. 

Ptol.  Tis  my  duty. 

ACT  II.     SCENE  I. 

Enter  FISHERMEN,  with  their  lines,  nets,  fyc. 
A  Fish.  We  poor  folks  lead  a  sorry  life,  espe- 
cially 

If  we  have  learn'd  no  trade,  no  occupation, 
So  of  necessity  must  be  content 
With  what  we  have. — Guess  ye,  how  rich  we  are 
By  this  our  tackle.    These  poor  hooks  and  rods 
Are  all  we  have  to  live  by.     From  the  city 
We  come  here  to  the  sea  in  quest  of  forage. 
Our  sport  and  exercise  is  catching  lobsters, 
Crabs,  oysters,  cockles,  every  kind  offish; 
Some  with  our  hooks,  some  get  we  from  the  rocks. 
We  draw  all  our  provisions  from  the  sea : 
If  we  catch  nothing,  then  well  sous'd  and  pickled 
We  e'en  sneak  home,  and  sleep  on  empty  bel- 
lies.— 

The  sea  is  now  so  rough,  we  have  no  hope 
Of  sport  here ;  and  except  we  get  some  shell-fish, 
We  must  go  supperless. — We  will  beseech 
Good  Venus  here  to  favour  and  befriend  us. 

[They  advance  towards  the  temple. 

SCENE  II. 

Enter  TRACHALIO,  at  a  little  distance. 
I've  used  my  best  endeavours  not  to  slip 
My  master  any  where.     When  he  went  out, 
He  said  that  he  was  going  to  the  port, 
And  bade  me  meet  him  here  at  Venus'  temple. — 
But  see,  some  people  stand  there  opportunely, 
Of  whom  I  may  inquire.     I'll  up  to  them. 
Save  you,  ye  sea-thieves,  ye  starv'd  generation ! 
How  fares  it  with  you  ? 

Fish.  As  with  fishermen ; 

Dying  with  hunger,  thirst,  and  expectation. 
Track.  Have  you  seen  come  this  way,  since 

you've  been  here, 

E'er  a  fresh-colour'd,  stout,  well-looking  youth, 
And  three   companions  with  him,  dress'd   like 

soldiers? 
Fish.  We  have  seen  no  one  answering  your 

description. 
Track.  Or  have  you  met  an   old  bald-pated 

fellow, 

Hook-nosed,   pot-bellied,   beetle-browed,   squint- 
eyed, 

A  sour-faced  knave,  the  scorn  of  gods  and  men, 
Full  of  iniquity  and  vile  dishonour, 
With  two  young  likely  damsels  ? 

Fish.  Such  a  one 


In  mind  and  deed  is  fitter  for  the  gallows 
Than  Venus'  temple. 

Track.  Tell  me,  have  you  seen  him  ? 

Fish.  No, — no  one  has  come  hither. — Fare  you 
well. 

Track.  Farewell.  [Exeunt  Fishermen. 

SCENE  III. 
TRACHALIO  alone. 

I  thought  so :  His  as  I  suspected  : — 
My  master  is  deceiv'd ;  this  curs'd  procurer 
Is  run  away,  has  got  on  board  a  ship, 
And  carried  off  the  damsels. — I'm  a  conjurer.— 
My  master  was  invited  by  the  knave 
To  dinner  here :  I  had  best  stay  his  coming : 
And  if  I  see  the  priestess,  I'll  inquire 
If  she  can  give  me  further  information : 
She  may  perhaps  know  more. 

SCENE  IV. 
Enter  AMPELISCA  from  the  temple. 

Amp.  (to  the  priestess  within.}  I  understand 
Your  orders  are,  to  knock  here  at  this  house 
Next  to  the  temple,  and  ask  for  water. 

Track.  Whose  voice  is  that? 

Amp.  Bless  me!  who's  that,  that  speaks  there  ? 
Whom  do  I  see  ? 

Track.  Is  not  that  Ampelisca 

Comes  from  the  temple  ? 

Amp.  Is  not  that  Trachalio 

I  see  there,  Pleusidippus'  rogue? 

Track.  'Tis  she. 

Amp.  'Tis  he. — Trachalio !  save  you. 

Track.  Ampelisca ! 

Save  you. — How  fares  it? 

Amp.  Very  ill. 

Track.  Don't  say  so. 

Amp.  'Tis  right  to  speak  the  truth. — But  prithee 

now 
Where  is  your  master  Pleusidippus  ? 

Track.  Pshaw ! 

As  though  he  weren't  within  there. 

Amp.  He  is  not, 

Nor  any  other  man. 

Track.  He  is  not  come ! 

Amp.  You  say  the  truth. 

Track.  That's  not  my  custom.    But 

How  near  is  dinner  ready? 

Amp.  Pray,  what  dinner  ? 

Track.  You're  sacrificing  here. 

Amp.  What  are  you  dreaming? 

Track.  Why  sure  your  master  Labrax  did  invite 
My  master  Pleusidippus  here  to  dinner. 

Amp.  No  wonder  what  you  say. — If  he  de- 
ceive 
Both  gods  and  men,  he  acts  but  like  a  pimp. 

Track.  Are  you  not  sacrificing?  nor  my  master? 

Amp.  You've  guess'd  it. 

Track.  Prithee  then  what  do  you  here  ? 

Amp.  From    dire    afflictions,    from    severest 

frights, 

From  hazard  of  our  lives,  in  want  of  succour, 
The  priestess  took  us  in,  me  and  Palsestra. 

Track.  Ha!  is  Palaestra  here,  my  master's  love? 

Amp.  Yes,  verily. 

Track.  There's  pleasure  in  your  news, 


PLAUTUS. 


343 


My  Ampelisca. — But  I  long  to  know 
The  perils  you  were  in. 

. 'Imp.  Our  ship,  Trachalio, 

Last  night  was  cast  away. 

Track.  Ship?  castaway? 

What  story's  this  ? 

Amp.  Have  you  not  heard,  forsooth, 

How  that  our  master  privately  design'd 
To  carry  us  away  to  Sicily, 
And  put  on  ship-board  all  that  he  was  worth? 
Now  all  is  lost. 

Track.  Thanks,  gentle  Neptune :  verily 

Thou  art  a  cunning  gamester;   thou  hast  giv'n 

him 

A  pleasant  cast  i'faith :  the  rogue  is  done  for.* — 
But  there's  the  villain  now? 

^'linp.  Dead  drunk,  I  fancy ; 

For  Neptune  had  invited  him  last  night 
To  deep  potations,  and,  as  I  suppose, 
Gave  him  a  finishing  cup. 

Track.  O  how  I  love  thee, 

My  Ampelisca  !   What  a  dear  sweet  creature  ! 
There's  honey  in  thy  words  too! — But  inform  me, 
'.-cap'd  you  and  Paltestra? 

Amp.  You  shall  hear. 

the  ship  borne  full  upon  a  rock, 
\\'--.  -ore  affrighted,  leap'd  into  the  boat: 
I  hasten'd  to  untie  the  rope  that  held  her ; 
And  while  the  rest  were  wrapp'd  in  wild  dismay, 
Our  boat  was  sever'd  from  them  by  the  storm, 
Which  drove  us  to  the  right;  and  in  this  wise, 
Poor    helpless    souls,  toss'd    by  the  winds   and 

waves, 

We  pass'd  the  livelong  night,  till  on  the  morn 
The  wind   scarce   bore    us    to    the   shore  quite 

spent.— 
'  Track.    I    understand ;  —  'tis    ever   Neptune's 

•way : — 

•  most  dainty  ^Edile,f  and  whenever 
He  finds  commodities  stark  naught,  the  word 
At  once  is  "over  with  them.'' 

A  plague  on  you ! 

Trark.  On  you,  my  Ampelisca. — H;it  I  km-w 
Th"  -curvy  pimp  would  do  what  he  has  done; — 
And  I  have  often  said  it: — I  had  bi-st 
Let  my  hair  grow,  and  set  up  for  a  conjurer.^ 

Amp.  A  pretty  care  you  took,  with  all  your 

foresight. 
You  ami  your  master,  tn  prevent  his  going! 

Truck.  What  could  he  do  ? 

.•///</;.  A  l»vcr  ln\  and  a.-k  you 

What  could  he  do?  Day.  nidit.  he  should  have  kept 

*  Thi~  is  a  joke  in  th-:  original,  depending  on  the  douhlr- 
sense  of  the  phrase  jaeere  bulum,  as  also  of  the  word 
perdere. 

O  Neptune  lepide,  salve  ! 
Nee  te  aleator  ullua  est  sapientmr  :  \>: 
Niiais  lepide  jeritti  bulum  ;  purjurum  penli 
Jaeere  bulum  siL'iuiie-  tin-  fasting  a  net,  as  well  as  casting 
of  dire  ;  and  by  prrdrre.  is  understood,  to  cause  to  perish., 
or  to  ruin  any  one  in  tin-  iramester's  sense. 

f  It  was  the  l.ii-;m-<  of  the  ^Edile,  ainons  the  Romans, 
to  inspect  and  regulate  the  market.  Annmi:  the  Greeks 
there  was  an  oiiirer.  whose  province  was  the  same,  who 
was  called  Aporanomus,  which  appellation  our  author 
himself  introduces  in  his  C* 

t  It  was  the  custom,  it  seems,  for  those  who  were  em- 
ployed in  divining  to  wear  their  hair  very  long. 


A  constant  watch,  been  always  upon  guard. 
Yes  truly, — 'tis  so  like  them, — his  concern 
And  care  about  her  tallied  with  his  love. 

Track.  Do  you  not  know,  when  a  man  goes  to 

bathe, 

Let  him  be  e'er  so  mindful  of  his  clothes, 
They  yet  are  stolen :  for  he  can't  devise 
Whom  he  should  have  an  eye  to;  but  the  thief, 
Holds  easily  his  mark  of  observation 
Point  blank  before  him :  all  the  while  our  spark 
Kens  not  the  lurking  knave. — But  bring  me  to  her. 
Where  is  she,  pray? 

Amp.  Go  straight  into  the  temple : 

You'll  find  her  sitting  there,  all  drown'd  in  tears. 

Track.   I'm   sorry  for't! — but  wherefore  doth 
she  weep  ? 

Amp.  I'll  tell  you.    She  is  vexed  to  the  soul, 
That  the  procurer  should  have  ta'en  her  casket, 
Where  she  had  lodg'd  some  trinkets,  which,  she 

hop'd, 

ML'ht  lead  to  a  discovery  of  her  parents; 
And  now  she  fears  'tis  lost. 

Track.  Where  \vas  the  casket? 

Amp.  He  lock'd  it  in  his  wallet,  to  prevent 
Discovery  of  her  parents. 

Track.  What  a  shame, 

To  make  a  slave  of  one  that  should  be  free ! 

Amp.  She  thinks  it  with  the  ship  gone  to  the 

bottom. 

All  the  old  fellow's  treasure  too  was  with  it : 
Some  one,  I  hope,  has  dived,  and  brought  it  up : 
She  is  sore  grieved  for  the  loss  of  it. 

Track,  'Tis  fit  that  I  should  go  and  comfort  her. 
But  let  her  not  despond  ;  for  true  it  is, 
Good  oft  befalls  us,  when  we  least  expect  it. 

Amp.  And  true  it  is,  that  when  we  trust  in  hope, 
We're  often  disappointed. 

Track.  Patience  then 

Is  the  best  remedy  against  ailiu-tion. — 
I'll  in,  except  you  want  me  further. 

Amp.  Go. 

{Exit  TEACHALIO. 

SCEXE   V. 

AMPELISCA  alone. 

I'll  now  do  what  the  priestess  order'd  me : 
I'll  bt-g  some  water  here  at  the  next  house. 
She  told  me  if  I  ask'd  it  in  her  name, 
They'd  uive  it  me  forthwith.     I  never  saw 
A  worthier  old  woman,  more  deserving 

Et  from  LTO.IS  and  men.      How  courteously, 
And  with  what  irentle  breeding  she  ree.-iv'd  us 
Trembling  in  want,  wet.  east  away,  half-dead, — 
And  treated  us  as  ihouL'h  \ve  were  her  children! 
Ho\v  readily  herself  did  warm  us  water 
For  us  to  wash ! — But  I  miis-t  mind  her  orders, 
That  I  mayn't  make  her  wait. 
(knocking  at  Damones1  door.)  Ho!  who's  within 

here  >. 
Open  the  door.— Will  nobody  come  forth? 

SCEXE  VI. 
Enter  SCEPARXIO. 

Seep.  Who's  at  the  door  there  banging  so  un- 
mercifully ? 
Amp.  'Tis  I. 


344 


PLAUTUS. 


Seep.  What  good  d'ye  bring  us? — By  my  troth, 
A  likely  wench. 

Amp.  Good  day  to  you,  young  man. 

Seep.  The  same  to  you,  young  woman. 

Amp.  I  am  come  to  you, — 

Seep.  I'll  entertain  you,  if  you  come  anon, 
As  you  could  wish :  at  present  I  have  nothing 
To  satisfy  your  wants. — Ah  ha,  my  pretty  one ! 
My  smirking,  smiling  rogue !  (offering  to  embrace 
her.} 

Amp.  Let  me  alone  : — 

Fye, — now  you  are  too  rude. 

Seep.  By  heavens,  the  very 

Image  of  Venus !  What  a  sparkling  eye 
The  jade  has  ! — what  a  shape  ! — what  a  com- 
plexion ! — 

A  walnut, — a  nut  brown  I  meant  to  say  !— 
What  breasts ! — what  pretty  pouting  lips ! — 

(lays  hold  of  her.} 

Amp.  (struggling.}  Be  quiet! — 

I  am  not  for  your  turn:— d'ye  think  me  com- 
mon ? 
What! — can't  you  keep  your  hands  off? — 

Seep.  Prithee,  sweet, 

May  I  not  toy  a  little  ? 

Amp.  By-and-by, — 

When  I'm  at  leisure,  I'll  then  trifle  with  you : — 
Now  let  me  have  your  answer,  aye  or  no, 
To  that  which  I  was  sent  to  ask. 

Seep.  What  would  you  ? 

Amp.  Can  you  not  guess  by  this  ? 

(pointing  to  the  pitcher.} 

Seep.  And  can't  you  guess 

What  I  would  have  of  you  ? 

Amp.  The  priestess  sent  me 

To  beg  some  water. 

Seep.  I  am  proud  and  lordly : 

Unless  you  sue  to  me  with  low  petition, 
You  will  not  get  a  drop. — Our  well  we  dug, 
At  our  own  hazard,  with  our  proper  tools. — 
Unless  you  woo  me  with  much  blandishment, 
You  will  not  get  a  drop. 

Amp.  Why  should  you  grudge 

To  give  me  water,  which  an  enemy 
Will  give  an  enemy? 

Seep.  Why  should  you  grudge 

To  grant  me  that  same  favour,  which  a  friend 
Will  give  a  friend  ? 

Amp.  Well,  well,  my  sweet,  I'll  do 

All  you  desire. 

Seep,  (aside.)     0  charming! — I  am  blest! — 
She  calls  me  sweet. — 

(to  Amp.}  You  shall  have  water ; — No, 

You  shall  not  love  in  vain. — Give  me  the  pitcher. 

Amp.  Here,  —  take  it.  —  Prithee,  love,  make 
haste,  and  bring  it  me. 

Seep.  Stay : — I'll  be  here  this  instant,  my  sweet 
charmer !  [Exit  SCEPARNIO. 

SCENE  VII. 
AMPELISCA  alone. 

What  shall  I  tell  the  priestess  in  excuse 
For  tarrying  here  so  long? — Oh,  how  I  dread 
Even  now  to  look  upon  the  deep ! — 
(looking  towards  the  sea.}  Ah  me ! 

What  do  I  see  there  on  the  shore? — my  master 


And  his  Sicilian  guest,  whom  I  believed 

Both  drown'd ! — More  evil  still  survives  to  plague 

us 

Than  we  imagin'd. — Why  do  I  not  run 
Into  the  temple  to  inform  Palaestra, 
That  we  may  fly  to  the  altar  ere  he  come 
And    seize    us?  —  I'll   be    gone: — the  occasion 

presses, 
And  suddenly  inspires  the  thought. 

[Runs  into  the  temple. 

SCENE  VIII. 
Enter  SCEPARNIO. 

Good  heavens ! 

I  ne'er  believ'd  such  pleasure  was  in  water ; 
I  drew  it  with  such  heartiness ! — The  well 
Methought  too  was  less  deep  than  heretofore  5 
With  so  much  ease  I  drew  it ! — Verily 
I  am  an  oaf,  that  I  should  fall  in  love  now 
For  the  first  time. — Here,  take  your  water,  pre- 
cious ! 

I  would  that  you  might  carry  it  with  that  pleasure 
Which  I  myself  do ;  so  shall  I  adore  you. 
Where  are  you,  dainty  dear? — Here,  take  your 

water. — 

Where  are  you? — Verily  I  think  she  loves  me  : 
The  wanton  plays  at  bo-peep. — Ho !  where  are 

you? — 

A  pleasant  joke  i'faith  : — but  come,  be  serious. 
Why  won't  you  take  it? — Where  in  the  world 

are  you?— 

I  see  her  nowhere : — she's  upon  the  fun. — 
I'll  leave  it  on  the  ground. — But  softly — what 
If  some  one  take  the  pitcher  ? — It  belongs 
To  Venus ;  and  'twould  bring  me  into  trouble. 
'Gad  I'm  afraid,  the  jilt  has  some  design 
To  trap  me  by  its  being  found  upon  me : 
The  magistrate  would  have  a  fair  pretence 
To  clap  me  into  chains,  if  any  one 
Should  chance  to  see  me  with  it:  for  'tis  letter'd, — 
Tells  of  itself  whose  property  it  is. 
I'll  call  the  priestess  out,  that  she  may  take  it. 
I'll  to  the  door  then  of  the  temple,  (calling.)  Ho 

there, 

Ptolemocratia ! — Come,  and  take  your  pitcher. — 
I'll  carry  it  in. — Troth  I've  enough  to  do, 
If  I'm  to  fetch  them  water,  all  that  ask  for't. 

[Goes  into  the  temple. 

SCENE   IX. 

Enter  LABHAX,  followed  by  CHARMIDES,  from 
among  the  cliff's  at  the  further  end  of  the  stage. 
Labr.  He  that  would  be  a  beggar  and  a  wretch, 
Let  him  trust  Neptune  with  his  life  and  fortune: 
Whoe'er  has  any  dealings  with  that  god, 
He'll  send  him  home  again  in  this  sweet  trim. — 
Ah,  Liberty,  'twas  wisely  done  of  you, 
That  thou  would'st  ne'er  set  foot  on  board  a  ship 
With  Hercules. — But  where's  this  friend  of  mine, 
Who  has  undone   me?   (looking  back.}  Oh,  see, 

where  he  crawls. 
Charm.  What  a  plague,  Labrax,  whither  ir. 

such  hurry  ? 

I  can't  keep  up  with  you,  you  walk  so  fast. 
Labr.  Would  thou  hadst  died  in  Sicily  on  a 
gallows, 


PLAUTUS. 


345 


E'er  I  set  eyes  on  thee,  on  whose  account, 
Ah  me !  this  vile  disaster  has  befallen  us. 

Charm.  Would  thou  hadst  lain  in  prison,  on 

the  day 

Thou  first  admitted  me  within  thy  doors! 
And  I  beseech  the  gods,  that  all  thy  life 
Thou  may'st  for  ever  have  such  guests  as  I. 

Labr.  When  I  let  thee  in,  I  let  in  Misfortune. — 
Why  did  I  hearken  to  thee,  thou  vile  rogue? 
Why  did    I   thence    depart?    why  go  on   ship- 
board ? 
Where  I  have  lost  e'en  more  than  I  was  worth.* 

Charm.  I  marvel  not  our  ship  was  cast  away, 
When  it  had  such  a  rogue  as  thee  on  board, 
And  thy  ill-gotten  pelf. 

Labr.  Thou  hast  undone  me 

With  thy  cajoling  speeches. 

Charm.  Thou  hast  given  me 

A  more  atrocious  supper,  than  which  erst 
Was  set  before  or  Tereus  or  Thyestes.t 

Labr.  I  die !  I'm  sick  at  heart !  pray,  hold  my 
head. 

Charm.  Would  thou  couldst  bring  thy  lungs 
up,  for  my  part. 

Labr.  Alas !  poor  Ampelisca,  and  Palaestra, 
Where  are  you? 

Charm.  Food  for  fishes,  I  suppose ; 

Gone  to  the  bottom. 

Labr.  Thou  hast  brought  upon  me 

Beggary  and  want,  because  I  gave  an  ear 
To  thy  romancings. 

Charm.  Nay,  thou  ow'st  me  thanks  : 

Before,  thou  wast  a  dull  insipid  fellow  ; 
I've  given  thee  salt  and  seasoning  to  thy  wit. 

Labr.  Go,  get  thee  hence,  and  hang  thyself. 

Charm.  Go  thou. — 

I  did  as  bad,  when  I  embark'd  with  thee. 

Labr.  Can  there  exist  a  wretch  like  me? 

Charm.  Yes,  I, 

I  am  more  wretched. 

Labr.  How  ? 

Charm.  Because  I  don't 

Deserve  it,  but  thou  dost. 

Labr.  Ye  bulrushes! 

I  envy  your  condition,  who  preserve 
For  evermore  your  dryness. 

Charm.  By  my  troth 

My  words  come  from  me  broken,  and  as  'twere 
By  fits,  like  lightning,  flash  succeeding  Hash, 
I  tremble  so. 

Labr.  Neptune,  thy  bath's  a  cold  one : 

Since  I've  come  out  on't  in  my  clothes,  I  freeze. 
He  deals  in  nothing  warm  to  cheer  our  hearts, 
But  gives  up  only  salt  and  cold  potations. 

Charm.  How  happy  are  the  blacksmiths,  who 

are  ever 
Employed  about  a  fire,  are  always  warm! 

Labr.  0  for  the  nature  of  a  duck,  that  now 
I    migjit   be    dry.    though    come    from    out   the 
water. 

Charm.  What  if  I  hire  me  for  a  bug-bear? 

Labr.  Why? 

*  Meaning,  the  advantage  he  should  have  made  by  the 
Bale  of  the  girls,  who,  he  supposed,  had  perished. 

t  Both  these,  as  the  story  goes,  had  their  own  children 
served  up  to  them  at  supper. 
44 


Charm.  Because  I  chatter  with  my  teeth  so 

terribly. 
Yes,  yes,  I  own  I  have  deserved  this  ducking. 

Labr.  Why  so  ? 

Charm.        Because  I  dared  embark  with  thee, 
Whose  crimes  have   stirr'd  up   ocean  from  its 
bottom. 

Labr.  Fool !  to  have  listen'd  to  thy  vain  pre- 
tences, 

That  in  thy  country  I  from  girls  should  draw 
Huge  profit,  and  amass  a  world  of  riches ! 

Charm.  Why,  thou  unclean,  unhallow'd  beast, 

didst  think 
To  gobble  up  all  Sicily  at  a  mouthful  ? 

Labr.  I  wonder  what  sea-beast  has  gobbled  tip 
My  wallet,  with  the  treasure  pack'd  within  it. 

Charm.  The  same,  I  fancy,  that  has  got  my 

pouch, 
With  all  its  silver,  which  was  in  the  wallet. 

Labr.  Alas!  I  am  reduced  to  this  one  waistcoat, 
And  this  poor  shabby  cloak. — Undone  for  ever ! 

Charm.  We  may  set  up  in  partnership  together ; 
Our  means  are  equal. 

Labr.  Were  the  damsels  saved, 

Some  hope  were  left  me. — Now,  if  Pleusidippus, 
Who  gave  me  earnest  for  Palaestra,  see  me, 
'Twill  cause  me  much  vexation,  (he  cries.) 

Charm.  Prithee,  oaf, 

Why  dost  thou  blubber  thus?  —  Thou'lt  never 

want, 

While  thou  canst  wag  a  tongue ;  thy  perjury 
Will  quit  all  payments. 

SCENE  X. 
Enter  SCEPARWIO,  from  the  temple. 

What  can  be  the  matter, 

That  these  two  damsels  here  in  Venus'  temple 
Should  so  bewail  them,  and  embrace  her  image  ? 
They  have  I  know  not  what  strange  fears : — they 

talk 

Of  having  been  last  night  toss'd  on  the  sea, 
And  cast  on  shore  this  morning. 

Labr.  (overhearing.)  Prithee,  youth, 

Where  are  the  damsels,  whom  you  mention? 

Seep.  Here 

In  Venus'  temple. 

Labr.  And  how  many  are  they  ? 

Seep.  As  many  as  you  and  I  make,  put  together. 

Labr.  Undoubtedly  they're  mine. 

Seep.  Undoubtedly 

I  know  not  that. 

Labr.  Of  what  appearance  are  they  ? 

Seep.  Good   likely  wenches. — Were  I  in  my 

cups, 
I  could  make  shift  to  toy  with  either  of  them. 

Labr.  And  young,  forsooth. 

Seep.          Forsooth  you're  plaguy  troublesome. 
Go,  if  you  will,  and  see. 

Labr.  Dear  Charmides, 

Sure  they  must  be  my  wenches. 

Charm.  Jove  confound  thee, 

Whether  they  are  or  not. 

Labr.  I'll  go  directly 

Into  the  temple. 

Charm.  Go  into  a  dungeon, 

I  care  not.  [Exit  LABRAX. 


346 


PLAUTUS. 


SCENE  XL 

CHARMIDES  and  SCEPAH.NIO. 
Charm.  Prithee  now  show  me  some  place, 
Where  I  may  sleep,  good  friend. 

Seep*  Sleep  where  you  will; 

There's  no  one  hinders;  the  highway  is  common. 

Charm.  D'ye  see1?   my  clothes  here  are  wet 

through  :  then  take  me 

Into  thy  house,  lend  me  some  fresh  apparel, 
While  mine  is  drying:  thou  shalt  have  my  thanks. 
Seep.  Here,  you  may  take  this  coarse  frock,  if 

you  will, 

It's  all  that  I  have  dry:  it  serves  to  shelter  me 
In  rainy  weather.     Come,  give  me  your  clothes ; 
I'll  get  them  dried. 

Charm.  So !  is  it  not  enough 

The  sea  has  made  a  broken  merchant  of  me, 
But  thou  wouldst  take  me  in,  too,  on  the  land? 
Seep.  Broken  or  whole,  I  value  not  a  straw : 
I  shall  not  trust  a  rag  without  a  pawn. 
Whether  you  sweat  or  freeze,  are  sick  or  well, 
I  will  not  let  a  stranger  in  the  house : 
No,  no,  I've  had  enough  of  rogues  already. 

[Exit  SCEPARNIO. 

SCENE  XII. 
CHAHMIDES  alone. 

What!  is  he  gone? — Why  sure  this  fellow  deals, 
Whoe'er  he  is,  in  girl's  flesh,  he's  so  merciless. 
Wet  as  I  am,  why  stand  I  here?  'twere  best 
To  go  into  the  temple,  and  sleep  off 
Last  night's  debauch,  which  went  against  my 

stomach. 

Old  Neptune  drench'd  us  with  his  damn'd  sea- 
water 
As  though  't  had  been  Greek  wine,  and  so  he 

hoped. 

To  burst  our  bellies  with  his  briny  draughts. 
Troth,  had  he  plied  us  but  a  little  longer, 
We  had  been  fast  asleep,  and  now  indeed 
He  has  sent  us  home  half  dead. — Well,  I'll  go  in, 
And  see  what's  doing  by  my  pot  companion. 

[Goes  into  the  temple. 

ACT  III.     SCENE  I. 

Enter  DJEMONES. 

How  many  ways  the  gods  make  sport  of  men! 
How  strangely  do  they  fool  us  in  our  dreams ! 
Even  in  sleep  they  will  not  let  us  rest. 
As  for  example,  I  myself  last  night 
Dreamt  a  most  strange,  and  an  unheard-of  dream. 
Methought  an  ape  made  an  attempt  to  climb 
Up  to  a  swallow's  nest,  nor  could  he  take 
The  young  ones  out;  on  which  he  came  to  me, 
And  asked  me  for  a  ladder :  I  replied, 
That  swallows  sprang  from  Philomel  and  Progne, 
And  charged  him  not  to  hurt  my  country  folks. 
At  this  the  ape  grew  much  enraged,  and  seem'd 
To  threaten  me  with  vengeance,  summon'd  me 
Before  a  judge  :  at  last,  I  know  not  how, 
Highly  provok'd,  I  caught  him  by  the  middle, 
And  clapp'd  the  mischievous  vile  beast  in  chains. 
I  have  in  vain  endeavour 'd  to  find  out 
The  meaning  of  this  dream. — But  hark!  what 
noise 


Is  that  I  hear  in  the  adjoining  temple? 
I  am  amazed,  and  marvel  what  it  means. 

SCENE  II. 

Enter  TRACHALIO  from  the  temple,  hastily. 
Track.  Help,  help,  Cyrenians,  I  implore  your 

help, 
Good  countrymen,  friends,  neighbours;  lend  your 

aid 

To  impotent  distress,  and  crush  at  once 
This  worst  of  villainies :  let  not  the  power 
Of  wicked  men  oppress  the  innocent, 
Who  glory  not  in  crimes :  let  punishment 
Wait  on  bold  vice,  reward  on  modest  virtue : 

0  let  us  live  by  law,  and  not  oppression ! 
Run,  run  into  the  temple :  I  again 
Implore  your  help,  all  that  are  near  me,  all 
That  hear  my  cry !  O  haste  to  bring  them  succour, 
Who  (as  allow'd  by  custom)  have  here  fled 

To  Venus  and  her  priestess  for  protection. — 
Break,  break  the  neck  of  this  vile  injury, 
Ere  it  may  reach  yourselves. 

Deem.  Now  what's  the  matter  ? 

Track.  0  good  old  gentleman,  whoe'er  you  are, 

1  do  beseech  you  by  these  knees, — 

Deem.  Nay,  prithee 

Let  go  my  knees,  and  tell  me,  what's  the  matter? 
What  mean  you  by  this  uproar? 

Trach.  I  beseech  you, 

As  you  would  hope  a  fair  and  prosperous  vintage, 
As  you  would  make  your  exportations  safe 
To  Capua,  as  you  would  wish  to  keep  your  eye- 
sight 
Clear  and  exempt  from  running, — 

Deem.  Are  you  mad  ? 

Trach.  As  you  expect,  I  say,  a  plenteous  crop, 
Be  not  averse  to  hear  what  I  request. 

Deem.  And  I  beseech  you  by  your  legs  and 

back, 

As  you  would  hope  a  fair  and  prosperous  whip- 
ping, 

As  you  expect  a  plenteous  crop  of  lashes, 
Inform  me,  what's  the  matter  ?  whence  this  up- 
roar? 

Trach.  Why  do  you  speak  me  ill?  I  wish'd 
you  good. 

Deem.  I  do  not  speak  you  ill  in  wishing  you 
What  you  deserve. 

Trach.  Pray  mind  me. 

Deem.  What's  the  matter? 

Trach.  Two  innocent  young  damsels   in  the 

temple 

Need  your  assistance  :  they  are  basely  used 
'Gainst  law  and  justice  ;  the  poor  priestess  too 
Is  treated  most  unworthily. 

Deem.  Who  dares 

Do  violence  to  the  priestess  ? — But  these  girls, 
Who  are  they?  how  are  they  abused  ? 

Trach.  I'll  t«ll  you, 

If  you'll  attend. — They  now  embrace  the  statue, 
Which  a  vile  rogue  would  drag  them  from  by 

force, 
Though  they  are  both  born  free. 

Deem.  What  is  the  fellow, 

That  pays  so  little  reverence  to  the  gods? 

Trach.  A  cheat,  a  profligate,  a  parricide, 


PLAUTUS. 


347 


A  perjur'd,  lawless  villain :  in  one  word, 
He's  a  procurer :  I  need  say  no  more. 

Deem.  You've  said  enough  to  prove  he  deserves 
hanging. 

Track.  A  rascal ! — he  had  the  insolence  to  take 
Tin-  priestess  by  the  throat. 

Deem.  And  he  shall  pay  for't. 

Turbaiio!   Sparax !    ho,  come  forth!   where  are 
you? 

Track.  Pray,  sir,  go  in,  and  take  their  part. 

Deem.  I  warrant  you 

I  need  not  call  twice  :  they'll  be  here  directly. 

Enter  TURBALIO  and  SPARAX. 
Deem.  Come,  follow  me.  (goes  with  his  servants 

into  the  tempi .) 

Track.  Bid  them  to  tear  his  eyes  out. 

Deem,  (u-ithin.)  Seize  him,  drag  him  along  with 

his  feet  foremost, 
Like  a  stuck  pis:.* 

Track.  (Juf*NM£.)  I  hear  a  rout  within. 
They're  currying  him,  I  fancy,  with  their  fists: 
I  wish  they'd  knock  his  teeth  out,  a  vile  rascal! 
Hut  see,  here  come  the  damsels  sadly  frighten'd. 

SCENE  III. 
PALESTRA  and  AMPKLISCA  appear  in  the  temple. 

court. 
f'-L  Now  are  we  destitute  of  every  power, 

1  y  succour  and  defence,  no  hope 
Of  safety  left  us,  neither  do  we  know 
Which  way  to  turn,  or  whither  to  betake  us. 
Dire  apprehensions  compass  us  around, 
Such  outrage  have  we  suiler'd  here  within 
From  the  base  rogue  our  master,  who  most  rudely 
Pu.-h'd  down  the  good  old  priestess,  treated  her 
"vVith  the  most  vile  indignities,  and  dragg'd  us 
With  violence  from  the  statue. — Seeing  then 
Our  state  is  desperate,  it  were  best  to  die. 
Death  is  the  only  refuge  in  alHiction. 

Track.  What  do  I  hear  !  what  sad  complaints 

are  these  1 

Why  don't  I  go  and  comfort  them? — Palaestra! 
Pnl.  Who  calls  there? 
Truck.  Ampelisca! 

Ha!  who's  that? 
Pal.  Who  is  it  calls 

h.  Turn,  and  you  will  know. 

Pul.  (turning.)  O  my  be>t  Impes  of  safety! 
Ti'urh.  No  more  waitings  : 

Be  of  good  heart :  have  faith  in  i 

Pal.  If  possible, 

and  shelter  us  from  impious  violence, 
Le>t  it  should  f<»rce  me  to  do  violence 
To  my  own  self. 

Track.  No  more  : — you  are  a  fool. 

/>.   Seek  not  to  com  fort  us  with  words  alone. 
Pul.   Except  you  find  a  real  safeguard  for  us. 
We  are  undone;  and  I'm  resnlv'd  to  die 
Bl  than  fail  into  this  villain's  power 
Yet  have  I  but  a  woman's  heart;  for  when 
I  think  on  death,  I  tremble. 

Track.  Though  your  case 

Is  hard,  have  a  good  heart. 


*  Quasi  occisam  suem. 


Pal.  Where  shall  I  find  it? 

Track.  Don't  be  dismay'd,  sit  down  here  by 
this  altar. 

Pal.  What  can  this  altar  now  avail  us  more 
Than  did  the  statue,  which  we  late  embrac'd, 
'Till  dragg'd  from  it  by  force? 

Track.  Do  but  sit  down, 

I'll  guard  you :  let  this  altar  be  your  fortress, 
I  will  defend  the  work:  with  Venus'  help 
I'll  stand  against  the  attacks  of  this  procurer. 

Pal.  We'll  follow  your  instructions.— 
(The  women  advance  towards  the  altar,  and  kneel) 

Gentle  Venus ! 

Thus  lowly  on  our  knees,  and  bathed  in  tears, 
Embracing  this  your  altar,  we  beseech  you, 
Guard  and  receive  us  into  your  protection : 
Avenge  you  on  those  miscreants,  who  dare  slight 
Your  temple,  and  permit  us  to  approach 
Your  altar,  who  last  night  by  Neptune's  power 
Were  cast  away :  O  hold  us  not  in  scorn, 
Nor  think  it  done  amiss,  that  thus  we  come 
Less  seemingly  accoutred  than  we  ought. 

Track.  They  ask  but  what  is  right,  and  you 

should  grant  it: 

You  must  forgive  them :  their  sad  apprehensions 
Force  them  to  what  they  do.    Yourself,  they  say, 
Sprung  from  the  ocean,  slight  not  then  these  out- 
casts. 

But  the  old  gentleman,  our  common  friend, 
Comes  opportunely  here  from  out  the  temple. 

SCEXE  IV. 

Enter  DXMOXES,  dragging  LAB  RAX. 
Deem.  Come  forth,  thou  worst  of  sacrilegious 

villains. 
(to  the  women.)  You,  seat  you  by  the  altar  there. — 

Where  are  they? 
Where  are  my  slaves? 

Track.  Look,  here  they  are. 

Deem.  That's  well. 

Jl  Servant.  We'd  fain  be  at  him :  bid  him  but 

come  near. 

Deem,  (to  Lab.,  who  is  going  tmvards  the  altar.) 
How,  rascal !  would  you  sacrifice  with  us  ? 

(to  the  servants.) 
Lay  your  fists  on  him.  (they  beat  him.) 

Labr.  I  must  bear  your  wrongs, 

But  you  shall  pay  for't. 

Deem.  Does  he  dare  to  threaten  ? 

Labr.  You  rob  me  of  my  right;  you  take  away 
My  girls  in  spite  of  me. 

Deem.  Make  your  appeal 

To  any  of  the  great  ones  of  ti 
And   let   him    try  the   cause,   whether  they  are 

yours, 

Or  else  born  free ;  and  whether  too  your  knave- 
si  lip 

Should  not  be  clapp'd  in  prison,  there  to  lie 
Till  you  have  worn  it  out. 

Labr.  I  have  no  business 

To  talk  with  this  hang-gallows  slave.— 
(fprnki,}^  to  Deem.)  'Tis  you, 

That  I  must  try  the  cause  with. 

Deem.  First  of  all 

Try  it  with  him,  who  is  no  stranger  to  you. 
Labr.  My  suit's  with  you. 


348 


PLAUTUS. 


Track.  Your  suit  must  be  with  me. 

Are  these  your  property  ? 

Labr.  They  are. 

Track.  Come  on  then, 

Do  but  touch  either  with  your  little  finger. 

Labr.  What  if  I  do  ? 

Track.  I'll  make  a  football  of  you, 

Swing  you  about  in  air,  and  with  my  fists 
Bandy  you  to  and  fro,  you  perjur'd  villain ! 

Labr.  May  I  not  take  my  own  girls  from  the 
altar  1 

Deem.  You  may  not ;  that's  our  law. 

Labr.  I've  no  concern, 

Nothing  to  do,  no  business  with  your  laws : 
I'll  take  them  both  away. — Lookye,  old  gentleman, 
If  you've  a  liking  to  them,  you  must  down 
With  the  hard  money. 

Deem.  Venus  does  approve  them. 

Labr.  And  she  may  have  them,  if  she'll  pay 
the  money. 

Deem.  I'll  pay  the  money!  Now  then  know 

my  mind : 

If  you  dare  offer  them  the  smallest  violence, 
Though  but  in  jest,  I'll  give  you  such  a  dressing, 
You  will  not  know  yourself. — 
(to  his  servants.)  And  you,  ye  rascals, 

If,  when  I  give  the  signal,  you  don't  tear 
His  eyes  out  of  his  head,  I'll  have  you  bound 
With  rods  lash'd  round  you,  like  those  sprigs  of 
myrtle. 

Labr.  Nay,  this  is  violence. 

Track.  You  burning  shame ! 

What,  do  you  talk  of  violence  ? 

Labr.  You  knave, 

You  gallows  rogue,  how  dare  you  to  abuse  me  ? 

Track.  Well,  let  me  be  a  rogue,  and  you,  for- 
sooth, 

A  man  of  strictest  honesty, — these  girls, 
Are  they  a  whit  less  free  ? 

Labr.  Free,  say  you  ? 

Track.  Yes, 

And  are  your  mistresses ;  both  born  in  Greece ; 
One  an  Athenian,  sprung  from  gentle  parents. 

Dam.  What  do  I  hear  you  say  ? 

Track.  That  she  is  free ; 

Was  born  at  Athens. 

Deem.  How!  my  coimtrywoman? 

Track.  What !  are  not  you,  sir,  a  Cyrenian  ? 

Dam.  No : 

In  Greece,  at  Athens,  I  was  born  and  bred. 

Track.  I  pray  you  then,  defend  your  country- 
women. 

Deem,  (aside.)  O  my  dear  daughter ! — when  I 

look  on  her, 

The  want  of  you  reminds  me  of  my  troubles. — 
I  lost  her  when  but  three  years  old,  and  now, 
If  she  yet  live,  her  size  must  be  the  same. 

Labr.  I   bought   them    both,  paid    down   the 

money  for  them 

To  him,  that  own'd  them. — What  is  it  to  me, 
If  they  were  born  at  Athens  or  at  Thebes, 
So  they  are  properly  my  slaves? 

Track.  Thou  impudence, 

Thou  cat  ©'mountain,  thou  vile  girl-catcher,* 

+  The  original  is  Felis  Virginalis. 


Wouldst  kidnap  free-born   children  from  their 

parents, 

And  then  employ  them  in  thy  filthy  trade? — 
This  other  here,  what  country  she  is  of 
I  know  not,  but  I  know  she's  worthier 
Than  you,  you  filthy  knave. 

Labr.  Do  you  say  true  ? 

Track.  Nay,  let  our  backs  be  vouchers  for  our 

truth, 

And  if  you  have  not  offerings  on  your  back 
More  than  a  first-rate  ship  has  nails,  I'm  then 
The  veriest  liar  upon  earth.     When  yours 
I  have  inspected,  look  at  mine;  you'll  find  it 
Tight    and   without   a    crack    in't,    that   there's 

never 

A  leathern-bottle-maker  but  will  say, 
My  hide  is  whole,  and  fitting  for  his  purpose. 
Why  don't  I  give  the  rogue  his  belly-full 
Of  stripes? — Why  stare  so  at  them? — If  you  touch 

them, 
I'll  tear  your  eyes  out. 

Labr.  Now,  because  you'd  hinder  me, 

I'll  take  them  both  away. 

Deem.  What  will  you  do  ? 

Labr.  Fetch  Vulcan;  he's  an  enemy  to  Venus. 
(goes  towards  Dcemones'  door.) 
Dam.  Where  is  he  going? 
Labr.  (calling  at  Dcemones'  door.) 

Hola !  who's  within  here  ? 
Deem.  If  you  but  touch  the  threshold  of  that 

door, 

A  plenteous  crop  of  blows   shall  be  your  por- 
tion. 
A  Servant.  We  have  no  fire;   we  live  upon 

dried  figs. 

Deem.  I'll  give  you  fire,  provided  I  may  kindle  it 
Upon  your  head. 

Labr.  Faith,  I'll  procure  it  somewhere. 

Deem.  What  will  you  do  then? 
Labr.  Kindle  a  large  fire. 

Deem.  To  burn  yourself. 

Labr.  To  burn  them  both  alive 

Here  at  the  altar. 

Deem.  I  would  fain  see  that. — 

By  heavens  I'll  catch  you  by  the  beard,  and  throw 

you 

Into  the  fire,  then  hang  you  up  half-roasted 
For  birds  to  peck  at. — (aside.)  Now  I  think  on't, 

this 

Must  be  the  ape  I  dreamt  of,  who  would  needs 
Have  taken  these  young  swallows    from   their 

nests 
Spite  of  my  teeth. 

Track.  I  do  beseech  you,  sir, 

Defend  these  maidens,  while  I  fetch  my  master. 
Deem.  Go  then. 

Track.  And  let  him  not — 

Deem.  'Tis  at  his  peril, 

If  he  dare  touch  them  once,  or  e'en  attempt  ;.t. 
Track.  You  will  take  care. 
Deem.  I  will  take  care. — Begone. 

Track.  And  guard  him  too;  see  that  he  don't 

get  off": 

For  we  have  promis'd  to  deliver  him 
Up  to  the  hangman's  hands,  or  pay  a  talent. 

[Exit  TRACHAUO. 


PLAUTUS. 


349 


SCENE  V. 
D^EMONES,  LABRAX,  PALJESTRA,  AMPELISCA,  and 

M.HVAXTS. 

D<em.  (to  Labr.)  Which  do  you  choose?  to  stay 

here  quietly 
Without  a  drubbing,  or  be  forc'd  to't  with  one? 

Lv.br.  Your  words  I  value  not  a  fig,  old  gen- 

tleman. 

I'll  drag  them  from  the  altar  by  the  hair 
In  spite  of  you,  of  Venus,  or  of  Jove. 

Ditm.  Do,  touch  them. 

Labr.   (going  towards  them.')  That  I  will,  by 
heavens. 

Diem.  Come  on  then. 

Do  but  step  hither. 

Libr.  Bid  those  fellows  then 

Move  off. 

Deem.  Nay,  nay,  they  shall  move  up  towards 
you. 

Labr.  I  would  not  have  them. 

Dam.  Why?  What  will  you  do, 

If  tl  ey  advance  still  nearer  ? 

Labr.  I'll  retire. 

But  harkye  me,  old  grey-beard  ;  if  I  ever 
Should  chance  to  light  upon  you  in  the  city, 
Let  me  forswear  the  name  of  pimp  for  aye, 
But  I  will  make  most  precious  sport  with  you. 

Deem.  Do  what  you  menace  when  you  please  : 

meantime 
If  now  you  touch  them,  you  shall  pay  for't  hugely. 

Labr.  How!  hugely? 

Deem.  Aye,  as  such  a  pimp  deserves. 

labr.  I  value  not  your  threats,  but  I  will  seize 

them 
Spi'.e  of  your  teeth. 

Deem.  Do,  touch  them,  if  you  dare. 

Labr.  Faith,  that  I  will. 

Deem.        Do  then,  you  know  the  consequence. 
Turbalio,  run  with  all  your  speed,  and  bring 
Two  cudgels. 

iMbr.  Cudgels? 

Deem.  Stout  ones  let  them  be  : 

Make  haste.  [TURBALIO  goes  in. 

(to  Labr.)         I'll  give  you  a  reception,  - 
As  you  deserv.-.  yu  rascal  ! 

Labr.  (aside.)  Woe  is  me  ! 

Tint  I  have  left  my  head-piece  in  the  ship  ! 
No\v.  if  I  had  it,  it  would  be  of  service.  — 
(to  Deem.)  May  I  not  speak  to  them  at  least? 

Deem,  You  may  not. 

(TURBALIO  enters,  bearing  two  cudgels.) 

Oh,  here  he  comes,  UK-  fellow  with  his  cudgels. 

Labr.   Tln-se  are  de-i-n'd    for  inu.-ie.  and  they 


A  most  melodious  tinkling  in  the  ears. 

Deem.  Here,  Sparax,  do  you  take   that  other 
ood| 

One  of  you  stand  on  this  side,  and  the  other 
On  that  side  of  the  altar.  —  Mind  me  now.  — 
If  lie  but  lay  a  finger  on  these  L'irls, 

their  Inclination,  woe  be  to  you. 
If  you  don't  briskly  ply  him  with  y<>ur  cudgels, 
'Till,  like  a  drunkard,  he  -hall  s.-:irce  be  able 
To  find  his  way  home.  —  If  he  sp.-nks  t<>  any  one, 
You  answer  in  their  stead;  and  if  he  oilers 


To  run  away,  straight  hamper  him,  by  making 
Your  cudgels  serve  as  fetters  for  his  1> 

Labr.  What!  won't  they  let  me  go  about  my 

l)ii>iness  ? 

Deem.  I've  said  enough. — When  that  the  ser- 
vant comes, 

Who  went  to  fetch  his  master,  then  go  home. — 
See  that  you  carefully  observe  my  orders. 

[Exit  DJHMONES. 

SCENE  VI. 

LAB RAX  and  SERVANTS.    The  two  Women,  as 
before. 

Labr.  (walking  on  one  side.)  Heyday!  the  tem- 
ple's on  a  sudden  chang'd 
From  Venus'  to  that  of  Hercules  : 
For  the  old  gentleman  has  planted  here 
Two  figures  with  their  clubs. — Now  for  my  life 
I  know  not  where  to  take  me ; — sea  and  land 
Are  both  conspir'd  against  me. — 0  Pahsstra! 

Serv.  What  would  you  ? 

Labr.  Hold  !  we're  at  cross  purposes : 

This  is  not  my  Pakestra,  that  has  answer'd. 
Ho  Ampelisca! 

Serv.  'Ware  thee  of  mishap. 

Labr.  These    fellows   give    me  good   advice, 

however. 

But  tell  me,  ho !  will  there  be  any  harm, 
If  I  come  nearer  them  ? 

Serv.  No  harm  to  us. 

Labr.  Will  there  be  any  harm  to  me  ? 

Serv.  No,  none, 

If  you  beware. 

Labr.  Of  what  must  I  beware  ? 

Serv.  A  hearty  drubbing. 

Labr.  I  beseech  you  now, 

Permit  me  to  depart. 

Serv.  Go,  if  you  will. 

Labr.  Very  obliging  this :  I  give  you  thanks : 
No,  I'll  draw  nearer  rather  to  my  girls. 

Serv.  Stay  where  you  are. 

Labr.  'Fore  heaven  my  affairs 

Are  in  a  piteous  plight. — But  I'm  resolv'd 
To  lay  close  siege,  and  force  them  to  surrender. 

SCENE  VII. 
Enter  PLEUSIDIPPUS  and  TRACHALIO,  talking,  at 

a  distance. 
Pleus.  What!  would  the  rascal  drag  her  off 

perforce, 
By  violence  from  the  altar  ? 

Track.  Even  so. 

Fleus.  Did  you  not  kill  the  villain  on  the  spot? 
Trach.  There  was  no  sword  at  hand. 
Pleus.  You  should  have  taken 

A  club  or  stone. 

Trach.  Should  I  have  ston'd  the  fellow, 

•on'd  him  like  a  dog? 

Pirn*.  Yes,  such  a  villain. 

Labr.  (seeing  them.)  Now  I'm  undone  indeed.— 

-  IMensidippus: 

rle'll  bru>h  my  jacket  for  me;  aye,  he'll  give  me 
A  thorough  dusting. 

Pleus.  Were  the  dam«eU  sitting 

Then  by  the  altar,  when  y»u  went  for  me? 
Trach.  Yes,  and  are  sitting  now  there. 
2E 


350 


PLAUTUS. 


Pleus.  Who  protects  them  ? 

Track.  A   good    old    gentleman,  I    know  not 

whom, 

Who  lives  close  by  the  temple :  he  has  been 
Of  special  use,  and  of  most  rare  assistance. 
He  and  his  servants  now  protect  and  guard  them : 
I  gave  them  to  their  charge. 

Pkus.  Conduct  me  straight 

To  the  procurer:  show  me,  where's  the  villain? 

(they  advance.) 

Labr.  (to  Pleus.)  Good  morrow. 

Pleus,  Hang  good  morrow ;  take  your  choice 
This  instant,  whether  you'd  be  carried  gently 
Before  a  judge,  or  dragg'd  there  by  the  throat. 
Choose  which  you  will,  while  'tis  allow'd  you. 

Labr.  Neither. 

Pleus.  Trachalio,  run  with  speed  to  the  seaside, 
And  bid  the  friends  I  brought  along  with  me 
To  meet  me  forthwith  at  the  city  gate, 
That  they  may  help  to  drag  this  knave  to  prison: 
That  done,  come  back  again,  and  guard  these 
damsels.  [Exit  TRACHALIO. 

SCENE  VIII. 
PIEUSIDIPPUS,  LABRAX,  SERVANTS,  and  the 

Women  as  before. 

Pleus.  Yes,  I  will  bear  this  rascal  runaway 
Before  the  judge. — Come,  come  before  the  judge. 

Labr.  What  is  my  crime  ? 

Pleus.  Crime,  ask  you  ? — Did  you  not 

Take  earnest  of  me  for  this  damsel  here, 
Then  bore  her  off? 

Labr.  I  did  riot  bear  her  off. 

Pleus.  Will  you  deny  it  ? 

Labr.  Yes,  because  I  only 

Bore  her  on  board ;  I  could  not  bear  her  off, 
The  more  is  my  mishap. — Did  I  not  say, 
That  you  should  find  me  here  at  Venus' temple  ? 
Wherein  then  have  I  falsified  my  word  ? 
Am  I  not  here  ? 

Pleus.  Nay,  you  shall  plead  your  cause 

Before  the  magistrate :  I'll  hear  no  more. — 
Come,  come  along,  (lays  hold  of  him.) 

Labr.  (calling.^)  Help!  help! — Dear  Charmides! 
I'm  laid  hold  of,  dragg'd  here  by  the  throat. 

SCENE  IX. 
Enter  CHARMIDES  from  the  temple. 

Charm.  Who  calls  me  by  my  name? 

Labr.  Dost  thou  not  see 

How  I  am  dragg'd  ? 

Charm.  I  see  it,  and  look  on 

With  pleasure. 

Labr.  Wilt  not  come  to  my  assistance  ? 

Charm.  Who  has  got  hold  of  the*  ? 

Labr.  Young  Pleusidippus. 

Charm.  Bear  thy  mishap  with  patience :  thou 

hadst  better 

Slink  quietly  to  jail  :  why  thou  hast  got 
What  most  men  wish  for. 

Labr.  What  is  that  ? 

Charm.  To  find 

What  they  are  seeking. 

Labr.  Prithee  bear  me  company. 

Charm.  Troth,  thy  request  is  like  thee :  thou 
art  dragg'd 


To  jail,  and  thou  wouldst  have  me  bear  thee 

company. 
What !  hanging  back  ? 

Labr.  0  I'm  undone  for  ever. 

Pleus.  Would  it  were  true ! — Do  you,  my  dear 

Palaestra, 

And  Ampelisca,  tarry  here  the  while, 
Till  my  return. 

Serv.  I  would  advise  them  rather 

To  go  to  our  house,  and  there  wait  your  coming. 

Pleus.  I  like  it :  you  oblige  me. 

Labr.  Ye  are  thieves. 

Serv.  How !  thieves  ? 

Pleus.  Drag  him  along 

Labr.  Help!  help!  Palaestra! 

Pleus.  On,  rascal! 

Labr.  Guest! 

Charm.  No  guest  of  thine :  I  scorn 

To  be  thy  messmate. 

Labr.  Wilt  thou  slight  me  thus? 

Charm.  I  do:  I've  tasted  of  thy  cheer  already. 

Labr.  Plague  light  upon  thy  head ! 

Charm.  On  thine,  say  rather. 

[PLEUSIDIPPUS  drags  LAB  RAX  off.     The  Women 

and  SERVANTS  go  into  D.EMONES'  house. 

SCENE  X. 
CHARMIDES  alone. 

I  do  believe,  that  men  are  metamorphos'd, 
Some,  into  one  brute,  some  into  another. 
This  rascal  pirnp  here  on  my  faith  I  think 
Is  chang'd  into  a  stock-dove,  for  ere  long 
They'll  have  him  in  the  stocks,  and  in  the  cage 
For  jail-birds  like  himself,  he'll  make  his  nest. 
However  I  will  go  and  be  his  advocate, 
If  by  my  help  he  may  be  sooner  cast.          [Exit. 

ACT  IV.     SCENE  I. 
Enter  DJEMONES. 

'Twas  a  right  deed,  and  'tis  a  pleasure  to  me, 
That  I  could  serve  these  damsels. — I  am  now 
Their  patron  and  protector.    They  are  both 
Of  a  rare  age  and  beauty ;  but  the  jade, 
My  wife,  still  watches  me  on  every  side, 
Lest  I  should  show  a  liking  to  the  damsels. — 
I  marvel  what  my  slave  Gripus  is  doing, 
Who  went  last  night  a  fishing  on  the  sea : 
He  had  been  wiser,  had  he  slept  at  home, 
Such  weather,  such  a  night:  what  he  has  caught, 
Til  dress  within  the  hollow  of  my  hand, 
The  sea  was  so  tempestuous,  (he  is  called.)  But 

my  wife 

Calls  me  to  dinner;  I  must  home  again ; 
Though   she  will   stun  my  ears  with  her  vile 

prattle. 

SCENE  II. 
Enter  GRIPUS. 

Thanks  to  my  patron  Neptune,  whose  abode 
Is  in  the  briny  regions  stor'd  with  fishes, 
Since  he  has  sent  me  from  his  wat'ry  realms 
Full  fraught,  and  laden  with  the  choicest  booty; 
My  boat  too  safe,  which  in  the  stormy  sea 
Has  blest  me  with  a  new  and  plenteous  fishing. 
'Twas  a  rare  chance  this  kind  of  fishery, 
How  very  wondrous  and  incredible  ! 


PLAUTUS. 


351 


I  have  not  caught  me  an  ounce  weight  of  fish, 

Save  what  I  have  here  in  my  net.     I  rose 

Ai  midnight  all  alert,  preferring  gain 

To  rest  and  sleep ;  and  though  the  tempest  roar'd, 

I  Uibour'd  to  relieve  my  master's  wants, 

A  id  help  me  in  my  state  of  servitude. 

I  never  have  been  sparing  of  my  pains. 

The  sluggard's  good  for  nothing:  I  detest 

Si  eh  kind  of  fellows.     He,  who  in  good  time 

Would  do  his  duty,  should  be  vigilant, 

Not  wait,  'till  he  is  rous'd  to't  by  his  master. 

Those  who  love  sleep,  indulge  it  to  their  cost; 

T  ley  get  no  profit,  and  are  sure  to  suffer. 

I.  who  was  ever  diligent,  have  found 

T  uit  which  will  keep  me  lazy,  if  I  will. 

I  found  it  in  the  sea,  whatever's  in  it. 

Whatever's  in  it,  by  my  faith  'tis  heavy. 

I  think  there's  gold  in't.     Not  a  soul  besides 

I?  privy  to  the  chance.     Now,  Gripus,  now 

Thou  hast  a  fair  occasion  to  procure 

Thy  freedom  of  the  praetor.     This  I'll  do, 

This  I'm  determin'd,  I'll  address  my  master 

With  art  and  cunning,  proffer  him  a  sum 

By  little  and  by  little  for  my  freedom: 

When  I  am  free,  I'll  purchase  house  and  lands, 

And  slaves,  and  fit  out  vessels,  and  engage 

In  traffic ;  among  kings  I'll  be  a  king. 

And  then  for  my  amusement  I  will  build 

A  pleasure -barge,  and  copy  Stratonicus : 

I'll  sail  about  from  place  to  place:  and  when 

My  greatness  is  notorious,  I  will  found 

A  mighty  city,  and  will  call  it  Gripus 

After  my  own  name,  as  a  monument 

Of  my  exploits  and  fame :  there  I'll  ersct 

A  potent  monarchy. — My  mind's  resolv'd 

On  high  and  miuhty  matters. — But  'twere  best 

lo  hide  this  wallet;  and  this  king  must  dine 

On  salt  and  vinegar,  no  better  cheer.  (goi"S"-) 

SCEXE  III. 

Enter  TRACHALIO. 

Track.  Ho!  stay  there — 

Grip.  Stay!  for  what1? 

Track.  Till  I  roll  up 

This  rope*  here,  which  you're  dragging  after  you. 

Grip.  Let  it  alone,  pray. 

Track.  But  I  must  assist  you. 

Kindness  on  good  men  is  not  thrown  away. 

(//•///.  The  weather  ye.-ierday  was  very  bois- 
terous : 

I  have  no  H>h,  young  man;  don't  think  I  have. 
And  don't  you  see,  I  bring  my  net  home  wet 
With  nothing  in't  \ 

Track.  not  fish  I  want, 

But  only  to  discourse  with  . 

(iriji.  You  kill  me 

With  your  impertinen  i  you  are. 

Track   (holtliiig  /n,/».)  I  will  not  let  you  go. — 
Stay. 

Crip.   S«-e  that  you 

UeptMit  not. — What  a  plague  d'ye  pull  me  back 
for? 

Track.  Hear  me. 

< '•>•'<;>.  I  will  not  hear. 

*  Hence  the  name  of  the  play  in  the  original. 


Track.  Nay  but  you  shall. 

Grip.  Another  time  say  what  you  will. 

Track.  But  good  now, 

What  I've  to  tell  you  is  of  moment. 

Grip.  Speak, 

What  is  it  ? 

Track.          See,  if  no  one  is  behind  us. 

Grip.  And  how  am  I  concern'd  in't? 

Track.  Very  much. 

But  can  you  give  me  good  advice  1 

Grip.  What  is  it? 

Tell  me. 

Track.  I'll  tell  you, — hist, — if  you  will  promise 
Not  to  betray  me. 

Grip.  Well  then,  I  do  promise 

Not  to  betray  you,  whosoe'er  you  are. 

Track.  List  then.  I  saw  a  man  commit  a  theft, 
And  knew  the  owner,  whom  the  goods  belong'd  to. 
Straight  comes  I  to  the  thief,  and  offers  him 
This  fair  proposal.     Of  your  theft,  quoth  I, 
I'm  witness,  and  I  know  the  owner :  now 
If  you  will  give  me  half,  I'll  not  discover  it. 
The  fellow  makes  me  no  reply.  What  think  you 
It  were  but  just  that  he  should  give  me  1    Half, 
I  hope  you'll  say. 

Grip.  Ay  truly  that,  and  more  : 

If  he  don't  give  it,  you  should  tell  the  owner. 

Track.  I'll  do  as  you  advise  me. — Mind  me 

now: 
For  this  is  your  concern. 

Grip.  How  my  concern  ? 

Track.  That  wallet;  I  have  known  the  owner 
long. 

Grip.  What's  that  ? 

Track.  And  how  'twas  lost. 

Grip.  And  how  'twas  found 

I  know,  and  who  'twas  found  it,  and  I  know 
Who  is  the  owner  now :  but  what  is  that 
To  you  or  me  1  I  know  whose  it  is  now, 
You  whose  it  was.  No  one  shall  have  it  from  me  : 
Think  not  to  get  it. 

Track.  If  the  owner  comes, 

Shall  he  not  have  it? 

Grip.  No  one  is  the  owner,— 

Don't  be  mistaken, — no  one  but  myself, 
Who  caught  it  when  a  fishing. 

Track.  Did  you  so  ? 

Grip.  What  fish  is  in  the  sea,  that  is  not  mine  ? 
As  soon  as  I  have  caught  them,  they  are  mine ; 
I  hold  them  for  my  own,  at  my  disposal ; 
And  no  one  claims  a  part:  I  sell  them  all 
As  my  own  property  in  open  market 
The  sea  is  common  unto  all. 

Track.  Agreed : 

This  wallet  then,  why  should  it  not  be  common 
Twixt  you  and  meT  you  found  it  in  the  sea; 
'Tis  common  then. 

Gri)>.  Was  ever  such  assurance? 

If  this  were  law  you  talk  of,  we  poor  fishermen 
Would  be  undone ;  for  soon  as  e'er  our  fish 
Were  brought  to  market,  and  exposed  to  sale, 
No  one  would  buy,  but  every  one  would  claim 
A  portion  of  the  li.-h.  crying,  forsooth, 
That  we  had  caught  them  in  the  sea  that's  common. 

Track.  How  say  you,  sauce-box?  Will  you  dare 
to  place 


352 


PLAUTUS. 


A  wallet  in  comparison  with  fish? 
Think  you,  they  are  the  same? 

Grip.  When  I  have  thrown 

My  net  in,  'tis  no  longer  in  my  power : 
Whatever  sticks  to  it,  I  haul  it  up, 
And  what  my  net  has  got,  is  mine  alone. 

Track.  Nay  but  it  is  not,  if  you  catch  a  wallet. 

Grip.  0  rare  philosopher  ! 

Track.  Good  conjurer, 

Did  you  e'er  know  a  fisherman,  that  caught 
A  wallet-fish,  or  carried  one  to  market? 
Would  you  be  jack  of  all  trades  as  you  like? 
Would  you,  you  rascal,  deal  in  wallets  too 
As  well  as  be  a  fisherman  ?    But  now 
Show  me  what  kind  of  fish  a  wallet  is, 
Or  you  shall  carry  nothing  off,  that  was  not 
Bred  in  the  sea,  and  has  not  scales. 

Grip.  What,  never 

Heard  of  a  wallet-fish  before  ? 

Track.  You  villain ! 

There's  no  such  fish. 

Grip.  Nay  verily  there  is; 

And  I,  who  am  a  fisherman,  must  know : 
But  it  is  rarely  caught :  no  fish  so  seldom 
Comes  to  our  coast. 

Track.  That  will  avail  you  nought, 

You  gallows  knave ;  d'ye  think  you  can  deceive 
me? 

What  colour  is  it  of? 

Grip.  There  are  but  few 

Caught  of  this  colour:  some  are  red,  some  black, 
And  some  are  very  large. 

Track.  I  understand  you. 

You  will  be  chang'd  into  a  wallet-fish, 
Unless  you  have  a  care  :  first  you'll  be  red, 
Then  black. 

Grip.  What  rascal  have  I  stumbled  on  ? 

Track.  This  is  mere  talking,  and  we  waste 

the  day. 
Whose  arbitration,  say,  shall  we  abide  by  ? 

Grip.  The  wallet's. 

Track.  Ay  indeed ! — You  are  a  fool. 

Grip.  Fare  you  well,  Thales !  (going.) 

Track,  (holding  him.)  Nay  you  shall  not  have  it, 
Unless  you  place  it  in  some  person's  hands, 
And  choose  an  umpire  to  decide  betwixt  us. 

Grip.  What,  are  you  mad  ? 

Track.  I'm  drunk  with  hellebore. 

Grip.  I'm  Ceres-struck,  but  I'll  not  part  with 
this. 

Track.    Speak  but  another  word,  I'll  knock 

your  brains  out; 

If  you  don't  let  it  go,  like  a  new  spunge, 
I'll  suck  up  every  drop  of  moisture  in  you. 

Grip.  Touch  me,  and  I  will  dash  you  to  the 

ground 
Flat  as  a  flounder. — Will  you  fight  ? 

Track.  What  need 

Of  fighting?  rather  let  us  share  the  booty. 

Grip.  You  will  get  nothing  but  your  own  mis- 
hap, 
So  don't  expect  it.    Ill  be  gone,  (going.) 

Track.  But  I 

Will  make  your  vessel  tack  about  to  stop  you. 

Grip.  If  you  are  at  the  poop,  I'll  keep  at  stern. 
Let  go  the  rope,  you  rascal. 


Track.  Let  it  go  ? 

Do  you  let  go  the  wallet. 

Grip.  You'll  not  be 

A  fig  the  better  now  for  all  that's  in  it. 

Track.  Your  bare  denial  is  no  proof  to  me, 
But  you  must  either  let  me  have  a  share  on't, 
Or  you  must  place  it  in  some  person's  hands, 
And  choose  an  umpire  to  decide  betwixt  us. 

Grip.  How  !  what  I  caught  at  sea  ? — 

Track.  I  saw  from  shore. 

Grip.  With  my  own  pains,  my  own  net,  my 
own  boat? 

Track.  What  if  the  owner  come,  whose  pro- 
perty 

It  is,  shall  I,  who  saw  you  from  afar 
Take  it,  be  counted  less  a  thief  than  you  ? 

Grip.  No,  certainly,  (offers  to  go.) 

Track.  Stay,  rascal.    By  what  argument 

Am  I  to  be  a  thief,  and  not  a  sharer  ? 
Give  me  to  know. 

Grip.  I  can't,  nor  do  I  know 

Your  city  laws ;  but  this  is  mine,  I'll  stand  to  it. 

Track.  I  say  'tis  mine  too. 

Grip.  Hold — I've  found  a  method, 

H6w  you  may  neither  be  the  thief  nor  sharer. 

Track.  Ah  !  how  is  that  ? 

Grip.  Let  me  depart  in  peace, 

Do  you  go  your  own  way,  and  hold  your  tongue : 
You  shall  tell  no  one,  and  I'll  give  you  nothing: 
You  shall  be  silent,  I'll  be  silent  too. 
This  is  the  best,  the  fairest  thing  that  can  be. 

Track.  What!  will  you  make  me  no  proposal? 

Grip.  Yes; 

I  have  already. — "That  you  should  be  gone, 
Let  go  the  rope,  and  trouble  me  no  longer." 

Track.  Stay ;  will  you  take  my  offer  ? 

Grip.  Prithee  take 

Yourself  away. 

Track.  Do  you  know  any  one 

Lives  hereabouts? 

Grip.  Sure  I  must  know  my  neighbours. 

Track.  Where  do  you  live  ? 

Grip.  Far  off  in  yonder  fields. 

Track.  Say,  will  you  leave  it  to  his  arbitration, 
Who  lives  here  in  this  house? 

(pointing  to  Damones*  house.) 

Grip.  Let  go  the  rope 

A  little,  while  I  step  apart,  and  think  on't. — 
(aside.)  Bravo!  all's  safe:  the  prize  is  all  my  own. 
The  fellow  summons  me  on  my  own  dunghill, 
Chooses  my  master  for  an  arbitrator ! 
I  dare  be  sworn,  he  will  not  give  a  doit 
Away  from  his  own  servant.    Sure  the  fool 
Is  not  aware  of  what  he  has  proposed. — 
(to  Track.)  Well,  I'll  attend  you  to  the  arbitrator. 

Track.  What  should  you  do  else  ? 

Grip.  Though  I  know  for  certain 

This  is  my  lawful  right,  Til  do  so  rather 
Than  go  to  boxing  with  you. 

Track.  Now  you  please  ms. 

Grip.  Though  I'm  call'd  before  an  arbitrator 
Who  is  a  stranger,  and  unknown  to  me, 
If  he  but  do  me  justice,  though  unknown, 
It  is  the  same  as  though  we  were  acquainted. 
If  not,  though  known,  he's  as  an  utter  stranger. 
(they  advance  toivards  Dcemones'1  house.) 


PLAUTUS. 


353 


SCENE  IV. 

E.iter  D.EMOXES.  with  PAL JISTRA  and  AMFELISC  A ; 
the  two  servants  behind. 

Derm.  Faith  seriously,  my  girls,  I  wish  to  do 
What  you  yourselves  wish,  but  I  fear,  my  wife 
On  your  account  would  thrust  me  out  of  doors, 
Piotending  that  I  brought  my  misses  home 

i  her  nose,  before  her  eyes. — Do  you  then, 
Rather  than  I.  take  refuge  at  the  altar.* 

P<il.  und  Jimp.  We  are  undone! 

D&m.  Fear  nothing:  I'll  protect  you. 
(/o  the  servants.)  What  brought  you  out  of  doors? 

Why  do  you  follow  me  ? 
While  I  am  present,  no  one  shall  molest  them. 

ye  in,  I  say,  and  there  stand  sentinel. 
Grip.  Save  you,  good  master. 

How  now,  Gripus?  Save  you. 
Track.  Is  this  your  servant? 
drip.  Yes,  and  no  disgrace  to  him. 

Track.  I've  nothing  to  do  with  you. 
drip.  Get  you  gone  then. 

Track.  I  pray  you,  tell  me,  sir  5  is  this  your 

servant? 
Deem.  He  is. 

Truck.  So, — best  of  all  then,  if  he  is. 

Dean.  What  is  the  matter  ? 
Track.  He's  an  arrant  rascal. 

Deem.  What  has  this  arrant  rascal    done   to 

you? 

Track.  I  would  his  logs  worn  broke. 
Dtem.  Why,  what's  the  matter? 

YvT!iat  is  your  contest  now  about? 

Track.  I'll  tell  you. 

drill.    Xuy.  I  WM  tell  y°u- 
Track.  I  will ;  'tis  my  business 

To  move  the  court. 

Grip.  If  you  had  any  shame, 

You  would  move  off. 

Dfpm.  Peace.  Gripus.  and  attend. 

drip.  What!  shall  he  speak  the  first? 
Derm.  Attend,  I  say. 

(to  Track.)  Speak  you. 

drip.  And  will  you  let  a  stranger  speak 

your  own  servant? 

Track.  How  impossible 

!>  his  tongue! — As  I  was  telling  you, 
That  curs'd  procurer's  wallet,  whom  you  drove 
Ju-t  now  from  Ve.,uV  temple, — lo!  he  has  it. 
drip.   I  have  it  not. 
Track.  And  will  you  dare  deny 

I  beheld  myself,  with  my  own  .-, 
drip.  Would  you  were  blind,  I  say  ! — Suppose 

I  ha\ 

Or  have  it  not,  why  d'ye  concern  your 
With  my  tin 

Track.  It  doe*  concern  mo,  whether 

r  unjustly. 
I  caiiJ.it  it.  or  I'd  give  you  leave  to  hang 

me. 

i-.'ht  it  with  my  net, 
-'t  more  your's  than  mine? 


*  Dzmones  menns,  that  if  ttio  d:im«Hs  did  not  quit  his 
mil  p-treal  to  thn  altar.  In*  himself  should  be 
'o  do  it  on  account  of  his  •  •  ment. 

45 


Track.  He  would  deceive  you : 

He  has  it,  as  I  told  you. 

Grip.  What  d'ye  say? 

Track.  If  he's  your  servant,  prithee  keep  him 

under, 

That  I,  whose  right  it  i?,  may  speak  the  first. 
Grip.  How !  would  you  have  my  master  deal 

with  me, 
As  your's  with  you?  though  he  may  keep  you 

under, 
Our  master  is  not  us'd  to  serve  us  so. 

Dam.  Faith  he  has  match 'd  you  there.— What 

would  you  ?  tell  me. 
Track.  I    ask    no    share,    no   portion    of    the 

wallet, 

Nor  did  I  sny  'twas  mine :  but  there  is  in  it 
A  little  casket  of  that  damsel's,  who 
I  told  you  was  free-born. 

D<em.  What  her  you  mean, 

My  countrywoman,  as  you  said  ? 

Track.  The  same. 

And  in  that  casket,  which  is  in  the  wallet, 
There  are  some  toys  of  her's,  which   when  a 

child 

She  had  :  to  him  they're  of  no  use  or  service, 
But  if  he  give  them  her,  may  be  the  means 
For  her  to  find  her  parents. 

Dam.  Say  no  more, 

I'll  make  him  give  them. 

Grip.  Troth,  I'll  give  her  nothing. 

Track.  I  ask  but  for  the  casket  and  those  toys. 
Grip.  But  what  if  they  be  gold  ? 
Track.  Suppose  they  are, 

You  shall  have  gold  for  gold,  of  equal  value, 
Silver  for  silver. 

Grip.  Let  me  see  your  gold, 

And  you  shall  see  the  casket. 

D(pm.  Hold  your  tongue  ; 

Beware  thee  of  a  drubbing: — (to  Track.)  You  go 

on. 
Track.  I  pray  you  have  compassion  of  this 

damsel, 

If  it  indeed  be  the  procurer's  wallet, 
As  I  suppose  it  is;  I  do  not  say 
'Tis  his  for  certain,  but  'tis  my  opinion. 

Grip.  ('.-  iow  the  rascal  tries  to  catch 

his  favour  ! 
Track.  Lot  me  proceed. — If  'tis  the  rascal's 

wal 

These  jrirls  will  surely  know  it: — order  him 
To  show  it  them. 

drip.  How  !  show  it  them  ? 

Derm.  He  asks 

Nothing  but  what  Me,  Gripus. 

Grip.  Tis  most  unreasonable. 
Deem.  Why  ? 

Because, 

hice  it,  they  will  cry  out  at  once 
They  know  it  truly. 

Track.  Rascal!  do  you  think 

I— falM  varlot! 
Grip.  I  boar  all  this  with  patience,  while  my 

master 
Is  on  my  side. 

Tr  But  now  ho  is  against  you, 

And  that  the  casket  will  bear  testimony. 


354 


PLAUTUS. 


Dam.  Gripus,    be     silent     and     attend !     (to 

Track.}  Do  you 
Tell  me  in  few,  what  is  it  you  would  have  ? 

Track.  I've  told  you,  and  I'll  tell  it  you  again, 
If  yet  sufficiently  you  understand  not. 
These  damsels,  I  inform'd  you,  are  free-born ; 
And  one  was  stolen  from  Athens  when  a  child. 

Grip.  But  what   is  this    pray  to  the   wallet, 

whether 
They're  slaves  or  free  ? 

Track.  You'd  have  me  spend  the  day 

In  telling  the  whole  o'er  again,  you  villain! 

Deem.  Spare    your    abuses,    and    inform    me 

clearly 
In  what  I  ask. 

Track.  There  should  be  in  the  wallet 

A  wicker  casket,  that  contains  some  tokens 
Which  the  poor  girl  may  find  her  parents  by, 
And  which  she  had,  when  stol'n  a  little  child 
From  Athens,  as  I  told  you. 

Grip.  Jupiter, 

And  all  the  gods  confound  you !  Don't  you  see 
The  damsels  are  both  dumb'?  why  cannot  they 
Speak  for  themselves? 

Track.  Because  it  more  becomes 

A  woman  to  be  silent  than  to  talk. 

Grip.  Then  by  your  talk  you're  neither  man 
nor  woman. 

Track.  Why? 

Grip.    Talk    or    not   talk,   you   are    good    for 

nothing. 

(to   Dam.}    Pray,   may  I  never  be    allow'd  to 
speak  ? 

Deem.  Speak  but  another  word,  I'll  break  your 
head. 

Track.  Pray,  sir,  command  him  to  deliver  up 
That  casket  to  the  girls,  and  what  reward 
He  asks  for  finding  it,  it  shall  be  given : 
What  else  is  in  the  wallet,  let  him  have. 

Grip.  Ah,  so  you  say  at  last,  now  you're  con- 

vinc'd 

I  have  a  right  to't,  though  e'en  now  you  wanted 
To  go  snacks  with  me. 

Track.  And  I  want  it  still. 

Grip.  So  have  I  seen  a  kite  stoop  at  his  prey, 
And  yet  get  nothing. 

Deem.  Can't  I  stop  your  mouth 

Without  a  drubbing? 

Grip.  If  he's  silent,  I'll 

Be  silent  too;  but  if  he  speak,  let  me  too 
Speak  in  my  turn. 

Deem.  Give  me  the  wallet,  Gripus. 

Grip.  I'll  trust  it  to  you  on  condition  you'll 
Return  it,  if  there's  nothing  in't  of  their's. 

Deem.  I  will. 

Grip.    There — take  it.  (giving  him  the  wallet} 

Dam.  Harkye  me,  Palaestra, 

And  Ampelisca,  attend  to  what  I  say. — 
Is  this  the  wallet,  that  contains  your  casket? 

Pal.  The  same. 

Grip.  So, — I'm  undone,  I  find. — Before 

She    could    well    see    it,    she    cries    out,    "The 
same." 

Pal.  I'll  make  this  matter  plain,  and  clear  up 

all. 
There  is  a  wicker  casket  in  that  wallet ; 


And  each  particular  that  it  contains 
I'll  reckon  one  by  one  :  you  shall  not  show  me : 
If  wrong,  my  word  will  serve  me  in  no  stead, 
And  all  that's  in  the  casket  shall  be  your's ; 
If  right,  I  pray  you  let  me  have  my  own. 

Dam.  Agreed  :  she  only  asks  for  common  jus- 
tice, 
In  my  opinion. 

Track.  And  in  mine. 

Grip.  But  what 

If  she's  a  witch,  and  by  that  means  should  tell 
What's  in  the  casket?  shall  a  witch  then  carry 
it? 

Dam.  No,  not  unless  she  give  a  just  account; 
Her  witchcraft  shall  not  serve  her. — Open  then 
The  wallet ;  I  would  know  the  truth  directly. 

Grip,  (opening  it.)    The    deed    is   done! — 'tis 

open'd. — Ah !  I'm  ruin'd ! 
I  see  a  casket. 

Dam.  Is  this  it  ? 

Pal  The  same. 

In  this,  my  parents,  are  you  lock'd ;  in  this 
My  hopes  of  finding  you,  and  means  are  lodg'd. 

Grip.  Verily  you  deserve   the   gods'   displea- 
sure, 
To  cram  your  parents  in  so  close  a  compass. 

Dam.  Come  hither,  Gripus  : — 'tis  your  cause  is 

trying. 
(to  Pal}  Harkye  me,  girl ;  at  distance  where  you 

are 

Tell  the  contents,  and  give  a  just  description 
Of  each  particular  within  the  casket. 
If  in  the  smallest  tittle  you  mistake, 
Though    afterwards    you'd  wish   to    speak   the 

truth, 
I'd  hold  it  nothing  but  egregious  trifling. 

Grip.  You  talk  what's  fair,  and  justice. 

Track.  Then  of  you 

He  talks  not:  you  and  justice  are   quite  oppo- 
site. 

Dam.  Speak,  girl. — Gripus,  give  ear,  and  hold 
your  tongue. 

Pal.  There  are  some  toys. 

Dam.  I  see  them. 

Grip.  I'm  slain 

At  the  first   onset. — Hold,   sir, — don't   produce 
them. 

Dam.  Describe  them, — and  recount  them  all 
in  order. 

Pal.  First,  there's  a  little   sword  with  an  in- 
scription. 

Dam.  What's  the  inscription  ? 

Pal.  'Tis  my  father's  name. 

Then,  there's  a  little  two-edg'd  axe,  of  gold  too, 
Bearing  the  inscription  of  my  mother's  name. 

Dam.  Hold, — what's  your  father's  name  upon 
the  sword  ? 

Pal.  'Tis  Daemones. 

Dam.  0  ye  immortal  gods ! 

Where  are  my  hopes? 

Grip.  Nay  truly,  where  are  mine  ? 

Dam.  Proceed,  I  do  beseech  you,  quickly. 

Grip.  Gently. 

(aside}  Would  you  were  hang'd  ! 

Deem.  Tell  me  your  mother's  namo 

Upon  the  axe. 


PLAUTUS. 


355 


Pal  'Tis— Dcedalis. 

Deem.  The  gods 

Are  anxious  for  my  welfare. 

Grip.  And  my  ruin. 

Deem.  Why,  Gripus,  she  must  surely  be  my 

daughter. 
Grip.  She  may  be  so  for  me.   (to  Track.)  May 

all  the  gods 

Confound  you,  that  you  chanc'd  to  spy  me  out; 
And  me  too,  that  I  did  not  Irolc  about  me 
A  hundred  times  to  watch  if  no  one  saw  me, 
Before  I  drew  the  net  out  of  the  water. 

Pal.  Then  there's  a  small  two-handed  silver 

knife. 
A  little  sow  too.* 

Grip.  Would  that  you  were  hang'd, 

You  and  your  sow  too,  pigs  and  all  together ! 
Pal.  There  is  besides  a  little  heart  of  gold, 
Given  me  by  my  father  on  my  birth-day. 

Deem.  'Tis    she,   'tis    she ! — I  can    refrain   no 

longer, 
I  must  embrace  her.  (they  embrace.) 

Save  you,  my  dear  daughter ! 
I,  I  am  Dcpmones,  and  Du-dalis 
Your  mother  is  within  here. 

Pal.  Blessings  on  you, 

My  unexpected,  my  unhop'd-for  father! 

Dam,  Heavens  bless  you ! — With  what  joy  do 

I  embrace  you! 
Track.  To  me  too  'tis  a  pleasure,  since  your 

piety 
Has  wrought  this  happy  chance. 

Deem.  Come,  take  the  wallet, 

And  boar  it  in,  Trachalio,  if  you  can. 

Track,  (taking  the  irtillet.)  Behold  the  roguery 

of  Gripus ! — Gripus, 
I  give  you  joy  upon  your  ill  success. 

Deem.  Come,  daughter,  let  us  in  now  to  your 

mother, 

For  she  can  question  you  of  further  proofs, 
Who  has  been  more  accustom'd  to  you,  more 
Acquainted  with  your  tokens. 

Trar'n.  We'll  all  in, 

Since  we  are  all  concern'd  in  this  event. 
Pal.  Follow  me,  Ampelisca. 
Amp.  I'm  rejoic'd 

To  find  the  gods  so  favourable  to  you. 

[Exeunt  all  but  GRIPUS. 

I   K     V. 

GRIPUS  alone. 

Well — what  an  ass  am  I,  t'  have  found  tin's  wallet, 

And  not  have  hid  it  in  -<>me  seeret  ]•'• 

I  th<'i!<_rht  that  I  should  have  a  plaguy  job  on't, 

Beeau-e  I  f.iimd  it  in  sueh  plaguy  weather. 

Troth.  I  believe  there  is  a  deal  of 

And  silver  in  it.      I  had  !•  •••-• 

And  hanir  myself  in  private. — for  a  while 

At  least,  till  I  am  rid  of  this  vexation.          [/•>//. 

'  Whether  or  no  this  siiMiilies  s«une  pnrt  of  a  child's 
clothing?,  according  to  some  commentators,  or  any  kind 
of  trinket,  which  we  are  n<>t  :it  present  acquainted  with, 
it  is  plain  that  in  Gripus'  answer  a  joke  is  intende.l  «>n 
account  of  the  double  meaning  of  the  word,  xumln  like- 
u  !-••  siL'nifyini:  a  tittle  .«>ir.  It  is  not  much  to  be  regretted 
perhaps,  that  this  pun  could  not  be  preserved  in  our  lan- 
guage. 


SCEXB  VI. 
Enter  D.EMOWES. 

Good  heavens!  was  ever  man  more  blest  than  I, 
So  unexpectedly  to  find  my  daughter  ! 
Is  it  not  plain,  that  when  the  gods  would  show 
Favour  to  men,  they  show  it  to  the  virtuous? 
Thus  I,  beyond  my  hope,  beyond  belief, 
Most  unexpectedly  have  found  my  daughter: 
And  I'll  bestow  her  on  a  noble  youth, 
My  kinsman,  an  Athenian.     I  would  have  him 
Fetclvd  here  directly  ;  and  I  bade  his  servant 
Come  forth,  that  I  might  send  him  to  the  Forum. 
I  marvel  why  he  is  not  come.  —  'Twere  best 
Go  to  the  door.  —  (he  looks  in.)  What  do  I  see  ?  — 

My  wife 

Hugging  and  hanging  on  her  daughter's  neck.  — 
(calling  at  the  door.) 

Nay,  prithee,  wife,  a  truce  with  your  caresses  j 
See  all  things  ready  for  the  sacrifice, 
Which  we  must  oifer  to  our  household  gods, 
Who  have  increas'd  our  family.  —  We  have  lambs 
And  hogs  nurtur'd  for  sacred  use.  —  But  why 
Do  ye  detain  Trachalio  1  —  Oh,  he  comes. 


VII. 

Enter  TUACHALIO. 

Track.  Trust  me,  I'll  find  him  out,  where'er 

he  is, 
And  bring  him  with  me. 

Deem.  Tell  him  what  has  happen'd 

Concerning  of  my  daughter,  and  beseech  him 
To  leave  all  other  matters,  and  come  hither. 

Track.  Well. 

Deem.       Tell  him  he  shall  have  my  daughter. 

Track.  Well.* 

Deem.  And  that  I  knew  his  father,  and  mat  he 
Is  my  relation. 

Track.  Well. 

Deem.  But  make  haste. 

Track.  Well. 

Deem.  Be  sure  you  bring  him  here  to  supper. 

Track.  Well. 

Deem.  How  !    Well  to  every  thing  ? 

Track.  Well.—  But  d'ye  know 

I've  a  request  to  make?  —  that  you'd  remember 
What  you  have  promis'd,—  to  procure  my  freedom. 

Daw.  Well. 

Track.  Then  persuade  my  master  Pleusidippus 
To  give  it  me. 

Deem.  Well. 

Track.  Let  your  daughter  join 

In  the  request:  she'll  easily  prevail. 

Deem.  Well. 

Track.  Further,  let  me  marry  Ampelisca, 

When  I've  my  freedom. 

Deem.  Well. 

Track.  And  let  me  find 

My  services  indeed  rewarded. 

Dam.  Well. 

Track.  How!    Well  to  every  thing? 

*  The  original  is  Licet.  Trachalio  jocularly  makes  use 
of  this  word  in  reply  to  every  thing  that  Dxrnones  says; 
after  which  Dtemones  takes  it  up,  and  answers  Trachalio 
in  the  same  manner.  Moliere,  who  was  a  close  imitator 
of  our  author,  has  the  same  kind  of  humour  in  many  of 
his  comic  scenes. 


356 


PLAUTUS. 


Deem.  Well. — So,  methinks 

Pm  even  with  you. — Prithee  now  run  quickly 
Into  the  city,  and  come  back  with  speed. 

Track.  Well. — I'll  be  here  this  instant. — In  the 

interim 
Get  all  things  ready  for  the  sacrifice. 

Deem.  Well.  [Exit  TIIACHALTO 

— Ill  betide  him  with  his  Wells,  say  I ! 
He  has  so  stuff'd  my  ears  with  nothing  else, 
Let  me  say  what  I  would,  but  Well,  Well,  Well 

SCENE  VIII. 
Enter  GRIPUS. 

Grip.  When  may  I  have  a  word  with  you,  good 
master  ? 

Deem.  The  matter,  Gripus? 

Grip.  Touching  this  same  wallet 

If  you  are  wise,  be  wise :  keep  what  the  gods 
Have  graciously  bestowed. 

Deem.  D'ye  think  it  just, 

That  I  should  claim  for  mine  what  is  another's? 

Grip.  And  why  not,  when  I  found  it  in  the  sea? 

Deem.  So  much  the  better  luck  for  him,  who 

lost  it : 
But  that  don't  make  it  yours  a  whit  the  more. 

Grip.  JTis  by  your  over-righteousness  you're 
poor. 

Deem.  O  Gripus,  Gripus,  there  are  many  traps 
Laid  to  ensnare  mankind ;  and  whosoever 
Snaps  at  the  bait,  is  caught  by  his  own  greediness  : 
But  he,  who  acts  with  caution  and  with  care, 
May  long  enjoy  what  honestly  he  owns. 
We  shall  get  more  by  parting  with  this  booty 
Than  we  were  better'd  by  its  acquisition.— 
What !  when  I  know  another's  property 
Is  fallen  into  my  hands,  shall  I  conceal  it? — 
No,  Doemones  will  never  do't. — The  wise 
Can  never  be  too  cautious  in  this  point, 
Lest  they  become  partakers  of  ill  deeds 
With  their  own  servants.    'Tis  enough  for  me 
The  pleasure  of  the  game,  and  I'm  indifferent 
About  the  winning. 

Grip.  So  I've  often  heard 

The  players  talking  in  the  same  wise  manner, 
And  much  applauded,  while  they  pointed  out 
Sound  morals  to  the  people;  but  when  each 

man 

Went  his  way  home,  not  one  of  all  the  audience 
Became  such  as  they  bade  him  be. 

Deem.  Go  in ; 

Don't  be  impertinent,  but  cease  your  chattering. 
I'll  give  you  nothing;  don't  deceive  yourself. 

Grip.  Pray  heaven,  whatever's  in  the  wallet, 

gold 
Or  silver,  all  may  be  reduc'd  to  ashes ! 

[Exit  GIIIPUS. 

SCEXE  IX. 
D^MOTTES  alone. 

The  encouraging  of  servants  in  their  crimes 
Is  one    main  reason  why  we   have    such  bad 

ones. — 

This  fellow  here  of  mine,  had  he  combin'd 
With  any  other  rascal  of  a  servant, 
He  would  have  made  himself  and  his  accomplice 
Both  guilty  of  a  theft,  and  when  he  thought 


That  he  had  got  a  prize,  himself  the  while 
Had  been  a  prize :  one  prize  had  caught  another.— 
Now  will  I  in,  and  sacrifice,  and  then 
Give  order  for  the  supper  to  be  dress'd.       [Exit. 

ACT  V.     SCEXK  I. 
Enter  PLEUSIDIPPUS  and  TRACHALIO. 

Plcus.  Tell  it  me  o'er  and  o'er,  repeat  it  all 
Again,  Trachalio,  and  again; — my  life! 
My  friend!  vny  patron!  nay,  my  father  rather! — 
Tell  me,  oh  tell  me, — has  Palaestra  found 
Her  parents  ? 

Track.  She  has  found  them. 

Pleus.  And  is  she 

My  countrywoman? 

Trarh.  I  think  so. 

Pleus.  And  am  I 

To  marry  her  ? 

Track.  I  suspect  so. 

Plcus.  And  d'ye  think 

That  he'll  betroth  her  to  me  ? 

Track.  So  I  reckon.* 

Pleus.  And  shall  I  then  congratulate  her  father, 
That  she  is  found? 

Track.  I  count  so. 

Pleus.  And  her  mother? 

Track.  I  reckon  so. 

Pleus.      You  reckon?  what's  your  reckoning ?f 

Track.  I  reckon,  :tis  exactly  as  you  say. 

Pleus.  Then  tell  me  what's  the  amount? 

Track.  The  amount?  I  reckon— 

Pleus.  Don't  be  for  ever  reckoning :  what's  the 
total  ? 

Track.  I  reckon — 

Pleus.  Should  I  not  walk  fast? 

Track.  I  count  so. 

Pleus.  Or  rather  gently  in  this  pace  ? 

Track.  I  count  so. 

Pleus.  Should  I  address  her  when  I  come  ? 

Track.  I  count  so. 

Pleus.  Her  father  too  ? 

Track.  I  count  so. 

Pleus.  Then  her  mother? 

Track.  I  count  so. 

Pleus.  What  besides?  Should  I  embrace 

Her  father,  on  my  coming? — 

Track.  I  count  not. 

Pleus.  Her  mother  ? — 

Track.  I  count  not. 

Pleus.  The  maid  herself? 


*  Censeo.  Tracliulio  jokes  with  his  master  by  con- 
stantly repeating  the  word  censeo  in  reply  to  all  his  ques- 
tions, in  the  same  manner  as  he  repeated  the  word  licet 
in  his  conversation  with  Dzemones  in  the  eighth  scene 
of  the  fourth  act. 

t  Qnanti  censes.  It  is  plain,  that  the  humour  of  thin, 
and  what  follows,  consists  in  the  double  meaning  of  the 
word  censeo,  which  hears  another  import  besides  the 
simple  acceptation  of,  I  think  or  imagine ;  but  the  com- 
mentators are  divided  about  the  explanation  of  it.  Some 
imagine  it  alludes  to  the  office  of  censor  among  the  Ro- 
mans; others,  to  the  value  or  estimation  of  things;  but 
I  have  followed  the  opinion  of  Gronovius,  who  supposes 
it  alludes  to  the  reckoning  of  accounts  :  and  as  the  words 
count  and  reckon  are  used  in  our  language  to  signify 
belief  or  opinion,  the  double  meaning  of  the  original  is 
in  some  measurs  preserved  in  the  translation. 


PLAUTUS. 


357 


Track.  I  count  not. 

Pleus.  Woe  is  me  !  his  'count  is  clos'd  : 

He  counts  not,  when  I'd  have  him  count. 

Track.  You're  mad : 

Follow  me. 

Pleus.  Lead,  my  patron,  where  you  will. 

\Thcy  go  into  D.EMONES'  house. 

******* 

*  #*  The  remainder  of  the  act  is  of  little  or  no 
interest,  being  wholly  taken  up  in  the  restoration 
of  the  wallet  to  Labrax,  and  the  rewarding  of 
Gripus  with  his  freedom  for  having  found  it. 


THE  TWIN  BROTHERS.' 


DHAMATIS  PERSONJE. 

MEN:KCHMUS,  of  Epidamnum. 

OLD  .MAN. 

PK.VICULUS,  a  Parasite. 

S  K  ii  v  A  x  T  of  MeiuKchm  us. 

PHYSICIAN. 

CYLINDRUS,  a  Cook. 

MEN.ECHMUS  SOSICLES. 

M ESSEN  10,  Servant  of  Menachmus  Sosicles. 

WIFE  of  Meneechmus  of  Epidamnnm. 

MAID-SERVANT  of  Menachmus  of  Epidamnum. 

EnoTii'.n,  a  Courtezan,  Mistress  of  Menachmus  of 

Epidammnn. 
SERVANTS  of  Men&chmus  of  Epidamnum. 

SCENE,  in  Epidamnum,  a  city  of  Macedonia. 


PROLOGUE. 

SPECTATORS  ;  —  first   and   foremost ;  —  may  all 

health 

And  happiness  attend  both  you  and  me! 
I  bring  you  Plautus,  with  my  tongue,  not  hand; 
Give  him,  I  pray,  a  fair  and  gentle  hearing. 
Now  learn  the  argument,  and  lend  attention: 
I'll  be  as  brief  as  may  be. — 'Tis  the  way 
With  poets  in*  their  comedies  to  feiirn 
j    The  bu-ine--  paM'd  at  Athens,  so  that  you 
May  think  it  the  more  Grecian. — For  our  play, 
I'll  not  pretend  the  incidents  to  happen 
Where  they  do  not:  the  argument  is  Grecian, 
And  yet  it  is  not  Attic,  but  Sicilian. — 
So  miK-li  by  way  of  preface  to  our  tale, 
Which  now  I  deal  out  to  you  in  full  measure, 
Not  as  it  were  by  bushels  or  by  pecks, 
But  pour  before  you  the  whole  uranary ; 
So  miieh  am  I  inclined  to  tell  the  plot. 
i  \vas  a  certain  merchant,  an  old  man, 

Ol' Syracuse,      lie  had  two  sons  were  twins, 
So  like  in  form  and  feature,  th  it  the  nur-e 
Co^ild    not    distinguish    them,    who    gave    them 

suck, 

Nor  e'en  the  mother  that  had  brought  them  forth, 
As  one  inform'd  me.  who  ha  I  seen  the  children  ; 
Myself  ne'er  saw  them,  don't  imagine  it. 

*  Phuitiis  calls  this  < •nm-viy  MKN  KCUMI.  fmm  the  Twins 
beins,  each  of  them,  r.-tlh-ii  by  th;it  name  ;  the  or 
iiivchinus  of  Epidaiiuuiin,   the  other,  Mencchmus  i^  ni- 
cies. 


When  that  the  boys  were  seven  years  old,  the 

father 

Freighted  a  vessel  with  much  store  of  merchan- 
dise ; 

Put  one  of  them  on  board,  and  took  the  child 
Along  with  him  to  traffic  at  Tarentum, 
The  other  with  his  mother  left  at  home. 
When  they  arrived  there  at  this   same  Taren- 

tuin, 

It  happen'd  there  were  sports ;  and  multitudes, 
As  they  are  wont  at  shows,  were  got  together. 
The  child  stray'd  from  his  father  in  the  crowd. 
There  chanc'd  to  be  a  certain  merchant  there, 
An  Epidamnian,  who  pick'd  up  the  boy, 
And  bore  him  home  with  him  to  Epidamnum. 
The  father,  on  the  sad  loss  of  his  boy, 
Took  it  to  heart  most  heavily,  and  died 
For  grief  oft,  some  days  after,  at  Tarentum. 
When  the  news  of  this  affair  was  brought  to  Sy- 
racuse 

Unto  the  grandfather,  how  that  the  child 
Was  stolen,  and  the  father  dead  with  grief, 
The  good  old  man  changes  the  other's  name, 
So  much  he  lov'd  the  one  that  had  been  stolen : 
Him   that  was  left  at  home,  he  calls  Mensech- 

mus, 

, Which  was  the  other's  name ;  and  by  the  same 
The  grandsire  too  was  calfd  ;  I  do  remember  it 
More  readily,  for  that  I  saw  hjm  cried. 
I  now  forewarn  you,  lest  you  err  hereafter, 
Both  the  twin  brothers  bear  the  self-same  name. 
Now  must  I  foot,  it  back  to  Epidamnum, 
That  I  may  clear  this  matter  up  exactly. 
If  any  of  you  here  have  any  business 
At  Epidamnum  you  want  done,  speak  out, 
You  may  command  me  ; — but  on  this  condition, 
Give  me  the  money  to  defray  the  charges. 
He  that  don't  give  it,  will  be  much  mistaken; 
Much  more  mistaken  will  he  be  that  does. 

But  now  I  am  return'd  whence  I  set  forth, 
Though  yet  I  stand  here  in  the  self-same  place. 
This  Epidamnian,  whom  I  spoke  of,  he 
Who  stole  that  other  boy,  no  children  had 
Except  his  riches,  therefore  he  adopts 
This   stranger-boy,   gave  him  a  wife  well-por- 
tioned, 

And  makes  him  his  sole  heir,  before  he  died. 
As  he  was  haply  going  to  the  country, 
After  a  heavy  rain,  trying  to  ford 
A  rapid  river  near  unto  the  city, 
The  rapid  river  rapp'd  him  off  his  legs, 
And  snatch 'd  him  to  destruction:  a  large  for- 
tune 
Fell    to  the  youth,  who   now   lives   here:    the 

other, 

Who  dwells  at  Syracuse,  is  come  to-day 
To  Epidamnum  with  a  slave  of  his, 
In  quest  of  his  twin  brother.     Now  this  city 

(pointing  to  the  scenes.') 
Is  Epidamnum.  while  this  play  is  acting; 
And  when  another  shall  be  represented, 
Twill  be  another  place;  like  as  our  company 
Are  also  wont  to  r-hift  their  characters. 
While  the  s:tm"  player  at  one  time  is  a  pimp, 
And  then  a  young  gallant,  and  old  curmudgeon, 
A  poor  man,  rich  man,  parasite,  or  priest. 


358 


PLAUTUS. 


ACT  I.     SCENE  I. 
Enter  PEITICULUS,  the  Parasite. 

Our  young  men  call  me  dishclout,  for  this  reason, 
Whene'er  I  eat,  I  wipe  the  tables  clean. 
Now  in  my  judgment  they  act  foolishly, 
Who  bind  in  chains  their  captives,  and  clap  fet- 
ters 

Upon  their  runaway  slaves:  for  if  you  heap 
Evil  on  evil  to  torment  the  wretch, 
The  stronger  his  desire  is  to  escape. — 
They'll   free    them   from    their   chains   by  any 

means : 

Load  them  with  gyves,  they  file  away  the  door, 
Or  knock  the  bolt  out  with  a  stone. — 'Tis  vain 

this: 
But  would  you  keep  a  man  from  'scaping  from 

you, 

Be  sure  you  chain  him  fast  with  meat  and  drink 
And  tie  him  by  the  beak  to  a  full  table. 
Give  him  his  fill,  allow  him  meat  and  drink 
At  pleasure,  in  abundance,  every  day ; 
And  I'll  be  sworn,  although  his  crime  be  capital, 
He  will  not  run  away:  you'll  easily 
Secure    him,    while  you   bind    him  with  these 

bonds. 

They're  wondrous  supple  these  same  belly-bonds, 
The  more  you  stretch  them,  they  will  bind  the 

harder. 

For  instance,  I'm  now  going  to  Menaechmus, 
Most  willingly  I'm  going  to  be  bound, 
According  to  his  sentence  past  upon  me. 
Good  soul !  he's  not  content  with  giving  us 
A  bare  support  and  meagre  sustenance, 
But  crams  us  even  to  satiety ; 
Gives  us,  as  'twere,  new  life,  when  dead  with 

hunger. 

0  he's  a  rare  physician :  he's  a  youth 
Of  lordly  appetite ;  he  treats  most  daintily, 
His  table's  bravely  served  ;  such  heaps  of  dishes, 
You  must  stand  on  your  couch  to  reach  the  top. 
Yet  I've  some  days  been  absent  from  his  house ; 
Homely  I've  liv'd  at  home*  with  my  dear  friends, 
For  all  I  eat  or  buy  is  dear  to  me, 
Yet    they    desert    the   very   friends    that   rais'd 

them. 

Now  will  I  visit  him  :  but  the  door  opens : 
And  see  !  Menaechmus'  self  is  coming  forth. 

SCEKE  II. 

Enter  MEKT^CHMUS  of  Epidamnum,  urith  a  robe, 

speaking  to  his  wife  mthin. 
Were  you  not  good  for  nothing,  were  you  not 
An  ass,  a  stubborn  idiot,  what  you  see 
Displeas'd  your  husband,  would  displease  you 

too. 

From  this  day  forward,  if  you  use  me  thus, 
I'll  turn  you  out  of  doors,  and  send  you  back 
A  widow  to  your  father :  for  whenever 

*  The  original  is  Domi  domitatus  fui;  in  which  there 
seems  to  be  a  double  entendre,  as  well  as  a  jingle  of 
•words.  And  Milton  has  something  not  very  different 
from  it  in  his  Com  us, 

It  is  for  homely  features  to  keep  home, 

They  have  their  name  thence . 


I  would  go  forth,  you  hold  me,  call  me  back, 
Ask  where  I'm  going,  what  ;tis  I'm  about, 
And  what's  my  business,  what  I  want  abroad. 
I've  married  sure  some  officer  o'  th'  customs, 
I'm  so  examin'd — what  I've  done — what  do— 
Too  kindly  you've  been  treated  hitherto ; 
I'll  tell  you  how  you  shall  be — Since  I  allow  you 
Maids,  jewels,  clothes,  wool — Since  you  want  for 

nothing, 

If  you  were  wise,  you'd  dread  the  consequence, 
And  cease  to  watch  your  husband-     So,  that  you 
May  watch  me  to  some  purpose,  for  your  pains, 
I'll  dine  abroad  now  with  some  trull  or  other. 
Pen.  (aside.)  He   means   to  gall  his  wife  by 

what  he  says : 

But  me  he  spites;  for  if  he  dine  abroad, 
On  me  he  recks  his  vengeance,  not  on  her. 
Men.  Epi.    Victoria!   by   my    tauntings,    I    at 

length 
Have  driven  her  from  the  door. — Where,  where 

are  all 

The  intriguing  husbands?  why  do  they  delay 
To  bring  me  gifts,  and  thank  me  for  my  prow- 
ess : — 

I've  stol'n  this  robe  here  of  my  wife's,  and  mean 
To  carry  it  to  my  mistress. — So  we  ought 
To  trick  these  crafty  husband-watching  dames  : — 
'Tis  a  fair  action,  this  of  mine,  'tis  right, 
'Tis  pleasant  faith,  and  admirably  carried. 
With    plague    enough,    I've    ta'en    it   from   one 

plague 

To  give  it  to  another. — Thus  I've  gain'd 
A  booty  from  the  foe,  without  our  loss. 

Pen.  (aloud.')  What  portion  of  the  booty's  mine, 

young  sir? 

Men.  Epi.  Undone!  I'm  fall'n  into  an  ambus- 
cade. 
Pen.  You've  lighted  on  a    safeguard :    never 

fear. 

Men.  Epi.         Who's  that? 
Pen.  'Tis  I. 

Men.  Epi.  0  my  most  welcome  friend, 
Save  you. 

Pen.         And  you. 
Men.  Epi.  How  fares  it? 

Pen.  Let  me  take 

My  genius  by  the  hand. 

Men  Epi.  You  could  not  come 

More  opportune  than  now. 

Pen.  It  is  my  way: 

I  know  to  hit  each  point  and  nick  of  time. 

Men.  Epi.  Shall  I  acquaint  you  with  a  saucy 

prank  ? 
Pen.  Saucy ?  what  cook  has  drest  it?  I  shall 

know 
If  he  has  marr'd  it  when  I  see  the  relics. 

Men.  Epi.  Now  prithee  tell  me,  have  you  never 

seen 

The  picture  of  an  eagle  bearing  off 
Jove's  Ganymede,  or  Venus  with  Adonis  ? 

Pen.  Aye,  many  a  time.     But  what  are  they 

to  me? 
Men.  Epi.  Look  at  me. — Do  I  bear  resemblance! 

to  them? 

Pen.  What  means  that  robe  ? 
Men.  Ejpi.  Say  I'm  a  pleasant  fellow 


PLAUTUS. 


359 


Pen.  Where  shall  we  dine? 
Men.  Epi.  Poh,  say  what  I  command  you. 

Pen.  Well  then, — thou  art  a  pleasant  fellow. 
Men.  Epi.  What, 

Canst  add  nought  of  thy  own? 

P''n.  Yes,  joyous  fellow. 

Men.  Epi.  Proceed. 

Pen.  Not  I,  i'faith,  unless  I  know 

Why  there's  a  falling  out  'twixt  you  and  madam. 
].  take  great  care  to  have  this  from  yourself. 
Men.  Epi.  Tell  me  without  the  knowledge  of 

my  wife, 
Where  shall  we  kill,  where  bury,  time? 

Pen.  Come,  come; 

You  say  right ;  I  will  dig  its  grave :  the  day's 
Already  half  expired. 

Men.  Epi.  'Tis  mere  delay, 

Your  chattering  thus. 

Pen.  Knock  out  my  only  eye, 

MeiKirhmus,  if  I  speak  one  other  word, 
But  what  you  bid. 

Epi.  Draw  hither  from  the  door. 

Pen.  I  will. 

/-'///.     Draw  hither. 
Pen.  Well. 

Epi.  Come  quickly  hither, 

Come  from  the  lioness's  den.     I'm  now  going 

•;rry  it  to  my  mistress,  my  Erotium : 
I'll  bid  her  to  provide  a  dinner  for  us, — 
For  me,  for  you,  and  for  herself:  we'll  there 
Carouse  it  till  the  morrow's  morning  star. 
Pen.  O  bravely  spoken ! — shall  I  knock  ? 
Men.  Epi.  You  may. — 

Yet  hold  a  while. 

Pen.  The  cup  was  just  at  hand  ; 

•  >w  a  thousand  paces  off. 
Men.  Epi.  Knock  softly. 

Pen.  Are    you    afraid    the    door    is  made   of 

crockery? 
Men.  Epi.  Hold,  prithee  hold  : — herself  is  com- 

inir  forth. 
Pen.  Oh,  sir,   you  look  upon   the   sun :   your 

eyes 
Are  blinded  with  her  brightness. — 

SCKXE  III. 
Enter  EKOTH  M. 

Erot.  My  Mena -dnnus! 

My  love  !  good  morrow  ! 

Pen.  Won't  V'>ii  welcome  me  too? 

I '.rut.   You    rank    not    in    the    number  of  my 

friends. 

Ptn.  Yet  treat  me  ns  a  supernumerary. 
Men.  Epi.    We  mean  to  pitch  a   lit- Id  with  you 
to-day. 

Aye.  that  we  will. 

Men.  And  prove,  with  pitcher  fill'd, 

Which  is  the  mightier  warrior  at  the  bowl  : 
Yonr-ell' -hall  be  commander;  ymi  >hall  choose, 
Which    you    will    pass    the    night    with. — O   my 

su  • 
When  I  look  on  you,  how  I  loath  my  wife! 

»/.  And  yet  yon  cannot  choose,  but  you  must 

wrap  you 
In  some  part  of  her  gear. — Pray  what  is  this? 


Men.  Epi.  A   cast   skin   of  my  wife's   to   be 

slipt  on 
By  thee,  my  rose-bud. 

Erot.  You've  the  readiest  way 

To  win  preeminence  in  my  affection, 
From  all  that  pay  me  suit. 

7Y/i.  Right  harlot  this ! 

An  harlot's  sure  to  coax,  whene'er  she  finds 
There's  any  thing  to  get. — If  you  had  loved  him, 
You  would  have' bit  his  nose  off  by  this  time 
With  slobbering.-— 

Men.  Epi.  Take  my  cloak,  Peniculus ; 

For  I  must  dedicate  the  spoils  I've  vow'd. 

Pen.  Let's  see't. 

Men.  Epi.  (putting  on  the  robe.)  But  prithee 

now,  you'll  afterwards 
Dance  in  your  robe. 

Pen.  I  dance  in't? — 

Men.  Epi.  You  are  mad. 

Pen.  Are  you  or  I  most  mad  ? 

Men  Epi.  Well,  if  you  won't, 

Then  pull  it  off.     I  ran  a  mighty  risk 
In  stealing  of  this  robe:  in  my  mind  truly 
Young  Hercules  ran  not  an  equal  hazard,  when 
He  spoil'd  the  bold  Hippolita  of  her  girdle. 

(Dicing  the  robe  to  Erotium.) 
Take  it,  since  you  alone  of  women  living 
Suit  your  affection  gently  unto  mine. 
True  lovers  should  be  thus  disposed. 

Pen.  Provided 

They  would  run  headlong  into  beggary. 

Men.  Epi.  "Tis  not  a  year  past,  since  it  stood 

me  in 
Four  mince  for  my  wife. 

Pen.  Four  mina?  then, 

By  your  account,  are  plainly  gone  for  ever. 

Men.  Epi.  Know  you  what  I  would  have  you 
do? 

Erot.  I  know ; 

And  will  take  care  according  to  your  wish. 

*.  Epi.  Let  dinner  be  provided  for  us  three; 
Send  to  the  market  for  some  dainty  morsel, 

i  moti,  some  sow's  kernels,  a  hog's  cheek, 
Or  .-ausages,  or  something  of  that  kind, 
Which,  when  they're  brought  to  table,  may  suggest 
A  kite-like  appetite: — about  it  straight. 

Erot.   'I  faith  I  will. 

Men  Ejii.  We're  going  to  the  Forum, 

We  shall  be  here  directly:  while  'tis  d rosing, 
We  will  amuse  us  with  a  whet  i'th'  interim. 

Erot.  Come   when  you  will,  dear,  all  things 
shall  be  ready. 

Men.  Epi.  Quick,  follow  me. 

Pen.  yes.  I'll  have  an  eye  to  you, 

Close  at  your  heels,  I  warrant ;  I'll  not  lose  you, 
Not  for  the  wealth  of  all  the 

[Exeunt  MKX^ECHMUS  and  PEWICULUS. 

Erot.  Call  forth 

The  cook  Cylindus,  bid  him  come  this  instant. 

SCEKE  IV. 

r  CTLINDRCS. 

Erot.  Take  the  hand-basket;  and,  d'ye  mind? 

here  are 
Three  pieces  for  you, — you  have  hold  of  them. 


360 


PLAUTUS. 


Cyl  I  have. 

Erot.  Go  to  the  market  and  provide 

Enough  for  three ;  now  let  there  be  sufficient, 
And  nought  to  spare. 

Cyl.  What  kind  of  guests,  pray,  are  they  ? 

Erot.  I,  and  Menaechmus,  and  his  parasite. 

Cyl.  Nay,  there  are  ten  then  ; — for  the  parasite 
Will  lay  about  him  equal  to  eight  men. 

Erot.  I've  told  you  what's  the  number  of  our 

guests : 
You  will  provide  accordingly. 

Cyl.  I  warrant. 

'Tis  drest  already:  you've  but  to  sit  down. 

Erot.  You'll  come  back  quickly. 

Cyl.  I'll  be  here  this  instant. 

ACT  II.     SCEXE  I. 

Enter  MENJBCHMUS  SOCICLES  and  MESSENIO,  his 
servant. 

Men.  Sos.  No  greater  joys  have  voyagers,  Mes- 

senio, 
Than,  from  the  deep  far  off,  to  spy  out  land. 

Mess.  To  speak  the  truth,  'tis  still  a  greater  joy 
To  find  that  land,  when  you  arrive,  your  country. 
But  wherefore  come  we  now  to  Epidamnum? 
Must  we  go  round  each  island  like  the  sea  ? 

Men.  Sos.  I  am  in  quest  of  my  twin  brother. 

Mess.  Good  now, 

When  will  there  be  an  end  of  searching  for  him? 
This  is  the  sixth  year  since  we  set  about  it  ;* 
The  Istrians,  the  Illyrians,  the  Massilians, 
The  Spaniards,  the  whole  Adriatic  gulf, 
With  farthest  Greece,  and  each  Italian  coast, 
That  the  sea  washes,  have  we  travers'd  round. 
Had  we  been  looking  for  a  needle,  sure 
We  should  have  found  it  long  ago,  if  visible. 
So  search  we  for  a  dead  man  'mong  the  quick ; 
For  we  had  found  him  long  ago,  if  living. 

Men.  Sos.  Would  I  could  find  out  one,  that 

might  assure  me 

Of  his  own  knowledge,  that  my  brother's  dead ! 
Then  I'd  forego  my  quest,  not  otherwise : 
But,  while  I  live,  Ml  never  spare  rny  pains, 
Nor  ever  will  desist  from  searching  for  him. 
How  dear  he's  to  my  heart,  too  well  I  feel — 

Mess.    You   in    a  bulrush    seek    a   knot — 'tis 

vain : 

Come,  let's  return  :  unless  you  mean  to  write 
A  book  of  voyages. 

Men.  Sos.  No  fine,  subtle  speeches, 

Or  you  shall  pay  for't.     Don't  be  impertinent. 
None  of  your  freedoms. 

Mess.  By  that  single  word 

I  know  I  am  a  slave :  'tis  briefly  said, 
Plainly,  and  fully: — yet  I  can't  refrain 
From  speaking. — Mind  me,  sir!  —  Our  purse, 

look  here, — 

'Tis  light  enough,  'twon't  make  us  sweat:  now 
verily, — 

*  Shakspeare,  who  most  undoubtedly  took  his  Comedy 
of  Errors  from  this  play,  or,  at  least,  the  translation  of  it, 
printed  in  1595,  makes  his  JEgeon  say, 

Five  summers  have  I  spent  in  farthest  Greece, 
Roaming  clean  through  the  bounds  of  Asia, 
And  coasting  homeward  came  to  Ephesus. 

Jlct  /.  Scene  /. 


If  you  return  not  home;  when  nothing's  left. 
You'll   chafe  for  this  wild  chase  of  your  twin 

brother. 

As  for  the  people  here,  these  Epidamnians, 
They're  arrant  debauchees,  most  potent  drink- 
ers ; 

Cheats,  parasites  abound  here  ;*  and  they  say 
Such   wheedling   harlotries  are   no   where  met 

w  ith ; 

And  therefore  is  this  place  call'd  Epidamnum, 
Because    there's    no    one   come  here,  but  says, 

damn  'ew.f 

Men.  Sos.  I'll  look  to  that:  give  me  the  purse. 
Mess.  The  purse  ? 

What  would  you  do  with  it? 

Men.  Sos.  I've  apprehensions 

'Bout  you,  from  what  you  said. 

Mess.  What  apprehensions? 

Men.  Sos.  Lest  you  should  cry  in  Epidamnum, 

damn  'em. 

You  are  a  mighty  lover  of  the  wenches: 
I'm  choleric,  quite  a  madman  when  provok'd  : 
Now  when  I  have  the  cash  in  my  own  hands, 
'Twill  guard  against  two  harms;  you'll  not  of- 
fend; 
Nor  I  be  angry  with  you. 

Mess.  Take  and  keep  it.— 

With  all  my  soul. — 

SCEXE  II. 

CTLINDRUS  entering. 

I've  marketed  most  rarely, 
And  to  my  mind :  I  warrant,  I  serve  up 
A  dainty  dinner  to  the  guests. — But  hold — 
I  see  Mencechmus.     Woe  then  to  my  back! 
The  guests  are  walking  here  before  the  door, 
Ere  I  return  from  market. — I'll  accost  them. 
Save  you,  Menoechmus ! 


*  Shakspeare  in  his  Comedy  of  Errors,  makes  Antipho- 
lis  of  Syracuse  give  much  the  same  account  of  Ephe- 
sus : — 

They  say,  this  town  is  full  of  cozenage; 
As  nimble  jugglers,  that  deceive  the  eye, 
Dark-working  sorcerers,  that  change  the  mind; 
Soul-killing  witches,  that  deform  the  body, 
Disguised  cheaters,  pratting  mountebanks, 
And  many  such  like  liberties  for  sin. 

Jlct  /.  Scene  HL 
t  The  original  is, 

Propterea  huic  urbi  nomen  Epidamno  inditum  est. 
Quai  nemo  ferine  hue  sine  damno  divortitur — 
— Ne  mini  damnum  in  Epidamno  duis. 
Epidamnus,  or   Epidamnum,  (for  it  was  called  somo- 
times  one,  and  sometimes  the  other)  was  a  town  in  Ma- 
cedonia, on  the  Adriatic  sea;  well  known  for  its  conve- 
nient, passage  from  thence  into  Italy.     It  was  so  calk  d 
from  Epidamnus,  a  king  of  that  name  ;  but  afterwards 
became  a  colony  of  the  Romans,  who  changed  its  nan  e 
to  that  of  Dyrrhachium  ;  and  for  the  reason  alluded  to  in 
this  passage. 

It  is  remarkable  for  being  the  place  to  which  Ciceio 
was  banished  ;  it  is  now  called  Durazzo. 

The  literal  translation  would  be,  Therefore  is  this  place 
called  Epidamnum,  because  scarce  any  one  comes  to  it  biit 
to  his  loss. — And, 

Lest  you  should  meet  with  Epidamnum  something  to 
your  loss. 

This  indeed  would  give  the  sense,  but  not  preserve  the 
author's  punning  between  Epidamnum  and  Damnum. 


PLAUTUS. 


361 


Men.  Sos.  Save  you  !  Do  you  know  me  ? 

Cyl.  No,  to  be  sure !  (ironically.)    Where  are 
the  other  guests  ? 

Men.  Sos.  What  guests  do  you  mean  ? 

Cyl.  Your  parasite. 

Men.  Sos.  My  parasite ? 

Surely  the  man  is  mad. 

Mess.  Now  say,  my  master, 

Did  I  not  tell  you  there  were  many  cheats  here1? 

Men.  Sos.  Whom  mean  you  by  my  parasite  ? 

Cyl,  Why,  Dishclout. 

Mess.  See,  see, — I  have  him  safe  here  in  the 
wallet. 

Cyl.  Mencechmus,  you  are  come  too  soon  to 

dinner : 
I  am  but  now  return'd  from  marketing. 

Men.  Sos.  What  is  the  price,  pray,  of  a  hog  for 
sacrifice  ?  * 

Cyl.  A  piece. 

Men.  Sos.  I'll  give  it:  make  a  sacrifice 

At  my  expense ;  for  sure  you  must  be  mad 
To  cross  a  stranger  thus,  whoe'er  you  are. 

Cyl.  I  arn  Cylindrns  :  know  you  not  my  name? 

Men.  Sos.    Or    Cylinder,    or    Cullender; — be- 
gone: 
I  know  you  not,  nor  do  I  want  to  know  you. 

Cly.  Your  name's  Meneechmus,  that  I  know. 

Men.  Sos.  You  talk 

As  one  that's  in  his  senses,  calling  me 
Thus  by  my  name.     But  where,  pray,  have  you 
known  me? 

Cyl.  Where  have   I  known  you? — you,  who 

have  a  wench  here, 
Erotium,  my  mistress. 

Men.  Sos.    •  I  have  not, 

Nor  know  I  who  you  are. 

Cyl.  Not  who  I  am  ? 

I,  who  so  oft  have  handed  you  the  cup, 
When  you  carous'd  here. 

Mess.  0  that  I  have  nothing 

To  break  his  head  with  ! 

Men.  Sos.  How  ?  you've  handed  me 

The  cup?  when  till  this  day  I  never  came 
To  Epidanmnm,  never  set  my  eyes  on't. 

Cyl.  Will  you  deny  it? 

Men.  Sos.  Yes,  I  must  deny  it. 

Cyl.  Don't  you  live  yonder  ? 

Men.  Sos.  Plague  upon  their  heads 

That  live  there ! 

Cyl.  Sure  he's  mad,  to  curse  himself. 

Harkye,  Meneechmus? 

Men.  Sos.  What  say  you  ? 

Cyl.  If  you  would 

Take  my  advice,  that  piece  you  promised  me, 
Buy  a  hog  with  it  for  yourself  to  saerifice: 
For  sure  you  are  not  in  your  perfect  mind, 
To  curse  your-elf. 

Men.  Sos.  Thou'rt  mad, — vexatious  follow! 

Cyl.    In  this  wise  will  he  often  j'-st  with  me; 
He's  such  a  w:i'_r,  he. — when  his  wife's  not  by. 

Men.  Sos.  Prithee  now — 

Cyl.  Prithee  now,  is  this  provision 

Sntlieient,  what  you  see  here,  for  you  three? 

*  The  ancients,  when  they  had  any  mad  person  in 
their  family,  were  used  to  sacrifice  a  hog  to  their  house- 
hold gods. 

46 


Or  would  you  have  me  to  provide  yet  more, 
For  you,  your  parasite  and  wench  ? 

Men.  Sos.  What  wench, 

What  parasite  d'ye  speak  of? 

Mess.  Rascal!  what 

Provokes  thee  to  molest  him  thus? 

Cyl.  What  business 

Hast  thou  with  me  ?  I  know  thee  not:  I'm  talking 
To  him  I  know. 

Mess.  You  are  not  in  your  senses. 

Cyl.  I'll  get  these  ready  out  of  hand:  (pointing 

to  the  provision.)  then  go  not 
Far  from  the   door.     Would  you  aught  further 
with  me? 

Men.  Sos.  Go  hang  yourself. 

Cyl.  Go  you  and  seat  yourself, 

While  to  the  violence  of  Vulcan's  rage 
I  these  oppose — I'll  in,  and  let  Erotium 
Know  you  are  here,  that  she  may  fetch  you  in, 
Rather   than  you  should  saunter  here  without 
doors.  [CrmcDRus  goes  in. 

SCENE  III. 
MEJT^ICHMUS  SOSICLES  and  MESSESTO. 

Men.  Sos.  So, — is  he   gone? — I  find  there  is 

some  truth 
In  what  you  told  me. 

Mess.  Do  but  mind. — I  fancy, 

Some  harlot  dwells  here ;  so  this  crack-brain  said 
Who  went  hence  even  now. 

Men.  Sos.  But  I  do  marvel, 

How  he  should  know  my  name. 

Mess.  I'faith  no  wonder  : 

This  is  the  way  of  courtezans :  they  send 
Their  lacqueys  and  their  wenches  to  the  port: 
If  any  foreign  ship  arrive,  to  ask 
Whose  is  it,  what's  its  name?   Then  instantly 
They  set  themselves  to  work,  they  stick  like  glue. 
If  they  can  lure  some  gull  to  their  embraces, 
They  turn  him  out  anon,  undone  and  ruin'd. 
A  pirate  vessel  lurks  within  this  port, 
Which  we  in  my  opinion  should  beware  of. 

Men.  Sos.  You  counsel  right. 

Mess.  It  will  be  known  at  last 

How  right  it  is,  if  you  as  rightly  follow  it. 

Men.  Sos.  Softly  awhile  :  the  door  creaks :  let 

us  see 
Who's  coming  forth. 

Mess.  Meanwhile  I'll  lay  this  down  ; 

(lays  down  his  wallet  on  some  oars.) 
Pray  keep  it  safe,  ye  water-treading  oars. 

SCE*E  IV. 

Enter  EROTIUM,  speaking  to  her  servants  within. 
Leave  the  door  thus:  I  would  not  have  it  shut: 
Begone:  make  ready:  see.  that  every  thing 
Be  done  that's  wan  ting:  lay  the  couches  smooth, 
Let  the  perfumes  be  set  on  fire.     'Tis  neatness 
Lures  the  fond  lover's  heart.     A  spruce  appear- 
ance 

Is  damage  to  the  lover,  gain  to  us. 
But  where,  where  is  he,  whom  the  cook  inform'd 

me 

Was  at  the  door?  I  see  him  ;  he's  a  gentleman, 
From  whom  I  draw  much  service  and  much 
profit ; 

5  P 


362 


PLAUTUS. 


And  therefore  I'm  content,  that  he  should  hold, 
As  he  deserves,  with  me,  the  highest  place. 
I'll  go  and  speak  to  him.     My  life !  my  soul ! 
I  marvel  you  should  stand  here  at  the  door, 
That's  open  to  you  more  than  is  your  own ; 
Your  own  it  is. — Sweet,  every  thing  is  ready 
Which  you  desir'd :  nothing  to  stay  you,  love : 
The  dinner,  which  you  order'd,  we  have  got: 
Then,  whensoever  you  please,  you  may  sit  down. 

Men  Sos.  Whom  does  the  woman  speak  to  ? 

Erot.  Why,  to  you. 

Men.  Sos.  What  business  have  I  ever  had  with 

you? 
What  business  have  I  now  ? 

Erot.  'Tis  Venus'  will, 

I  should  prefer  you  before  all  my  lovers ; 
Nor  on  your  part  unmerited,  for  you, 
You  only  with  your  gifts  enrich  me. 

Men.  Sos.  Sure 

This  woman's  either  mad  or  drunk,  Messenio, 
Thus  to  accost  a  stranger  so  familiarly. 

Mess.  Such  practices  are  common  as  I  told  you. 
The  courtezans  here  are  all  money-traps. — 
But  suffer  me  to  speak  to  her. — Harkye,  woman! 
A  word  with  you. 

Erot.  What  is't  ? 

Mess.  Where  did  you  know 

This  gentleman? 

Erot.  Where  he  has  long  known  me : 

In  Epidamnum  here. 

Mess.  In  Epidamnum? 

He  never  set  his  foot  in't  till  to-day. 

Erot.  Ah !  you  are  pleas'd  to  joke,  my  dear 

Maneechmus. 
But  prithee,  sweet,  come  in  ;  'twere  better  for  you. 

Men.  Sos.  'Fore  heaven  the  woman  calls  me 

by  my  name. 
I  marvel  what  this  means. 

Mess.  She  smells  the  purse 

Which  you  have  there — 

Men.  Sos.  That's  rightly  put  in  mind. 

Here,  take  it.     I  shall  know  now  if  her  love's 
To  me,  or  to  the  purse.   • 

Erot.  Let's  in  to  dinner. 

Men.  Sos.  'Tis  a  kind  invitation,  and  I  thank 
you. 

Erot.  Why  did  you  bid  me  then  to  get  a  din- 
ner? 

Men.  Sos.  I  bid  you  get  a  dinner ! 

Erot.  Yes,  most  certainly, 

For  you  and  for  your  parasite. 

Men.  Sos.  A  plague  ! 

What  parasite  ? — Why  sure  the  woman's  crazy. 

Erot.  Peniculus. 

Men.  Sos.  Who's  that  Peniculus  ? 

Erot.  The  parasite ;  in  other  words,  the  Dish- 
clout. 

Men.  Sos.  O,  what  they  wipe  their  shoes  with  ? 

Erot.  He,  I  say. 

Who  came   with  you   this  morning,  when  you 

brought  me 
The  robe  that  you  had  stolen  from  your  wife. 

Men.  Sos.  How  say  you  ?     I  present  you  with 

a  robe, 

That  I  had  stolen  from  my  wife  ?  art  mad  ? 
The  woman  sure,  walks  like  a  gelding,  sleeping. 


Erot.  Why  are  you   pleas'd  to  hold  me  for 

your  sport? 

And  why  do  you  deny  what  you  have  done  ? 
Men.  Sos.  What  is  it  I  deny?  What  have  I  done? 
Erot.  Given  me  a  robe  belonging  to  your  wife. 
Men.  Sos.  I  still  deny  it :  I  never  had  a  wife, 
Nor  have  I :  neither  have  I  set  my  foot 
Within  your  doors,  since  I  was  born.     I  din'd 
On  ship-board,  thence  came  hither,  and  here  met 

you; 
Erot.  Ah !  woe  is  me ! — what  ship  is't  you  are 

talking  of? 

Men.  Sos.  A  wooden  one,  oft  weather-beaten,  oft 
Bethump'd    with    mallets,    like    a   tailor's    pin- 
cushion 
Peg  close  to  peg. 

Erot.  I'  prithee,  now  have  done 

With  jesting  thus,  and  come  along  with  me. 
Men.  Sos.  Some  other  man  you  mean,  I  know 

not  whom, 
Not  me. 

Erot.  What !  don't  I  know  thee  ?  not  Menaech- 


The  son  of  Moschus,  who  wert  born,  thou  say'st, 

At  Syracuse,  in  Sicily,  where  erst 

Reign'd  King  Agathocles,  and  after  Pinthia, 

And  next  him  Liparo,  who  by  his  death 

The  kingdom  left  to  Hiero,  now  king. 

Men.  Sos.  'Faith  what  you  say  is  true. 

Mess.  O  Jupiter! 

Is  she  not  come  from  thence,  so  well  she  knows 
you? 

Men.  Sos.  I  can  hold  out  no  longer. 

Mess.  Stay,  sir,  stay; 

For  if  you  cross  her  threshold,  you're  undone. 

Men.  Sos.  Be  quiet:  all  is  well :  I  will  assent 
To  whatsoe'er  she  says,  so  I  but  get 
Good  entertainment,  and  a  fair  reception. 
(to  Erot.)  For  some  time  wittingly  I  have  oppos'd 

you, 

Fearing  this  fellow  here,  lest  he  should  tell 
My  wife  concerning  all — the  robe  and  dinner : 
Now  when  you  please,  we'll  enter. 

Erot.  Then  you  do  not 

Stay  for  the  parasite  ? 

Men.  Sos.  I  neither  stay, 

Nor  care  a  rush  for  him ;  nor  would  I  have  him 
Be  let  in  when  he  comes. 

Erot.  With  all  my  heart. — 

But  do  you  know,  sweet,  what  I'd  have  you  do  ? 

Men.  Sos.  Command  me  what  you  will. 

Erot.  That  robe  you  gave  me 

I'd  have  you  carry  it  to  the  embroiderer's, 
To  be  made  up  anew ;  with  such  additions, 
As  I  shall  order. 

Men.  Sos.  What  you  say  is  right : 

So  will  it  not  be  known ;  nor  will  rny  wife, 
If  she  should  see  you  with  it  in  the  street, 
Know  you  have  got  it. 

Erot.  So  then  by  and  by, 

Sweet,  you  shall  take  it  with  you,  when  you  go. 

Men.  Sos.  I  will. 

Erot.  Let's  in  now. 

Men.  Sos.  I'll  attend  you  presently, 

I  would  just  speak  a  word  with  him. 

[EROTIUM  goes  in. 


PLAUTUS. 


363 


SCEWE  V. 
MEWXCHMUS  SOSICLES,  MESSEXIO. 

Men.  Sos.  Messenio! 

dome  hither. 

Mess.  What's  the  matter  1 

Men.  Sos.  'St!— shall  I 

Impart  it  to  you? 

Men.  What? 

Men.  Sos.  ;Tis  such  a  chance. 

Mess.  What  chance  ? 

Men.  Sos.  I  know  what  you  will  say. 

I  say 
So  much  the  worse  for  you. 

Men.  Sos.  I  have  got  it,  boy : 

1  have  already  made  a  rare  beginning. 
Quick  as  you  can,  go  carry  these  my  ship-mates 
Directly  to  some  place  of  entertainment. 
Then  come  to  me  e'er  sunset. 

Mess.  Master!  master! 

You're  unacquainted  with  these  harlotries. 

Mrn.  Sos.  Peace,  prithee.     If  I  play  the  fool, 

;tis  I, 

\ot  you,  shall  suffer.    Why,  this  woman  here 
l<  a  mere  simpleton,  an  arrant  ignorant, 
A-  Jar  as  I  have  prov'd  her  hitherto. — 
<h'-  is  our  game,  my  boy. 

Mess.  Tis  over  with  us. 

Men.  Sos.  Will  you  be  gone  ? 

He  is  undone,  that's  certain. 
Tl.is  pirate  vessel  has  the  boat  in  tow. 
But  I'm  a  fool,  that  I  should  seek  to  rule 
My  master:  for  he  bought  me  to  obey, 
N«»t  govern  him.     Come,  follow  me,  that  I 
May  wait  upon  him  at  the  time  he  order'd. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  III.     SCEXEI. 
Enter  PEICICULUS,  the  Parasite. 
I  have  seen  thirty  years  and  more,  yet  never 
Play'd  I  so  foolish  or  so  vile  a  trick 
As  I  have  done  this  day,  in  mixing  with 
The  crowd  in  the  assembly  of  the  people. 
Wh'-re  while  I  stood  staring  about.  Menaechmus 
(Jave  me  the  slip,  I  fancy  to  his  mistress; 
Nor  took  me  with  him. — (Jods  confoiiiid  the  man ! 
First  took  it  in  his  head,  to  institute 
Th--~e  me. 'titles  to  engage  the  most  engag'd. 
"Twer"  better  only  to  elect  the  idle 
Who  should  be  line,!  in  ca^e  of  non-attendance. 
Th-Mv  are  enough  who  eat  their  meals  alone; 
Wlm'vc  nought  to  do,  who  nor  invited  are 
Nor  e'er  invite. — These  were  the  men  to  hold 

iblie-.  and  attend  at  the  Comitia. — 
Had  thi<  been  so,  I  had  not  lost  my  dinner. 
Which  he'd  as  sure  have  u'iven  me.  as  I  live. 
I'll  go  however — hope  of  the  very  scraps 
Comforts  my  mind. —  Hut  see.  Mein  .-hums  comes 
From  dinner,  with  a  wreath. — All's  ta'en  away, 
And  I  am  come  at  a  line  time  indeed  ! 

SCENE  II. 

Enter  MENJECHMVS  SOSICLES,  with  a  robe. 
Men.  Sos.  If  I  return  it  neatly  fitted  up, 

(speaking  to  Erotimn  icithin.) 
So  that  you  scarce  shall  know  it  is  the  same, 


And  that  this  very  day,  shall  you  not  then 
Be  satisfied? 

Pen.  (apart.)  He's  carrying  the  robe 
To  the  embroiderer's — and  dinner's  done — 
The  wine  drank  off,  and  the  poor  parasite  bilk'd, 
By  Hercules!  if  I  put  up  with  this, 
And  not  revenge,  I'm  not  the  man  I  am. 
Let's   first  see  what  he'll  do,  and  then  accost 
him. — 

Men.  Sos.  Immortal  gods !  is  there  a  man  on 

whom 

You've  in  one  day  bestow'd  more  good,  or  one 
Who  less  could  hope  for  it?  I've  dined,  I've  drank, 
I've  feasted  with  my  mistress,  have  borne  off 
This  robe,  which  she  no  more  shall  call  her  own. 

Pen.  (apart.)  He  speaks  so  softly,  I  can  scarce 

distinguish 

What  'tis  he  says:  sure,  now  his  belly's  full, 
He  talks  of  me,  and  of  my  share  at  dinner. 

Men.  Sos.   She  told  me,  I  had  given  her  the 

robe, 

And  that  I'd  stolen  it  from  my  wife :  though  I 
Knew  she  was  wrong,  I  seemingly  assented 
To  all  her  story,  as  if  both  of  us 
Had  been  joint  parties  in  the  whole  transaction. 
Said  as  she  said — what  need  of  many  words? 
I  never  in  my  life  have  fared  so  well, 
And  at  so  small  expense. 

Pen.  I  will  accost  him. 

I'm  out  of  patience  till  I  quarrel  with  him. 

Men.  Sos.  Who  is  it  that  is  coming  to  accost  me  ? 

Pen.  Tell  me,  inconstant,  lighter  than  a  feather, 
Thou  worst  of  men,  most  wicked  of  mankind, 
Base  man,  deceiver,  void  of  faith  and  honour ! 
Have  I  deserv'd  this  of  thee  ?  For  what  cause 
Hast  thou  undone  me?  Say,  have  I  deserv'd, 
That  thou  shouldst  steal  thyself  away  from  me, 
Now  at  the  Forum  ?    Thou  hast  buried  too 
The  dinner  in  my  absence,  to  the  which 
I  was  joint  heir. — How  dare  you  serve  me  thus? 

Men.  Sos.  Prithee,  young  man,  what  hast  to  do 

with  me? 

Abusing  thus  a  man  thou  dost  not  know — 
You'd  have  me  wreak  this  insult  then  hereafter? 

Pen.  You  have  done  that  already. 

Men.  Sos.  Answer  me. 

Tell  me  your  name,  young  man. 

Pen.  Still  mocking  me  ? 

As  if  you  did  not  know  my  name  ? 

Men.  Sos.  In  troth, 

I  know  not  till  this  day  I  ever  saw  thee, 
Nor  art  thou  known  to  me;  whoe'er  thou  art, 
It  ill-becomes  thee  to  be  troublesome. 

Pen.  Not  know  me  ? 

Men.  Sos.  If  I  did,  I'd  not  deny  it. 

Pen.  Awake,  Menace-hums. 

Men.  Sos.  Troth,  I  do  not  know, 

That  I'm  asleep. 

Pen.  Not  know  your  parasite  ? 

Men.  Sos.  Thy  head  is  turn'd,  young  man,  in 
my  opinion. 

Pen.  Answer  me,  did  you  not  this  very  day, 
Steal  from  your  wife  that  robe,  and  give'tKrotium? 

Men.  Sos.  Neither  have  I  a  wife,  nor  robe  have 

stolen, 
Nor  given  to  Erotium. 


364 


PLAUTUS. 


Pen.  Are  you  mad? 

Have  you  your  senses  ?  Why  the  thing's  apparent ! 
Did  I  not  see  you  coming  from  the  house, 
The  robe  upon  you  ? 

Men.  Sos.  Woe  upon  thy  head ! 

'Cause  you're  a  rogue,  think  you  we're  all  such? 
Say  you,  you  saw  me  with  this  robe  upon  me  ? 

Pen.  I  did,  by  Hercules ! 

Men  Sos.  Go,  and  be  hang'd 

As  you  deserve,  or  else  go  purge  your  brain ; 
For  thou'rt  the  veriest  madman  I  e'er  met  with. 

Pen.  By  Pollux'  temple,  nothing  shall  prevent 

me, 

From  telling  to  your  wife,  the  whole  that's  pass'd. 
And  then  shall  all  this  scurril  wit  retort 
Back  on  yourself.     Nor  shall  you,  unreveng'd, 
Have  swallow'd  down  rny  dinner. 

Men.  Sos.  What  is  this? 

Shall  every  one  I  see,  affront  me  thus  ? 
But  see,  the  door  is  opening. — 

SCENE  III. 
Enter  a  MAID  SERVANT  of  Erotium,  with  a  clasp. 

Serv.  Erotium 

Most  earnestly  entreats  of  her  Memechmus, 
('Twill  make  it  but  one  trouble,)  to  bear  this 
To  the  goldsmith,  with  her  orders,  that  he  add 
An  ounce  more  gold,  and  have  it  clean'd  and 

mended. 
Men.  Sos.  This,  and  aught  else  that  she  would 

have  me  do, 
Tell  her  I  will  take  care  to  execute. 

Serv.  But,  do  you  know  the  clasp  I'm  speaking 

of? 
Men.  Sos.  I  know  it  not ;  but  see,  'tis  made  of 

gold. 
Serv.  'Tis    that,   which    sometime    since,  you 

said  you  stole 

And  privately,  from  your  wife's  chest  of  drawers. 
Men.  Sos.  That's  what  I  never  did,  by  Her- 
cules ! 

Serv.  What,  don't  you  recollect  it?  then,  re- 
turn it. 

Men.  Sos.  Stay :  I  begin  to  recollect :  it  was 
The  same  I  gave  your  mistress. 

Serv.  Yes,  the  same. 

Men.  Sos.  Where  are   the    bracelets  which    I 

gave  with  it? 

Serv.  You  never  gave  them. 
Men.  Sos.  But  I  did,  by  Pollux  ! 

And  gave  them  both  together. 

Serv.  Shall  I  say, 

You  will  take  care — 

Men.  Sos.  Yes ;  and  the  robe  and  clasp 

Shall  be  return'd  together — 

Serv.  Let  me,  sir, 

Beg  you'd  present  me  with  a  pair  of  ear-rings 
Of  cold,  and  of  two  pieces  value  ;  that  I  may 
Look  well  upon  you,  when  you  pay  yoxir  visits. 
Men.  Sos.  It  shall  be  done :  give  me  the  gold 

I'll  pay 
Myself  the  fashion. 

Serv.  No,  I  pray  you,  sir, 

Give  it  yourself,  I'll  be  accountable. 


Men.  Sos.  I  say,  give  me  the  gold — 

Serv.  Another  time. 

I'll  pay  it  back  twofold. 

Men.  Sos.  I  have  no  money. 

Serv.  But  when  you  have,  you'll  pay  the  jew- 
eller. 
Any  commands  with  me? 

Men.  Sos.  Yes,  tell  your  mistress 

I'll  take  great  care  of  what  she  has  order'd  me. — 

[Exit  SERVANT. 
Yes,  soon  as  may  be,  I'll  take  care  to  sell  them 

(aside.) 

To  the  best  bidder. — Is  she  now  gone  in? 
She  is,  and  shut  the  door.     Sure  all  the  gods 
Befriend  me,  and  heap  favour  upon  favour. 
Why  do  I  stay  when  time  and  opportunity 
Thus  favours  me  in  quitting  this  vile  place, 
This  place  of  bawds  and  panders? 
Haste  thee,  Mencechmus,  then ;  use  well  thy  feet, 
And  mend  thy  pace.  Let  me  take  off  my  wreath, 
And  throw  it  to  the  left :  that,  if  I'm  follow'd, 
They  may  suppose  I'm  gone  that  way.     I'll  now 
Find,  if  I  can,  my  servant,  arid  acquaint  him 
With  what  the  gods  are  doing  in  my  favour. 

[Exit. 

ACT  IV.     SCENE  I. 

Enter  the  WIFE  of  Mencechmus  of  Epidamnum  and 
PENICULUS,  the  Parasite. 

Wife.  And  shall  I  tamely  then  submit  to  live 
In  marriage  with  a  man,  who  filches  from  me 
Whatever's  in  the  house,  and  bears  it  off 
A  present  to  his  mistress  ? 

Pen.  Hold  your  peace  : 

I  will  so  order  matters :  that  you  shall 
Surprise  him  in  the  fact.     So  follow  me. 
Crown'd   with  a  wreath,  and   drunk,   he    bore 

away 

The  robe  that  he  filch'd  from  you  yesterday, 
To  the  embroiderer's.  But  see,  the  wreath, 
The  very  wreath  he  wore — Is  it  not  true  ? 

(seeing  the  wreath  on  the  ground.) 
He's  gone  away ;  and  you  may  trace  his  steps. 
And  see,  by  Pollux's  temple,  he  returns, 
And  opportunely ;  but  without  the  robe. 

Wife.  How  shall  I  treat  him  now  ? 

Pen.  How  ?  Why  as  usual, 

Most  heartily  abuse  him. 

Wife.  Yes,  I  think  so— 

Pen.  Let's  stand  aside,  and  watch  him  from 
our  ambush.  (they  retire.) 

SCENE  II. 

Enter  MEN^ECKMUS  of  Epidamnum. 
How  troublesome  it  is,  thus  to  indulge 
Ourselves  in  foolish  customs!  yet  the  great, 
These  petty  gods,  too  much  come  into  it. 
All  wish  to  have,  a  number  of  dependants, 
But  little  care  whether  they're  good  or  bad. 
Their  riches,  not  their  qualities,  they  mind. 
Honest  and  poor  is  bad. — Wicked  and  rich, 
An  honest  man. — Clients,  that  have  regard 
To  neither  law,  nor  common  honesty, 
Weary  their  patrons — Leave  them  a  deposi 
j  They  will  deny  the  trust — Litigious, 


sit, 


PLAUTUS. 


365 


Covetous,  fraudulent,  who've  got  their  wealth 
By  usury  or  perjury — Their  soul's 
Still  in  their  suits — A  summons  for  defence 
Once  issued,  ?tis  their  patrons'  summons  too; 
Who  Tore  the  people,  pra-tor,  commissary, 
Must  speak  in  their  behalf,  however  wrong. 
Thus  was  I  plagued  to-day  by  a  dependant, 
One  of  this,  sort,  who  would  not  let  me  do 
Au^ht  which  I  wanted  in  my  own  affairs  ; 
Holding  me  close  to  his,  he  so  detaiu'd  me— • 
"When  I  had  battled  for  him  'fore  the  ^Ediles, 
With    craft    had    pleaded    his    bad.    cause,    had 

brought 

To  hard  conditions  his  opponent,  nay, 
I  ad  more  or  less  perplex  d  the  controversy, 
And  brought  it  e'en  to  making  their  deposits: 
What  does  he  do? — Why  gives  in  bail — I  never 
Saw  in  all  my  life  a  villain  more  barefac'd 
In  all  respects — Three  witnesses  swore  plumb, 
And  prov'd  against  him  every  accusation. 
The  gods  confound  him  !  for  thus  making  me 
Lose  all  my  time  :  ay,  and  confound  myself, 
For  having  seen  the  Forum  with  these  eyes ! 
The  noblest  day  is  lost :  a  dinner's  order'd  ; 
My  mistress  waits. — I  know  it,  and  as  soon 
As  e'er  I  could,  I've  hasten'd  from  the  Forum. 
Doubtless  she's  angry  with  me;  but  the  robe 
I'ilch'd  from  my.  wife  to-day,  and  sent  to  her, 
Shall  make  all  up. 

Pen.  What  say  you  now  ? 

Wife.  Unhappy! 

In  having  such  a  husband. — 

Pen.  Did  you  hear 

Distinctly  what  he  said? 

Wife.  Very  distinctly. 

Men.  F.pi.  I  shall  do  right,  if  I  go  directly 

And  here  refresh  myself. 

M •//;-.  Wait  but  a  little, 

And  I'll  refresh  you  better,    (to  him.)  You  shall 

pay; 

Yes,  that  you  shall,  by  Castor !  and  with  interest, 
For  that  you  filch'd  from   me,  you've  thus  your 

due. 

What,  did  you  fancy  you  could  play  such  tricks 
In  secret? 

Men.  Epi.  What's  tin-  business,  wife? 

Wife.  Ask  that 

Of  me? 

Men.  Epi.  Why,  would  yon  that  I  ask  of  him? 

Pen.  No  soothing  now.     Go  on. 

Men.  F./ii.  why  so  pensive? 

.    You  can't  but  know  tin*  r.-a-on  — 

Pen.  Yes,  he  knows, 

But  cunningly  dissembles. 

Men.  What's  the  matter? 

Wife.  The  robe.— 

Men.  r.jii.  The  robe  ?  What— 

Wife.  Ay,  the  robe. — 

Why  palo? 

/.   I   pale!   unless  the  paleness  of  the 
robe 
Has  made  me  so. 

Pen.  I  too  am  pale,  because 

it  the  supper,  and  ne'er  thought  of  me. 
To  him  again,  (to  the  It'f/c.) 

Men.  Epi.         Won't  you  be  silent? 


Ptn.  No. 

He  nods  to  me  to  hold  my  tongue,  (to  the  Wife.') 

Men.  Epi.  Not  I, 

By  Hercules!  I  neither  wink'd  nor  nodded. 
Wife.  I  am  an  unhappy  woman  ! 
Men.  Epi.  Why  unhappy  ? 

Explain. — 

Pen.  A  rare  assurance,  that  denies 

What  yourself  sees. — 

Men.  Epi.  By  Jove,  and  all  the  gods ! 

I  nodded  not — Are  you  now  satisfied  ? 

Pen.  And  to  be  sflre,  she  now  will  give  you 

credit. 
Go  back  again — 

Men.  Epi.  And  whither? 

Pen.  Whither  else 

But  to  the  embroiderer — Beyond  all  doubt 
I  think  you  ought — Go,  and  bring  back  the  robe — 
Men.  Epi.  What  robe  do  you  speak  of? 
Wife.  Since  he  don't  remember 

What  he  has  done,  I  have  no  more  to  say. 

Men.  Epi.  Has  any  of  the   servants  been  at 

fault? 

Has  any  of  the  men  or  women  slaves 
Given  you  a  saucy  answer? — Say,  speak  out, 
He  shall  not  go  unpunished. 

Wife.  Sure,  you  trifle. 

Men.  Epi.  You're  out  of  humour :  that  I'm  not 

quite  pleas'd  with. 
Wife.  You  trifle  still. 

Men.  Epi.  Has  any  of  the  family 

Done  aught  to  make  you  angry  ? 

Wife.  Trifling  still. 

Men.  Epi.  Angry  with  me  then.— 
Wife.  Now  you  trifle  not. 

Men.  Epi.  'Troth  I've  done  nothing  to  deserve 

it  of  you. 

Wife.  Trifling  again. 

Men.  Ffi.  What  is  it  gives  you  pain  ? 

Tell  me,  my  dear. 

Pen.  He  soothes  you  :  civil  creature ! 

Men.  Epi.  Can't  you  be  quiet?    I  don't  speak 

to  you.  (to  Pcniculus.) 
Wife.  Off  with  your  hand. 
Pen.   Ay,  thus  you're  rightly  serv'd —  (aside.) 
Dine  then  again  in  haste  when  I  am  absent! 
And  rally  me  before  the  house  when  drunk ! 
A  wreath  too,  on  your  head ! 

Men.  Epi.  By  Pollux'  temple ! 

I  have  not  din'd  to-day,  nor  have  I  once 
Set  foot  within  the  house. 

Pi-, i.  You  dare  deny  it? 

Men.  Epi.  I  do,  by  Hercules ! 
Pen.  Consummate  impudence? 

Did  I  not  see  you  with  a  wreath  of  flov. 
Standing  before  the  house  here;  when  you  said 
My    head    was   turn'd :    when   you   denied   you 

knew  me, 
And  when  you'd  pass  upon  me  for  a  stranger? 

Men.  I'j'i.    I  i'o  assure  you.  since  I  s!ipp'd  away 
This  morning  from  you,  I've  not  been  till  now 
At  home. 

Pen.         I  know  you,  sir:  but  you  knew  not 
I'd   wherewithal  to  take  revenge  upon  you. 
I've  tol-l  your  u  ife  the  whole,  by  Hercules! 
/.>;.  What  have  you  told? 


366 


PLAUTUS. 


Pen.  I  know  not.     Ask  of  her. 

Men.  Epi.  What's  this,  my  dear  ?  What  is  it  he 

has  told  you? 
You  answer  riot. — Why  don't  yon  say  what  'tis? 

Wife.  As  if  you  knew  not.     Why,  a  robe  has 

been 
Stolen  from  me  in  my  house. 

Men.  Epi.  A  robe  stolen  from  you  ? 

Wife.  Do  you  ask  me  ? 

Men.  Epi.  In  troth,  I  scarce  should  ask  it, 

Was  I  assur'tl  it  was  so. — 

Pen.  Wicked  man ! 

How  he  dissembles !  but  you  can't  conceal  it, 
I  know  the  whole  affair ;  and  I  have  told  it 
All  to  your  wife. 

Men.  Epi.  What  is  all  this  about  ? 

Wife.  Since  you  have  lost  all  shame,  and  won't 

confess 

The  thing  yourself,  hearken  to  me,  and  hear  it ; 
I'll  tell  you  what  has  made  me  out  of  humour, 
Arid  every  thing  he  has  discover  d  to  me. 
They've  done  well  for  me,  they've  stolen  my  robe. 

Men.  Epi.  Done  well  for  you  by  stealing  of 
your  robe ! 

Pen.  Observe  his  subterfuge :  'twas  stolen  for 

her,  (meaning  Erotium.) 

And  not  for  you :  Had  it  been  stolen  for  you, 
It  had  been  safe. 

Men.  Epi.  I've  naught  to  do  with  you. 

But  what  say  you?  (to  his  Wife.) 

Wife.  I  say,  I've  lost  from  home 

A  robe. 

Men.  Epi.  Who  took  it  ? 

Wife.  He  who  stole  it,  knows. 

Men.  Epi.  And  who  is  he  ? 

Wife.  One  who  is  call'd  Menaechmus. 

Men.  Epi.  Spitefully  done!   And  who  is  this 
Menaxjhmus  ? 

Wife.  Yourself,  I  say. 

Men.  Epi.  What!  I? 

Wife.  Yes,  you. 

Men.  Epi.  Who  said  so? 

Wife.  Myself. 

Pen.  And  I ;  and  that  you  had  carried  it 

Off  to  your  mistress,  to  Erotium. 

Men.  Epi.  I  ? 

I  give  it  her? 

Pen.  You,  you,  I  say.     Shall  I 

Go  fetch  an  owl,  to  hoot  in  at  your  ears, 
You,  you  ?  for  we  are  both  quite  tired. 

Men.  Epi.  By  Jove,  and  all  the  gods,  I  swear 

my  dear, 
I  never  gave  it  her  :  Will  that  content  you  ? 

Pen.  Arid  I,  I  swear  by  Hercules !  that  we 
Say  naught  but  truth. 

Men.  Epi.  I  did  not  give  it  her, 

I  only  lent  it. 

Wife.  'Troth,  I  never  lend 

Your  coat,  nor  cloak  abroad.  'Tis  right  for  woman 
To  lend  out  woman's  garments  ;  men,  their  own. 
Won't  you  return  my  robe  ? 

Men.  Epi.  The  robe,  I'll  see 

Shall  be  return'd — 

Wife.  'Tis  the  best  way. — For  you 

Shall  never  set  a  foot  within  your  doors, 
Unless  you  bring  my  robe. 


Men.  Epi.  Not  set  a  foot 

Within  my  doors  ? 

Pen.  (to  the  Wife.]  What  recompense  for  me, 
Who  have  assisted  you  1 

Wife.  When  you  have  had 

A  loss  like  mine,  I'll  do  the  same  for  you. 

Pen.  By  Pollux's  temple  !  that  will  never  be ; 
j  For  I  have  nought  at  home  to  lose.     The  gods 
Confound  you  both,  both  of  youfcwife  and  hus- 
band ! 

I'll  hie  me  to  the  Forum :  for  I  find 
'Tis  now  quite  over  with  me  in  this  family. 

[Exeunt  PENICULUS  and  the  WIFE,  severally. 

Men.  Epi.  My  wife  then  thought  she'd  done  a 

mighty  matter, 

In  threat'ning  thus,  to  shut  me  out  of  doors  ; 
As  if  I  had  not  a  far  better  place, 
Where  I  shall  be  admitted.     Well,  if  I 
Displease  you,  my  dear  wife,  I  must  e'en  bear  it: 
But  I  shall  please  Erotium ;  and  she  ne'er 
Will  shut  me  out,  but  rather  shut  me  in. 
Well,  I'll  go  in,  and  pray  her  to  return 
The  robe  I  just  now  gave  her,  and  instead 
Of  that,  I'll  purchase  her  a  better.     Ho  ! 
Who's  porter  here  ?     Open  the  door,  and  call 
Erotium  hither. 

SCEKE  III. 

Enter  EROTIUM. 

Erot.  Who  inquires  for  me  ? 

Men.  Epi.  'Tis  one,  who  to  himself  is  more  an 

enemy, 
Than  such  to  you. 

Erot.  My  dear  Menrechmus,  why 

Do'st  stand  before  the  door  ?     Follow  me  in. 

Men.  Epi.  Stay  here  a  little.   Do  you  know  the 

reason 
I  now  come  to  you. 

Erot.  I  know  it  very  well : 

'Tis  to  amuse  yourself  along  with  me. 

Men.  Epi.  That  robe  I  lately  gave  you,  prithee, 

love, 

Restore  it. — For  my  wife  hath  been  appris'd, 
And  knows  the  whole  affair  from  first  to  last. 
I'll  buy  one  for  you  twice  as  rich,  you'll  like — 

Erot.  I  gave  it  you  but  now,  to  carry  it 
To  the  embroiderer's ;  with  it,  a  bracelet 
To  give  the  jeweller  to  set  anew. 

Men.  Epi.  You  gave  to  me  a  bracelet,  and  the 

robe? 

Never — For  when  I'd  giv'n  the  robe  to  you, 
I  went  directly  to  the  market-place : 
Now  first  return  I ;  nor  have  seen  you  since. 

Erot,  I   see  through  your  design:  because  I 

trusted  you, 
You  would  deceive  me ;  that  'tis  you  would  do. 

Men.  Epi.  I  do  not  ask  you  for  it  to  defraul 

you, 
But  tell  you,  that  my  wife  knows  all  the  affair. 

Erot.  Nor  did  I  ask  you  for  it:  you  yourself 
Gave  it  me  freely;  as  a  gift,  you  gave  it; 
And  now  demand  it  back.     Well,  be  it  so : 
Let  it  be  yours,  take  it;  make  use  of  it, 
You  or  your  wife,  preserve  it  as  your  eyes . 
But  don't  deceive  yourself;  after  this  day 
You  never  shall  set  foot  within  my  doors, 


PLAUTUS. 


367 


Since  you  have  treated  with  contempt  a  woman, 
Who  has  not  merited  such  usage  from  you. 

time  you  come,  be  sure  bring  money  with 

you, 

You  shall  not  have  to  visit  me  for  nothing, 
j  'Tth  h'nd  some  one  else  to  disappoint. 

Men.  Epi.    You   are   too   hasty — Hark   you! — 

Stay — Come  back. 
Erot.  Still   are   you   there?   and  dare  on  my 

•      account 
Still  to  return?  [Exit  EHOTIUM. 

Men.  Epi.         She's  gone — has  shut  the  door. 
Now  I'm  turn'd  out  indeed :  nor  can  I  gain 
Credit,  or  from  my  mistress  or  my  wife. 
I'll  go,  consult  my  friends  in  the  ailair. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  IV. 

Enter  MENJBCHMUS  SOSICLES,  with  the  robe. 
Twas  foolish  in  me  when  but  now  I  trusted 
My  purse  with  all  that's  in  it,  to  Messenio. 
He  has  got,  I  doubt,  into  some  brothel  with  it. 

Enter  the  WIFE  of  Men&chmus  of  Epidamnum. 

Wife.  I'll  now  see  if  my  husband  is  come  home. 

But  see,  he's  here!  All's  well,  he  brings  my  robe. 

Men.  Sos.  I  wonder  where  Messenio  can  be  got. 

Wife.  I'll  go,  and  talk  to  him  as  he  deserves. — 

Art  not  ashamed,  vile  man,  to  appear  before  me, 

And  with  this  robe? 

Men.  Sos.       Why,  what's  the  matter,  woman? 
What  i.s't  disturbs  you? 

Dare  you,  impudence ! 
"rd.  or  -peak  to  me? 
Men.  Sos.  What  have  I  done,  I  should  not  dare 

to  speak  < 
Wife.  What!  do  you  ask  me?  O  consummate 

impudence ! 
Men.  Sos.   l>id    you   ne'er   hear,   good  woman, 

why  the  Grecians 
Call'd  Hecuba  a  bitch  ? 

Wife.  Not  that  I  know  of. 

Men.  Sos.  Because  she  did  the  same  that  you 

do  now ; 

Threw  out  abuse  on  every  one  she  saw  : 
And  therefore,  rightly  did  they  call  her  bitch. 

Wife,  [cannot  hear  these  scandalous  reproaches  : 
I'd  rather  be  a  widow  all  my  life, 
Than  bear  these  vile  reflections  you  throw  on 

Hie. 

Men.  Sos.   What  is't  to  me.  whether  you  live  as 

married, 

Or  parted  from  your  husband  ?  Is  it  thus 
The  en-torn  t<i  sing  out  such  id 

.'ii  their  llr-i  arrival  here? 
What  iill.'  \    .  I  \v ill  not  bear  it, 

I'd  rather  live  a  widow,  than  endure 
Vour  humours  any  loi 
Men.  Sos.  Troth,  for  me 

idow: 

Jupiter  -hall  keep  his  kingdom. 
You  would   not  own  but  now,  you  stole 
that  robe, 

And  now  you  hold  it  out  In- fore  my  eyes? 
What!   are  you  not  ashamed? 

Men.  Sos.  By  Hercules ! 


You  are  an  impudent  and  wicked  woman, 
To  dare  to  say  this  robe  was  stolen  from  you ; 
When  it  was  given  me  by  another  woman, 
To  get  it  alter'd  for  her. 

Wife.  ;.y  Castor! 

I'll  call  my  father  hither,  and  lay  open 
All  your  base  actions  to  him.    Decius,  go, 

(to  a  servant.') 

Seek  for  my  father,  bring  him  with  you;  say, 
'Tis  proper  he  should  come.— Ill  tell  him  all 
Your  horrid  usage. — 

Men.  Sos.      •  Are  you  in  your  senses  ? 

What  horrid  usage  ? 

Wife.  How  you  have  filch'd  from  me 

My  robe,  my  gold,  from  me  who  are  your  wife, 
And  given  them  to  your  mistress. — Say  I  not 
The  very  truth  1 — 

Men.  Sos.  I  prithee,  woman,  say 

Where  I  may  sup,  to  charm  me  from  your  tongue. 
I  know  not  whom  you  take  me  for. — For  you, 
I  know  as  much  of  Parthaon. 

Wife.  Though  you  mock  me, 

You  can't,  by  Pollux !  serve  my  father  so, 
Who's  just  now  coming  hither. — Look  behind. 
Say,  do  you  know  him  ? 

Men.  Sos.  Just  as  I  know  Chalcas. 

The  very  day  that  I  saw  you,  before 
This  day  did  I  see  him — 

Wife.  Dar'st  thou  deny 

That  thou  know'st  me,  deny  thou  know'st  my 
father  ? 

Men.  Sos.  I'd   say  the  same  thing,  did'st  thou 
bring  thy  grandfather. 

Wife.  By  Castor !  you  are  like  yourself  in  all 
things. 

SCENE  V. 
Enter  OLD  MAN. 
Old  M.  Fast  as  my  age  permits,  and  as  the 

occasion 

Calls,  will  I  push  my  steps,  and  hasten  forward. 
How  easily,  I  easily  may  guess. 
My  speed  forsakes  me ;  I'm  beset  with  age ; 
I  bear  a  weak,  yet  heavy  laden  body. 
Old  age  is  a  sad  pedlar ;  on  his  back 
Carrying  along  a  pack  of  grievances. 
•It  would  be  tedious  to  recount  them  all; 
But  this  ailair  I  cannot  well  digest. 
What  should  this  matter  be,  which  makes  my 

daughter 

Want  me  to  come  to  her  in  such  a  hurry? 
She  does  not  tell  me  what  the  business  is, 
What  'tis  she  wants,  nor  why  she  sends  for  me; 
Yet  I  can  give  a  .-hre\\d  gue-s.  what  it  is: 
I'm  apt  to  think,  some  quarrel  with  her  husband. 
Such  is  their  way,  who  of  their  portions  proud, 
Would  keep  their  hu>bands  under  government. 
N"r  are  the  husbands  often  without  fault. 
But  then-  are  bounds  how  Car  a  wife  should  go. 
Nor  doe>  my  dan-liter  send  to  see  her  father, 
But  when  some  fault's  committed,  or  perhaps 
Some  quarrd  ha-  ari>en.     "\\hat  it  is, 

:ial!  know. — For,  look,  I  see  her  then, 
He  Ion-  tin-  door;  and  with    her  too,  her  husband, 
pensive. — 'Tis  as  I  suspected — 
I'll  call  her. — 


368 


PLAUTUS. 


Wife.  I'll  go  meet  him. — Happiness 

Attend  you,  father ! 

Old  M.  That  good  will  to  you! 

Am  I  come  here  to  see  things  go  on  well? 
Wherefore    your  order,  that  I   should    be    sent 

for? 

Why  are  you  pensive,  say?  and  what's  the  reason 
Your  husband  keeps  aloof  in  anger  from  you? 
The  reason  I  know  not,  but  there  has  been 
Some  bickering  between  you. — Who's  in  fault? 
Tell  in  few  words — no  long  discourse  about  it. — 

Wife.  I  am  in  nought  to  blame ;  be  easy  then 
As  to  that  point,  my  father.    But  I  cannot 
Live  longer  with  him,  nor  stay  longer  here. 
Therefore,  I  beg  you  take  me  hence  away. 

Old  M.  Say,  what's  the  matter  ? 

Wife.  Matter  ?  I  am  made 

A  laughing-stock. 

Old  M.  By  whom  ? 

Wife.  By  him  you've  made 

My  husband. 

Old  M.  So!  a  quarrel!  say,  how  often 

I've  warned  you  both,  not  to  complain  to  me. 

Wife.  How  can  I  help  it,  sir? 

Old  M.  What !  ask  you  me  ? 

Wife.  Yes,  if  you'll  give  me  leave. 

Old  M.  How  many  times 

Have  I  advis'd  you  to  conform  to  your  husband? 
Never  to  watch  his  actions ;  where  he  goes, 
Or  what  he  is  about. 

Wife.  But  he's  in  love, 

Here  in  the  neighbourhood,  with  a  courtezan. 

Old  M.  He's  wise  in  that:  and  by  that  care  of 

yours, 

In  thus  observing  him,  I  would  advise  him 
To  love  still  more. 

Wife.  He  drinks  there,  too. 

Old  M.  For  you, 

Think  you  he'll  ever  drink  the  less,  or  there, 
Or  elsewhere,  as  he  likes  ?  What  impudence ! 
Do  you  insist,  he  never  sup  abroad, 
Nor  entertain  a  stranger  at  your  house  ? 
Would  you,  your  husband  should  obey  your  plea- 
sure? 

You  may  as  well  require  him  to  partake 
Your  work  with  you,  and  sit  among  the  maids, 
And  card  the  wool. 

Wife.  I  find,  sir,  I  have  brought  you 

No  advocate  for  me,  but  for  my  husband. 
Here  stand  you  as  a  patron  in  my  cause, 
Yet  plead  for  his. — 

Old  M.  Was  he  in  aught  to  blame, 

I  should  condemn  him  more  than  I  do  you. 
But  when  I  see  he  keeps  you  richly  clothed, 
Allows  you  servants,  and  a  plenteous  table, 
A  wife  thus  treated,  should  in  my  opinion 
Bear  towards  him  a  more  equal  mind. 

Wife.  But  he 

Pilfers  my  gold,  my  robe  from  out  my  chest ; 
Robs  me,  and  carries  to  his  courtezans 
My  richest  ornaments. 

Old  M.  If  he  acts  thus, 

He  acts  amiss :  if  not,  you  act  but  ill, 
When  you  accuse  one  that  is  innocent. 

Wife.  Why,  even  at  this  very  instant,  sir, 
He  has  a  bracelet,  and  a  robe  of  mine, 


Which  he  bore  off  here  to  this  courtezan ; 

And  now  he  finds  I  know  it,  brings  them  back. 

Old  M.  'Tis  right  to  know  these  matters  from 

himself: 

I  will  accost,  and  speak  to  him.  Say,  Mensechmus, 
What's  your  dispute  ?  Give  me  at  once  to  know  it. 
Why  are  you  pensive  ?  And  why  is  your  wife 
In  wrath  against  you  ? 

Men.  Sos.  Whosoe'er  you  are, 

Whate'er's  your  name,  I  call  great  Jupiter,* 
And  all  the  gods  to  witness — 

Old  M.  Why,  and  wherefore? 

Men.  Sos.  That  I  this  woman  ne'er  have  injur'd 

her, 

Who  raves  about  my  stealing  from  her  house 
This  robe,  and  bearing  of  it  off.     If  ever 
I've  once  set  foot  within  her  doors,  I  wish 
I  may  become  the  veriest  wretch  alive. 

Old  M.  Have  you  your  senses  when  you  make 

that  wish  ? 

Or,  when  deny  that  ever  you  set  foot 
Within  that  house,  where  you  reside  yourself? 
0,  of  all  madmen  the  most  mad  ! 

Men.  Sos.  Old  man, 

And  do  you  say,  that  I  inhabit  here  ? 

Old  M.  Do  you  deny  it  ? 

Men.  Sos.  By  Hercules,  I  do ! 

Wife.  'Tis  impudence  to  do  so.    But  you  mean, 
Because  you  went  this  night  elsewhere. 

Old  M.  Come  hither, 

Daughter — and  you  (to  him.*)  what  say  you  now  ? 
This  night  went  you  from  hence  ? 

Men.  Sos.          Whither?  for  what,  I  pray  you? 

Old  M.  I  know  not. 

Wife.  'Tis  plain  he  banters  you. 

Old  M.  (to.  her.)  What,    canst   not   hold    thy 

tongue?  Truly,  Mensechmus, 
You've  jested  long  enough :  now  to  the  purpose. 

Men.  Sos.  Pray,  what  have  you  to  do  with  me  ? 

what  business  ? 
Say  whence  you  come ;  and  who  you  are ;  and 

what 

I've  done  to  you,  or  to  this  woman  here, 
That  ye  thus  teaze  me  ? — 

Wife.  How  his  eyes  shine!  see! 

A  greenish  colour  spreads  o'er  all  his  temples, 
O'er  all  his  forehead.    See  his  eyes!  they  sparkle ! 

Men.  Sos.  (aside.)  Since  they  will  have  me  mad, 

what  can  I  do? 

Better  then  feign  a  madness,  I  may  thus 
Fright  them  away. — 

Wife.  Look  how  he  yawns  and  stretches! 

What  shall  I  do,  my  father ! 

Old  M.  Come  this  way, 

As  far  off  from  him  as  you  can,  my  child. 

Men.  Sos.  Evoi,  Evoi !  Bacchus,  son  of  Jove, 
Why  dost  thou  call  me  to  the  wood  to  hunt? 
I  hear  you,  but  I  cannot  stir  from  hence, 
This  woman,  on  the  left  side,  watches  me 
Like  a  mad  dog;  on  t'other,  this  old  goat, 
Who  often  in  his  life  has  by  false  witness 
Destroyed  the  guiltless -man. — 

Old  M.  Woe  on  thy  hfc-I 

Men.  Sos.  See  where  Apollo  from  his  oracle 
Commands  me  to  burn  out  that  woman's  eyes, 
With  lighted  torches. 


PLAUTUS. 


369 


Wife.  I'm  undone,  my  father ! 

He  threatens  me,  to  burn  out  both  my  eyes. 
Men.  Sos.  (asitle.)  Alas!  they  say  I'm  mad,  yet 

they  themselves 
Are  much  more  mad  than  I. 

Old  M.  Hark,  you  !  my  daughter ! 

Wife.  Your  pleasure,  sir?  What  shall  we  do? 
Old  M.  Suppose 

I  call  my  servants  quickly — I'll  bring  them,  those 
Shall  carry  him  into  the  house,  there  bind  him, 
Ere  he  make  more  disturban  :r. — 

Men.  Sos.  On  my  word, 

Unless  I  take  great  care,  they'll  bear  me  off 
By  force  into  their  house.    Yes,  thou.  hast  order'd 

me, 

Not  to  forbear  the  thrusting  of  my  fists 
Into  her  face,  unless  she  marches  off 
F  ir  from  my  sight,  and  goes  and  hangs  herself. 
Yes,  yes,  Apollo,  I  obey  thy  orders. 

Old  M.  Run  home,  my  daughter,  run  into  the 

house 
Fa<t  as  you  can,  lest  he  belabour  you. 

Wife.  I  fly.    I  pray  you  take  good  heed,  my 

father, 

That  he  escape  not.    An  unhappy  wife 
Am  I,  to  hear  all  this.  [Exit. 

Men.  Sos.  I've  sent  her  off,  (aside.} 

Not  ill.    And  now  must  I  send  after  her 
This    more    than    filthy    fellow,   this   old    grey 

beard, 

This  totterer,  this  old  Tithon,  son  of  Cygnus — 
'Tis    thy   command    that    I    should    break   his 

limbs,  (aloud.') 
His  bones,  his  joints,  with   that  same  staff  he 

carries. 
Old  M.  Touch,  or  come  nearer  me,  and  you'll 

rrprnt  it. 
Men.  Sos.  Yes,  I  will  do  as  you  have  order'd 

me, 

Take  up  this  two-edg'd  axe,  bone  this  old  fellow, 
And  cut  his  bowels  piece-meal. 

Old  M.  Troth,  I  must 

Take  care  though  of  myself — I  am  afraid, 
He'll  do  a  mischief  to  me,  as  he  thrnr 

EM.  So*.  Apollo!  fast  thou  pour'st  thy  great 

~ts — 
Now  thou   command's!   me,  harness  my  wild 

ster 

Fierce  and  untam'd  ;  and  now  to  mount  my  car 
And  crush  in  pieces  this  GotulMUl  lion, 
This  stinking, toothless  ben.M — N<>w  do  I  mount, 
An  I  now  I  shake  the  reins — I  take  the  lash; 
Now  fly,  my  steeds,  and  let  your  sounding  hoofs 
Tell  your  swift  course — show  in  the  turn  your 

'•d. 
Old  M.  And  dost  thou  threaten  me  with  har- 

ness'd  steeds? 

Men.  Sos.    Again,   Apollo!    thou   again   com- 
mand's! me 

To  rush  upon  yon  fellow  that  stands  there, 
A.nd  murder  him.     But  who  is  this,  that  by 
My  fluttering  tresses  plucks  me  from  my  car, 
The  dire  commands  revoking  of  Apollo? 

Old  M.  A  sharp  and  obstinate  distemper  this! 
Ye  gods !  is't  possible,  a  man  who  seem'd 
So  well  but  now,  should  fall  so  suddenly 
47 


Into  so  strange  a  malady  ?    Away, 

I  must  make  haste,  and  send  for  a  physician. 

[Exit. 
Men.  Sos.  What !  are  they  gone  ?  Are  they  both 

fled  my  sight? 

Who  forc'd  me  in  my  wits  to  feign  the  madman. 
What  hinders  now,  to  embark  rne,  while   I'm 

well? 
I  beg  you,  sirs,  (to  the  spectators.}  if  the  old  man 

return, 
Not  to  discover,  down  what  street  I  took.    [Exit. 

ACT  V.     SCENE  I. 
Enter  OLD  MAW. 

My  limbs  with  sitting  ache,  my  eyes  with  water- 
ing, 

While  this  same  doctor  from  his  patients  comes. 
Scarcely  arriv'd  at  home,  he's  telling  me, 
He  was  obliged  to  set  a  broken  leg 
Of  ^Esculapius,  and  Apollo's  arm. 
I'm  thinking  whether  I  am  bringing  with  me, 
Or  a  physician,  or  a  carpenter — 
But  see !  he  comes,  though  with  an  emmet's  pace. 

SCENE  II. 
Enter  PHYSICIAN. 

Phys.  What  did  you  say  was  his  disorder,  sir, 
Inform  me,  is  he  mad,  or  is  he  frantic? 
Is  it  a  lethargy,  or  is  he  dropsical  ? 

Old  M.  I  brought  you  hither  to  know  that  of 

you, 
And  that  your  art  should  cure  him. 

Phys.  Nought  more  easy. 

From  this  time,  I  engage  he  shall  be  well. 

Old  M.  I'd  have  great  care  ta'en  of  him  in  his 

cure. 
Phys.  My  frequent  visits  oft  will  make  me 

puff, 

Such  great  care  I  shall  take  in  curing  him. 
Old  M.  But  see  the  man ! 
Phys.  Let  us  observe  his  actions. 

SCENE  III. 

Enter  MEN.BCHMUS  of  Epidamnum. 
Men.  Epi.  This  day  has  been  unlucky,  and  to 

Quite  adverse — what  I  thought  to  have  done  in 

secret, 

Has  been  discover'd  by  this  parasite, 
And  brought  both  fear  and  infamy  upon  me. 
He  my  Ulysses  was,  and  my  adviser ; 
Yet  nought  but  evil  heaps  on  me  his  king. 
His  thread  of  life,  if  I  but  live  myself, 
Will  I  cut  off.     How  like  a  fool  I  talk  ! 
His  thread  of  life !     His  thread  of  life  is  mine-' 
He  eats  my  victuals,  lives  at  my  expense. 
Yes,  I  will  be  the  death  of  him.     Besides, 
This  wench  has  acted  but  in  character, 
The  manner  of  them  all.     When  I  request  her 
To  give  me  back  the  robe  to  give  my  wife, 
She  tells  me,  she  already  had  return'd  it. 
Troth,  I'm  unhappy ! 

Old  M.  Hear  you  what  he  says? 

Phys.  He  says  he  is  unhappy. 

Old  M.  Pray  go  nearer. 


370 


PLAUTUS. 


Phys.  Save  you,  Mensechmus.     Why  do  you 

bare  your  arms? 
You  know  not  how  it  helps  on  your  disorder. 

Men.  Epi.  Go  hang  yourself,  (to  the  Old  Man.") 

Phys.  What  think  you  now  ? 

Men.  Epi.  What  think  ? 

What  can  I  think  ? 

Phys.  To  work  a  cure  requires 

More  than  an  acre  of  good  hellebore. 
Hark  ye  !  Mensechmus  ? 

Men.  Epi.  What  would'st  thou  with  me? 

Phys.  Answer  to   what  I  ask :    Say,  do  you 

drink 
White  wine  or  red? 

Men.  Epi.  Go  hang  yourself. 

Phys.  I  find 

The  mad  fit  just  now  coming  on. 

Men.  Epi.  Why  not 

Ask  me  as  well  the  colour  of  my  bread, 
Whether  I  eat  it  purple,  red,  or  yellow? 
Whether  eat  scaly  birds,  or  feather'd  fish. 

Old  M.  Hark !  how  deliriously  he  talks !  or  e'er 
He* grows  stark  staring  mad,  give  him  some  po- 
tion. 

Phys.  Hold,  stay  a  little,  I  shall  farther  ques- 
tion him. 

OldM.  More  idle  talk  will  quite  demolish  him. 

Phys.  Tell  me  but  this ;  do  you  ever  find  your 

eyes 
Grow  hard  ? 

Men.  Epi.      Do  you  take  me  for  a  locust,  fool  ? 

Phys.  Do  you  find  your  bowels  make  a  noise 
sometimes? 

Men.  Epi.  When  I  am  full,  my  bowels  make 

no  noise : 
They  do,  when  I  am  hungry. — 

Phys.  By  my  troth, 

In  this  he  does  not  answer  like  a  madman. 
D'you  sleep  till  daylight?    When  you  go  to  bed, 
D'you  get  to  sleep  with  ease  ? 

Men.  Epi.  My  debts  discharg'd, 

I  sleep  with  ease.     May  Jove  and  all  the  gods 
Confound  this  questioner ! 

Phys.  He  'gins  to  rave,  (aside.} 

Take  heed  of  what  you  say. 

Old  M.  In  what  he  says, 

He's  much  more  moderate  than  he  was  but  now. 
'Tis  but  a  while  ago,  he  said,  his  wife 
Was  a  mad  bitch. 

Men.  Epi.  What  did  I  say1? 

Old  M.  You're  mad, 

I  say. 

Men.  Epi.  What,  I  ? 

Old  M.  You  there,  who  threaten'd  me, 

You'd  trample  me  beneath  your  horse's  feet. 
I  saw  you  do  it,  and  I  will  maintain  it. 

Men.  Epi.  And    I    well    know,    you've    stol'n 

Jove's  sacred  crown, 

And  for  the  fact  have  been  confin'd  in  prison. 
And  when  releas'd  you've  been  severely  whipp'd 
Under  a  gibbet.     And  I  know  besides, 
You've  kill'd  your  father,  and  have  sold   your 

mother. 

Think  you  I  am  so  mad,  I  can't  devise 
The  same  abusive  language  against  you, 
As  you  can  do  'gainst  me. 


Old  M.  Doctor,  I  beg  you, 

What  you  intend  to  do  to  him,  do  quickly. 
Do  you  not  see  he's  mad? 

Phys.  'Twere  the  best  thing, 

You  know,  to  have  him  carried  to  my  house. 

Old  M.  Do  you  think  so? 

Phys.  Why  not  ?  I  there  can  treat  him 

As  I  think  proper. 

Old  M.  Do  just  as  you  please. 

Phys.  About  some  twenty  days,  you  shall  drink 
hellebore. 

Men  Epi.  And  you,  some  thirty  days,  shall  be 

tied  up, 
And  flogg'd  severely. 

Phys.  Go,  and  call  your  men, 

To  bring  him  to  my  house. 

Old  M.  How  many  men 

D'ye  think  will  be  sufficient  ? 

Phys.  As  I  see  him 

So  mad,  not  less  than  four. 

Old  M.  They  shall  be  here 

Immediately.     Take  care  of  him,  good  doctor. 

Phys.  I'll  home  to  get  things  ready  that  are 

wanting. 
Go,  bid  your  servants  bring  him  to  my  house. 

Old  M.  I  will  take  care  that  he  shall  soon  be 
there. 

Phys.  I'm  gone. 

Old  M.  Farewell. 

[Exeunt  PHYSICIAN  and  OLD  MAX  separately. 

Men.  Epi.  The  father-in-law  is  gone, 
And  so's  the  doctor.     Now  I  am  alone. 
How  is  it,  Jove,  these  men  will  have  me  mad. 
Since  I  was  born,  I've  ne'er  been  sick  one  day. 
Nor  am  I  mad,  nor  do  I  seek  for  quarrels, 
Nor  stir  up  strifes.     I'm  well  in  health,  and  see 
Others  the  same :  I  know  men,  and  I  speak  to 

them. 

Is't  not,  that  those  who  say  that  I  am  mad, 
Are  mad  themselves?  What  shall  I  do?  I  would 
Go  home;    but  then  my  wife  will  not  permit 

it. — 

My  mistress  too  will  not  admit  me.  This, 
All  of  it's  ill.  I'll  e'en  stay  here  till  night, 
And  I  may  get  admittance  in  the  dark. 

(stands  apart.} 

SCENE  IV. 
Enter  MESSENIO. 

Mess.  'Tis  on  all  hands  allow'd  to  be  the  proof 
Of  a  good  servant,  when  he  takes  good  care  of, 
Looks  after,  thinks  of,  and  disposes  rightly 
His  master's  business.    That,  when  he  is  absent, 
Things  may  go  on  as  well,  or  even  better 
Than  when    he's  present.     He  whose  heart  is 

right, 

Will  think  his  back  of  greater  consequence 
Than  is  his  gullet :  Ay,  and  to  his  belly 
Prefer  his  legs.     He  ought  to  bear  in  mind 
The  wages,  servants  good-for-nothing,  idle, 
Or  wicked,  from  their  master's  hands  receive ; 
And  these  are,  stripes  and  chains,  the  stocks,  tho 

mill, 

Hard  labour,  cold  and  hunger.     Such  as  these 
Are  the  rewards  of  idleness.     This  evil 


PLAUTUS. 


371 


Pm  terribly  afraid  of;  therefore  choose 
'Rather  to  do  my  duty,  than  neglect  it. 
Words  I  can  bear,  but  stripes  I  hate.     I  rather 
Like   to  eat   that  which    has   been    ground    by 

others, 

Than  grind  myself  what  others  are  to  eat. 
[  therefore  execute  my  master's  orders 
Well ;  and  with  sober  diligence  I  serve  him : 
This  turns  to  my  account — Let  others  act  then 
As  best  they  think  it  for  the^r  interest, 
I'll  ever  be  that  which  I  ought  to  be: 
This  fear  I'll  still  retain,  to  keep  me  free 
From  fault;  that  wheresoe'er  my  master  is, 
I  may  be  ready  there  to  wait  on  him. 
Those  servants  who  have  nothing  done  amiss, 
Yet  keep  this  fear,  still  make  themselves  of  use 
To  their  respective  masters.     But  the  servants 
Who  never  live  in  fear  of  doing  wrong, — 
Fear,   when   they've   something   done  to  merit 

punishment. 

As  for  myself,  I  shan't  live  long  in  fear — 
The  time  draws  nigh,  when  master  will  reward 

me 

For  all  the  pains  I  have  been  at  to  serve  him. 
I've  serv'd  him  so,  as  to  consult  my  back. 
Now  that  I've  plac'd  the  servants,  as  he  order'd, 
And  what  they'd  want  i'th'  inn,  I'm  come  to 

meet  him. 

I'll  now  knock  at  the  door,  that  he  may  know 
I  in  here,  though  doubtful  whether  I  can  bring  him 
Safe  off  from  this  vile  house — I  fear  me  much, 
Lest  I  should  come  after  the  battle's  fought. 

SCEXE  V. 

Enter  OLD  MAX  with  Servants. 
Old  M.  (to  the  servants.)  By  gods  and  men,   I 

here  conjure  you  all 
To  take  good  care  to  execute  the  orders 
(liven  you  already;  and  I  now  repeat  them. 
See  that  man  carried  to  the  doctor's  house; 
On  pain  of  b<»th  your  sides  and  legs,  obey  me. 
Be   sure,   each   of  you,  not  to  heed  his  threats 

there. 

Why  stand  you  thus?  why  hesitate?  e'en  now 
II"  .  M_'ht  t./ve  been  borne  off.     I'll  go  myself 
Straight  to  the  doctor:  when  you  are  got  thither, 
You'll  find  me  there  before  you — 

[Exit  OLD  MAW. 

Men.  I'm  undone. 

What  is  the  matter?  What  do  these  men  want, 
That  they  run  here  so  fast  ?    What  is't  you  want? 
"Why  do  you  thus  surround  me?    Why  thus  hale 

DP-   ' 

Where  would  you  carry  me?    Undone!   help! 

he!])  !  help  ! 

Aid  me,  ye  Epidamnians!  Let  m> 

(In  the  servants.} 
Mess.  Ye  gods,  what  do  I  see !  What  men  are 

these 

Who  thus  unworthily  are  bearing  off 
My  master  ? 

Men  Epi.  What,  will  no  one  dare  to  help  me? 

Mess.  Master,  I   will,  and   boldly  too. — What 

villainy! 

Ye  Epidamnians,  thus  to  sei/e  my  master, 
In  the  open  street,  by  daylight,  undisturb'd 


By  tumults  in  your  city — A  free  man 
He  enter'd  it — Then  let  him  go,  I  say — 

Men.  Epi.  Whoe'er  you  are,  assist  me,  I  be- 
seech you, 
Nor  let  them  do  such  signal  outrage  on  me. 

Mess.  Yes,  I'll  assist,  defend,  and  succour  you. 
Tis  far  more  just,  that  I  myself  should  perish, 
Than  suffer  you  to  be  thus  treated,  master : 
Pluck  out  that  fellow's  eye,  I  beg  of  you, 
Who  holds  you  by  the  shoulder.     I'll  myself 
Plant  in  these  rascals'  chaps  a  crop  of  blows. 
If  you  persist  in  bearing  him  away, 
You'll   find    you'll    have  the   worst  of  it.     Let 
him  go. 

Men.  Epi.  I've  got  hold  of  the  rascal's  eye. 

Mess.  Why  then 

Let  in  his  head  the  socket  straight  appear. 
Rogues!  Rascals! 

Servs.  You'll  murder  us.     Have  mercy ! 

Mess.  Let  him  go  then. 

Men.  Epi.  What  is't  ye  mean,  you  rascals ! 
By  laying  hands  on  me  thus  violently? 
Curry  the  scoundrels  with  your  blows. 

Mess.  Away, 

Begone,  go  and  be  hang'd,  ye  rascals ! 
You  there,  that  are  the  last  to  quit  your  hold, 
Take  this  along  with  you  as  a  reward — 

(strikes  him.) 

So,  so :  I  think  I've  on  this  scoundrel's  chaps 
Written  in  red  letters. — 'Troth,  I  came  in  time 
To  your  assistance,  master. 

Men.  Epi.  May  the  gods ! 

Whoe'er  you  are,  be  ever  kind  to  you, 
Young  man.     For  without  you,  I  ne'er  had  seen 
The  setting  sun  this  day. 

Mess.  By  Pollux !  therefore, 

If  you  do  right,  you'll  give  me,  sir,  my  freedom. 

Men.  Epi.  Give  you  your  freedom ! 

Mess.  Out  of  doubt,  my  master, 

Since  I  have  sav'd  your  life. 

Men.  Epi.  How's  this !  young  man, 

You  are  mistaken. 

Mess.  I  mistaken !  how  ? 

Men.  Epi.  I  swear  by  Father  Jupiter,  I'm  not 
Your  master. 

jlfr.v-.s.  Can  you  say  so  ? 

Men.  Epi.  I  don't  lie. 

I  never  had  a  servant  yet ;  I  say, 
Who  ever  did  for  me,  what  you  have  done? 

Mess.  If  then  you  will  not  own  me  for  your 

servant, 
E'en  let  me  go,  and  have  my  liberty. 

Men.  Epi.  As  far  as  in  my  power,  take  your 

liberty, 
And  go  where'er  you  ] 

Mess.  Then  you  command  me? 

Men  Epi.  Yes  sure,  as  far  as  I've  a  right  to 
do  so. 

Mess.  My  patron,  thanks! 

A  Serv.  I  joy  to  see  you  free, 

nio. 

Mess.        In  troth  I  well  believe  you. 
By  Hercules!  I  do.     And,  now,  my  patron, 
I  beg,  you'd  lay  on  me  the  same  commands 
As  when  I  was  your  servant.    I'll  live  with  you: 
And,  when  you  home  return,  go  with  you.  sir. 


372 


PLAUTUS. 


Men.  Epi.  No,  by  no  means. 

Mess.  I'll  go  now  to  the  inn, 

And  bring  your  goods  and  money  to  you  straight : 
The  purse  which  has  your  money,  is  fast  seal'd 
Within  the  cloak-bag.  I'll  go  bring  it  straight. 

Men.  Epi.  Do  so,  and  quickly. 

Mess.  Sir,  I'll  bring  them  back 

In  the  same  state  as  when  you  gave  them  me. 
Wait  for  me  here.  [Exit  MESS. 

Men.  Epi.  What  I've  to-day  experienc'd 
In  many  instances  is  most  extraordinary. 
Some  of  them  say,  that  I  am  not  the  man 
I  am,  and  shut  me  out  of  doors.     And  here 
A  man  insists  upon't,  he  is  my  servant — 
And  I  just  now  have  given  him  his  freedom. 
He  talks  of  bringing  money  to  me  straight ; 
Which  if  he  does,  I'll  tell  him  he  has  liberty 
To  go  from  me  whene'er  it  suits  him  best. 
My  father-in-law  and  the  physician  say 
That  I'm  mad.    'Tis  strange  what  this  should  be: 
It  'seems  to  me  no  other  than  a  dream. 
I'll  now  go  to  this  courtezan,  and  see, 
Though  she  is  angry  with  me,  if  I  can't 
Prevail  on  her,  to  let  me  have  the  robe. 
To  carry  home,  and  give  it  to  my  wife. 

[Ex*  MEN.  EPI. 

SCENE  VI. 

Enter  MEX^ECHMUS  SOSICLES  and  MESSEXIO. 

Men.  Sos.  And  do  you  dare  affirm,  audacious 

fellow, 

That  you  have  met  me  anywhere  to-day, 
When  I  had  order'd  you  to  meet  me  here? 

Mes.  It  is  so  true,  that  I  not  only  met  you ; 
But  that  e'en  now,  I  freed  you  from  four  men, 
Before  this  very  house,  who  seiz'd  on  you, 
And  would  have  borne  you  off.    You  call'd  on 

gods 

And  men  for  their  assistance.    I  ran  up, 
And  snatch'd  you  from  them,  notwithstanding  all 
Their  efforts  to  the  contrary,  and  fought  them. 
On  which  account,  as  I  had  done  you  service, 
You  gave  my  freedom  to  me.    After  that, 
You  bade  me  go,  and  fetch  your  goods  and  money. 
You've  hasten'd  on,  fast  as  you  could,  before, 
To  frustrate  your  own  deeds — 

Men.  Sos.  And  did  I  bid  you 

Depart  a  freeman  ? 

Mess.  Certainly. 

Men.  Sos.  And  'tis 

Most  certain,  I'm  as  much  a  slave  myself 
As  e'er  I  gave  to  you  your  liberty. 

SCEXE  VII. 
Enter  MEX.ECHMUS   of  Epidamnum,  from  Ero- 

tium's  house. 
Men.  Epi.  Vile  woman  as  you  are,  though  you 

should  swear 

By  all  that's  dear  to  you,  that  I  this  day 
Bore  off  that  robe  and  bracelet,  yet  you  never, 
No,  never  should  convince  me. 

Mess.  Gods  immortal ! 

What  is  that  I  see  1 

Men.  Sos.  Why,  what  do  you  see  ? 

Mess.  Why,  your  resemblance,  sir,  as  in  a  mirror. 
Men.  Sos.  What  is't  you  mean? 


Mess.  Your  image,  and  as  like 

As  possible. 

Men.  Sos.      Troth,  if  I  know  myself, 
Tis  not  unlike. 

Men.  Epi.  Young  man,  whoe'er  you  are, 

The  gods  preserve  you!  you  have  sav'd  my  life. 

Mess.  Young  man,  if  'tis  not  disagreeable, 
Tell  me  your  name. 

Men.  Epi.  You  have  so  much  oblig'd  me, 

You  cannot  ask  what  I'd  be  slow  to  grant  you. 
My  name's  Menaechmus. 

Men.  Sos.  Mine's  Mensechmus  too. 

Men.  Epi.  I'm  a  Sicilian,  and  of  Syracuse. 

Men.  Sos.  I    am    the    same :    it   is  my  native 
country — 

Men.  Epi.  What's  that  I  hear? 

Men.  Sos.  You  hear  the  very  truth. 

Mess.  I  know  this  gentleman;  he  is  my  master, 
I  am  his  servant.    But  I  thought  myself 
The  other's  servant.    Sir,  (to  Men.  Sos.)  I  thought 

him,  you ; 

And  by  so  doing,  gave  you  some  uneasiness. 
If  I  have  said  aught  foolish  or  imprudent, 
I  pray  you  pardon  me. 

Men.  Sos.  You're  mad,  I  think. 

Don't  you  remember,  that  this  very  day 
You  disembark'd  with  me  ? 

Mess.  Nothing  more  just. 

You  are  my  master.    Seek  (to  Men.  Epi.)  another 

servant. 
(to  Men.  Sos.)  God  save  you,  sir!   and  you,  (to 

Men.  Epi.)  good  sir,  adieu! 
This  is,  I  say,  Mensechmus. 

Men.  Epi.  I  say,  I  am. 

Men.  Sos.  What  comedy  is  this?    What!   you 
Menaechmus ! 

Men.  Epi.  I  am,  sir,  and  my  father's  name  was 
Moschus. 

Men.  Sos.  And  are  you  then  my  father's  son? 

Men.  Epi.  I'm  sou 

Of  my  own  father,  youth.    I  do  not  want 
To  claim  your' father,  nor  to  take  him  from  you. 

Mess.  Ye  gods !  confirm  the  unexpected  hope 
Which  I'm  conceiving.    These,  if  I  mistake  not, 
Are  the  twin  brothers ;  for  they  both  agree, 
In  owning  the  same  father,  the  same  country. 
I'll  call  aside  my  master.     Sir !  Meneechmus ! 

Both  Men.  Whom  is't  you  want  ? 

Mess.  I  want  but  one  of  you. 

But  which  of  you  came  with  me  in  the  ship  ? 

Men.  Epi.  Not  I. 

Men.  Sos.  'Twas  I. 

Mess.  Why  then,  'tis  you  I  want. 

Come  this  way. 

Men.  Sos.    Well,  I'm  here,  what  do  you  want  I 

Mess.  That  man  is  an  impostor,  sir,  or  else 
He's  your  twin  brother.     For  I  never  saw 
Two  men,  one  like  the  other  so  exactly. 
Water  is,  I  assure  you,  not  more  like 
To  water,  nor  is  milk  more  like  to  milk, 
Than  he  is  like  to  you,  and  you  to  him. 
Besides,  he  owns  himself  of  the  same  country, 
And  claims  too  the  same  father.  Best  accost  him. 
And  ask  him  some  few  questions. 

Men.  Sos.  Your  advice 

Is  right,  by  Hercules ! — I  thank  you  for  it. 


PLAUTUS. 


373 


Beseech  you,  give  me  farther  your  assistance; 
And,  if  you  find  us  brothers,  you  shall  have 
Your  freedom. 

Mess.  Sir,  I  hope  I  shall. 

Men.  Sos.  I  hope 

The  same. 

Mess,  (to  Men.  .Epi.)  What  was't  you  said  ?  I 

think  it  was 
That  you  are  call'd  Menaechmus  ? 

Men.  Epi.  Yes. 

Mess.  But  he 

Is  call'd  Menaechmus  too. — In  Sicily 
You  said  that  you  was  born,  a  citizen 
Of  Syracuse. — Why  there  was  he  born  too. 
You've   likewise   said  that  Moschus   was  your 

father? 

Why,  Moschus  was  his  father  too.  And  now 
It's  in  the  power  of  both  of  you  to  assist  me ; 
And,  in  assisting  me,  to  assist  yourselves. 

Men.  Epi.  You  have  deserv'd  so  much  of  me, 

that  what 

Von  :isk,  you  may  command.     Free  as  I  am 
I'll  serve  you,  just  as  if  I  was  your  slave. 

Mess.  I   hope   you're  just   upon  the   point  of 

finding 
That  you're   twin  brothers,  born   at  the   same 

time, 
Sons  of  one  father,  and  one  mother  too. 

Men.  Epi.  You  mention  wonders.    Would  you 

could  effect 
That  which  you've  given  assurance  of— 

Mess.  I  can. 

Come  now.    To  that  which  I  shall  ask  of  you, 
Both  answer  me. 

Men.  Epi.     Ask  when  you  please,  I'll  answer, 
And  not  conceal  one  jot  of  what  I  know. 

Mess.  Is  then  your  name  Mencechmus? 

Men.  E/>i.  Yes,  I  own  it. 

Mess.  And  yours  the  same? 

Men.  Sos.  It  is. 

Mess.  You  also  say 

Your  father's  name  was  Moschus. 

Men.  Epi.  Yes,  I  do. 

Men.  Sos.  And  mine  the  same. 

Mess.  Are  you  of  Syracuse  ? 

Men.  Epi.  Most  certainly. 

>V»>x.  And  you? 

No  doubt  of  it. 

Mess.  Hitherto  all  the  marks  agree  right  well. 
But  let's  go  on.     What's  the  most  distant  tiling, 
have  happened  in  your  country? 

Men.  Epi.  The  going  with   my  father  to  Ta- 

rentmn 
I'th'  way  of  maiebftlldising :  in  thr>  crowd 

tying  fn>m  my  father;  after  that, 
My  lii-in.:  hither  brought. 

Mi-.i.  Sos.  nrve  me.  Jupiter! 

Mess.  Why  is  that  exclamation?    Hold   your 

I" '  ' 
(to  Men.  Epi.)  Say.  when  your  father  from  your 

country  took  yon. 
What  was  your  age  ? 

Men.  A/A.  Seven  years:  for  I  remember 

Ju>t  at  that  time  my  teeth  bewail  to  >he<l  — 
Nor  from  that  time  have  I  e'er  seen  mv  father. 

Mess.  How  many  children  had  your  father  ? 


Men.  Epi.  Two, 

If  I  remember  right. 

Mess.  Was  you  or  he 

The  elder? 

Men.  Epi.    We  were  both  of  the  same  age. 

Mi  .vs.  How  can  that  be  ? — 

Men.  Epi.  We  were  both  twins. — 

Men.  Sos.  The  gods 

Are  pleas'd  to  bless  me — 

Mess.  If  you  interrupt  me, 

I'll  say  no  more. 

Men.  Sos.  Rather  than  so,  I'm  silent. 

Mess.  Say,  had  you  both  one  name  ? 

Men.  Epi.  Not  so— my  name 

Was,  as  'tis  now,  Mensechmus.     But  my  brother 
They  named  Sosicles. 

Men.  Sos.  I  own  the  proofs. 

I  cannot  hold  out  longer.    I'll  embrace  him. — 
My  brother,  my  twin  brother,  hail !    'Tis  I 
Am  Sosicles. 

Men.  Epi.      If  so,  why  was  you  afterwards 
Mensechmus  call'd  ? 

Men.  Sos.  When  afterwards  we  heard 

You  and  your  father  both  were  dead,  my  grand- 
father 
Changing  my  name,  gave  me  the  same  as  yours. 

Men.  Epi.  Well,  I  believe  'tis  all  just  as  you  say. 
But  in  your  turn  now  answer  me. 

Men.  Sos.  Your  pleasure. 

Men.  Epi.  What  was  our  mother's  name  ? 

Men.  Sos.  'Twas  Theusimarche. 

Men.  Epi.  All  this  agrees.    Hail,  my  unlook'd- 

for  brother ! 
Whom  after  years  of  absence,  I  now  see. 

Men.  Sos.  The  same  all  hail !  to  you,  my  dearest 

brother! 
For  whom  I've  search'd  till  now  with  so  much 

pains, 
And  whom  I  now  rejoice  to  have  found  at  last. 

Mess.  It  was  on  this  account,  the  courtezan 
Then  call'd  you  by  his  name,  and  taking  you 
For  him,  she  ask'd  you  to  her  house  to  dinner. 

Men.  Epi.  Troth,  I  this  day  had  order'd  at  her 

house 

A  dinner,  to  my  wife  unknown,  from  whom 
I  filch'd  a  robe,  an«l  gave  her  as  a  present 

Men.  Sos.  Is  this  the  robe  you  see  me  have,  my 
brother  ? 

Men.  Epi.  How  came  it  in  your  hands  ? 

Men.  Sos.  A  common  woman. 

Invite. 1  me  to  dino,  and  said  'twas  I 
That  gave  it  her. — I  eat  a  hearty  dinner, 
Drank  freely,  entertain'd  myself  with  her, 
And  got  this  robe,  this  bracelet — 

Men.  F./ii.  I'm  glad,  brother, 

That  you  have  fared  so  well  on  my  account: 
For  when  she  a>k'd  you  home  to  dinner  with  her, 
'Twas  me  she  took  you  for. 

Mess.  What  hinders  then, 

But,  as  you  promis'd  me,  I  should  be  free? 

Men.  F.pi.    H     asks  but  what  is  right  and  just, 

my  brother, 
Do  it  on  my  account. 

,l/»/i.  Sos.  Be  free. 

Men.  Epi.  I  joy, 

Messenio,  that  you  have  obtained  your  freedom. 
2G 


374 


PLAUTUS. 


Mess.  You  see  a  better  hand  than  yours  was 

wanting 
To  make  me  free  for  life. 

Men.  Sos.  Since  things  are  thus 

As  we  could  wish,  let's  both  return  together 
To  our  native  country. 

Men.  Epi.  As  you  please,  my  brother. 

I'll  make  an  auction,  and  sell  all  I  have. 
In  the  meantime,  my  brother,  let's  go  in. 

Men.  Sos.  With  all  my  heart. 

Mess.  Can  you  guess  what  I'd  ask  ? 

Men.  Epi.  What  is  it  ? 

Mess.  That  you'd  make  me  auctioneer. 

Men.  Epi.  'Tis  granted — 

Mess.  Well,  sir,  shall  I  then  proclaim 

The  auction  straight?  and  for  what  day? 

Men.  Epi.  The  seventh. 

Mess.  O  yes ! — 0  yes ! — This,  sirs,  is  to  give 

notice. — 

The  auction  of  Menaechmus  will  begin 
The  seventh  of  this  month:  when  will  be  sold 
Slaves,  household  goods,  farms,  houses,  and— et 

cetera. 

All  may  attend  that  will ;  and  we  sell  all 
For  ready  money.     Sell  his  wife  besides, 
If  any  purchaser  should  offer.    I  scarce  think 
Our  auction  will  amount  to  fifty  times 
A  thousand  sesterces. 
(to  the  spectators.}  Spectators,  now 
Adieu !  and  favour  us  with  a  loud  applause.* 

[Exeunt. 


THE  TREASURE. 

DRAMATIS  PERSONJE. 

PROLOGUE  by  LUXURY  and  POVERTY. 
CHARMIDES,  an  Athenian  Merchant. 
CALLTCLES,  his  Friend. 
MEGARONIDES,  Friend  to  Callicles. 
PHILTO,  an  Old  Gentleman. 
LESBONICUS,  Son  to  Charmides. 
LTSITELES,  Son  to  Philto. 
STASIMUS,  Servant  to  Lesbonicus. 
HIRELING,  employed  to  counterfeit  Charmides. 
SCENE  Athens. 

PROLOGUE. 

Enter  LUXURY  and  POVERTY. 
Lux.  FOLLOW  me,  daughter,  that  you  may  per- 
form 
Your  office. 

Pov.  I  do  follow ;  but  arn  ignorant, 

Where  will  our  journey  end. 

*  Among  the  fragments  of  Menander  are  a  few  lines 
from  a  play  called  AIATMAI.  The  Twins;  from  which 
some  commentators  have  been  of  opinion  Flautus  took 
this  comedy. 

There  are  two  imitations  of  this  comedy  on  the  French 
stage ;  one  near  a  century  ago  by  M.  de  Kotrou,  which  is 
said  to  have  succeeded;  and  the  other  by  M.  Regnard; 
which  was  performed  with  great  applause  in  the  year 
1706. 

There  is  also  an  old  translation  of  this  comedy,  printed 
1595,  by  W.  W.,  and  called  Menechmi. 


Lux.  'Tis  here  : — behold, 

This  is  the  house  :  go  in.  [Exit  POVERTY. 

Lux.  (to  the  spectators.}  Lest  any  of  you 
Be  lost  in  error,  I'll  in  brief  conduct  you 
In  the  right  road,  provided  you  will  hear. 
First  then,  and  who  I  am,  and  who  she  is, 
That  enter'd  here,  I'll  tell,  if  you'll  attend. 
Plautus  has  given  me  the  name  of  Luxury  ; 
The  other  is  my  daughter,  Poverty. 
Now,  at  my  impulse  why  she  enter'd  here, 
Learn,  and  be  all  attention,  while  I  tell. 
There  is  a  certain  youth  dwells  in  this  house, 
Who  by  my  aid  has  squander'd  his  estate. 
Since  then  for  my  support,  there's  nothing  left, 
I've  given  him  my  daughter,  whom  to  live  with. 
As  for  our  play,  expect  not  I  should  tell 
The  plot.    The  old  men,  who  are  coming  hither, 
Will  ope  the  matter  to  you.     In  the  Greek 
'Tis  nam'd  The  Treasure,  which  Philemon  wrote.* 
Our  poet  this  translated,  calling  it 
Trinummus ;  and  this  name,  he  begs,  may  stand. 
No  more. — Farewell. — Be  silent,  and  attend. 

[Exit. 

ACT  I.     SCENE  I. 
Enter  MEGARONIDES. 
Tis  but  an  irksome  act  to  task  a  friend, 
And  rate  him  for  his  failings ;  yet  in  life 
It  is  a  wholesome  and  a  wise  correction.— 
Now  must  I  chide  this  neighbour-friend  of  mine, 
Howe'er  unwilling:  justice  bids  me  do  it. — 
Our  morals  are  so  tainted  with  corruption, 
That  our  souls  sicken  with  it  e'en  to  death : 
And  evil  manners,  like  well-water'd  plants, 
Have  shot  up  in  abundance ;  we  may  gather 
A  plenteous  harvest  of  them.     Most  prefer 
A  private  interest  to  the  public  good, 
Which  yields  to  partial  favour.     This  is  hurtful 
In  many  points,  is  shocking,  and  a  bar 
As  well  to  private  as  to  general  welfare. 

SCENE  II. 

CALLICLES,  in  entering. 

Cal.  See  that  you  deck  our  god  Lar  with  a 
crown ;  f 


*  No  reason  can  possibly  be  given,  why  our  author 
should  choose  to  reject  the  original  Greek  title  to  this 
play,  and  to  substitute  so  uncouth  an  one  as  Trinummus, 
which  signifies  three  pieces  of  money,  the  sum  given  to  a 
person  who  is  hired  to  carry  on  a  deception  in  one  of  the 
scenes. 

One  cannot  but  wish,  that  this  elegant  introduction  of 
the  characters  of  LUXURY  and  POVERTY,  by  way  of  pro- 
logue, had  not  been  so  slightly  touched  upon  by  our  au- 
thor, as  they  certainly  might  have  offered  scope  for  much 
entertainment  as  well  as  instruction.  Claudian  has  the 
same  thought  in  his  poem  on  Rufinus. 

Et  Luxus  populator  opum,  cui  semper  adhaerens 
Infelix  humili  gressu  comitatur  Egestas. 

And  Luxury, 

The  waster  of  men's  property, 
On  whom,  a  close  concomitant, 
With  humble  step  waits  hapless  Want, 
t  The  ancients  had  in  every  house  a  tutelary  deity, 
who  was  supposed  to  protect  it.  See  the  Prologue  to  the 
rfulularia,  or  Miser,  p.  324. 


PLAUTUS. 


375 


And,  wife,  do  reverence, — that  our  habitation 
With  all  good  fortune  may  be  blest, — and  you — 
(aside.')  That  I  may  shortly  see  you  in  your  grave. 
Meg.  Oh,  here  he  is, — a  boy  in  his  own  old 

age,— 

Had  done  a  fault,  for  which  he  should  be  chid. — 
I'll  up  to  him. 

CaL          Whose  voice  is't  sounds  so  near  me? 
Meg.  A  friend, — if  you  are  such,  as  I  would 

wish  you, — 
If  otherwise, — a  foe,  enrag'd  against  you. 

Col.  Oh,  Megaronides,  my  friend,  and  years- 
mate, 
Save  you, — how  fare  you? 

Meg.  Save  you,  Callicles  : 

How  do  you  do  ?  how  have  you  done  ? 

CaL  So,  so. 

Meg.  Your  wife,  how  fares  she  ? 
Cat.  Better  than  I  wish. 

Meg.  Troth  I  am  glad  to  hear  she's  pure  and 

hearty. 

Cal.  You're  glad  to  hear  what  sorrows  me. 
Me?.  I  wish 

ne  to  all  my  friends  as  to  myself. 
Cul.  But  harkye — how  is  your  good  dame? 

Immortal ; 
Lives,  and  is  like  to  live. 

Cal.  A  happy  hearing! 

Pray  heaven,  that  she  may  last  to  outlive  you ! 
Meg.  If  she  were  your's,  faith  I  should  wish 

the  same. 
Cal.  Say,  shall  we  make  a  swop  ?  I  take  your 

wife, 

You  mine?  I  warrant  you,  you  would  not  get 
The  better  in  the  bargain. 

Meg.  Nor  would  you 

Surprise  me  unawares. 

Cal.  Nay,  but  in  troth 

You  would  not  even  know  what  you're  about. 
Meg.  Keep   what  you've  got. — The  evil  that 

we  know 

Is  best      To  venture  on  an  untried  ill, 
Would  puzzle  all  my  knowledge  how  to  act. — 
Well,  give  me  a  good  life,  and  that's  a  long  one. — 
But  mind  me  now,  all  joking  set  apart. 
I  came  to  you  on  purpose. — 

Ctil.  For  what  purpose  ? 

Meg.  To  rate  you  soundly. 

Me? 

Pray  who  is  here 

Besides  US  tWO? 

Cal.  There's  nobody. 

Then  why 

IVy.-  :isk  inn.  if  'ti<  you  I  mean  to  clii 

;it  you  think  my«-|f  would  school  myself. — 
But  to  tin*  point. — If  that  the  ancient  sense 
Of  truth  and  \i<"  id  within  you, 

If  evil  manners  in  your  disposition 

wrought  :i  elian-'-.  and  that  your  disposition 
Is  clianir'd  unto  those  manners,  if  the  old 
You  keep  not,  but  shake  oil",  and  eafeh  the  new, 
You'll  such  a  surfeit  give  to  all  your  friends, 
They'll  sicken  at  your  sight,  and  loathe  to  hear 

you. 

Cal.  How  came  it  in  your  mind  to  hold  this 
language  ? 


Meg.  For  that  it  doth  behove  all  honest  men 
To  keep  them  both  from  blame  and  from  suspicion. 

Cal.  Both  cannot  be. 

Meg.  For  why  ? 

Cal.  Is  that  a  question  ? 

Myself  of  my  own  bosom  keep  the  key, 
To  shut  out  misdemeanour ;  but  suspicion 
Is  harbour'd  in  another's.     Thus  if  I 
Suspect  you  to  have  stolen  the  crown  of  Jove, 
From  where  he  stand  in  the  high  capitol, 
What  though  you  have  not  done  it,  I  am  free 
However  to  suspect  you,  nor  can  you 
Prevent  me. — But  I  long  to  know  your  business, 
Whate'er  it  be. 

Meg.  Have  you  a  friend,  or  any  one, 

Whose  judgment  you  can  trust? 

Cal.  I  tell  you  fairly ; 

There  are,  I  know,  are  friends  ;  there  are,  I  think 

so; 

There  are,  whose  dispositions  and  whose  minds 
I  cannot  know,  or  whether  to  enrol  them 
Among  my  friends  or  foes.     But  you  I  hold 
Of  all  my  fast  friends  the  most  fast.     Then  tell 

me, 

If  you  do  know  of  any  thing  by  me 
Unwittingly,  or  wrongfully  committed  : 
If  you  accuse  me  not,  then  you  yourself 
Will  be  to  blame. 

Meg.  I  know  it ;  and  'twere  just, 

If  I  for  any  other  cause  came  hither. 

Cal.  I  wait  for  what  you'll  say. 

Meg.  Then,  first  of  all, 

The  general  report  speaks  ill  of  you: 
Our  townsmen  call  you  Gripe-all;*  and   with 

some 

You  go  by  the  name  of  Vulture  ;  friends  or  foes, 
They  say  you  little  reck,  whom  you  devour. 

Cal.  As  to  this  matter,  Megaronides, 
I  have  it  in  my  power,  and  have  it  not. 
Report  is  none  of  mine  ;  bur  that  report 
May  be  unmerited,  is  in  my  power. 

Meg.  How  say  you  ?  Was  not  Charmides  your 

friend, 
The  owner  of  this  house  here? 

Cal.  Was,  and  is.— 

To  win  belief  lot  this  transaction  speak. — 
When  by  his  son's  extravagance  and  waste 
He  saw  his  fortune  shatter'd,  and  himself, 
Drawn  nigh  on  poverty,  his  only  girl 
Grown  up,  his  wife,  (her  mother.)  dead  besides, 
Departing  for  Selueia,  to  my  charire 
He  left  his  whole  estate,  and  with  it  too 
The  maid  his  daughter,  and  that  rake  his  son. 
Had  he  not  been  my  friend,  he  scarce,  I  trust, 
Had  trusted  me. 

Meg.  That  youth,  you  knew  a  rake, 

Committed  to  your  trust  and  confidence, — 
Do  you  reform  him  ?   foree  him  to  be  frugal? 
That,  that  indeed  it  had  been  fitter  far 
For  you  to  work, — to  make  him,  if  you  can, 
Of  fairer  reputation, — not  that  you 
Should  to  the  self-same  infamy  with  him 
Be  accessory,  with  his  vile  dishonour 
Mixing  your  own. 


*  The  original  is  Turpilucricupidus. 


376 


PLAUTUS. 


Cat.  How  have  I  acted  ? 

Meg.  Like 

A  villain. 

Cal.          Sir,  that  name  is  none  of  mine. 

Meg,  Did  you  not  buy  this  house — What,  no 

reply  ? 
Where  now  you  dwelH 

Cal.  I  bought  it,  gave  the  money, 

'Twas  forty  minae,  gave  it  to  the  youth. 

Meg.  You  gave  the  money  ? 

Cal.  Yes,  nor  do  repent  me. 

Meg.  0  ward  committed  to  untrusty  guard ! 
Have  you  not  given  him  by  this  act  a  sword 
To  stab  himself  withal? — Can  it  be  other? — 
A  fond  intriguing  spark,  young,  weak  in  mind, 
To  give  him  money,  wherewith  to  build  up 
His  folly  to  the  height,  already  founded. 

Cal.  Should  I  not  then  have  paid  him  ? 

Meg.  No,  you  should  not ; 

Nor  bought  of  him,  nor  sold  him  any  thing, 
To  put  it  in  his  power  to  be  worse.-— 
Have  you  not  gull'd  one  to  your  trust  confided, 
And  ousted  from  his  house,  who  gave  the  trust? 
Brave  care  indeed  !  a  pretty  guardianship  ! 
Be  you  the  young  man's  ward :  he'd  manage 
better. 

Cal.  I  am  so  overcome  with  your  reproaches, 
That  what  was  trusted  to  my  faith  and  silence, 
Not  to  impart  to  any,  or  divulge, 
Tm  now  of  force  compell'd  t'  entrust  you  with. 

Meg.  Trust  me,  and  you  shall  have  it  on  de- 
mand.— 

Cal.  Look  all  about  you, — see  if  no  one's  by  ; 
Look  round. 

Meg.  There's  no  one  near, — I  harken  to  you. 

Cal.  Peace   then,  and 'I   will   speak.     When 

Charmides 

Went  hence  abroad,  he  show'd  me  in  this  house 
A  treasure,  in  a  certain  closet  lodg'd — 
But  look,  look  all  around. 

Meg.  Here's  no  one  near. 

Cal.  Three  thousand  Philippeans.     He  and  I, 
Being  alone,  with  tears  he  did  beseech  me 
By  friendship  and  by  faith,  that  I'd  not  trust 
His  son,  or  any  other,  who  might  let 
The  secret  out.     Now,  if  he  safe  return, 
His  own  will  I  restore  him  ;  should  he  die, 
Why  then  I've  wherewithal  to  portion  out 
My  charge  his  daughter,  and  to  see  her  plac'd 
In  such  a  station  as  is  worthy  of  her. 

Meg.  Good  heavens  !  how  soon,  and  little  said, 

you've  made 

Another  man  of  me !    I  came  to  you 
Quite  other, — But  proceed,  as  you  begun. 

Cal.  What  shall  I  tell  you  more  ?  the  father's 

caution, 

My  faithfulness,  this  secret,  the  sad  son 
Had  near  o'erthrown  from  the  foundation. 

Meg.  How  ? 

Cal.  Being  six  days  in  the  country,  in  my  ab- 
sence, 

Without  my  knowledge,  not  consulting  rne, 
He  set  the  house  to  sale. 

Meg.  The  wolf!  his  stomach 

Was  sharper  set:  he  watch'd  the  dog  asleep,  . 
To  ravage  the  whole  flock. 


Cal.  And  he  had  done  it, 

But  that  the  dog  first  smelt  him  out. — And  now 
I  fain  would  ask  you  in  my  turn,  what  was  it 
My  duty  then  to  do?  give  me  to  know. 
Had  it  been  fitter  I  had  shown  the  son 
This  treasure,  against  which  the  father  pray'd 

me? 

Or  should  I  have  permitted,  that  this  house 
Should  own  another  master,  and  the  gold 
Devolve  to  him  that  bought  it?  I  myself 
Chose  rather  to  become  the  purchaser ; 
Paid  down  the  cash,  this  treasure  to  preserve 
Untouch'd,  and  render  back  unto  my  friend. 
I  bought  not  for  myself,  or  for  my  use ; 
But  for  my  friend  this  house  I  purchas'd,  paid 
For  him  my  money.     Was  this  right,  or  wrong? 
Say,  Megaronides, — I  confess  the  fact. 
These,  these  are  my  misdoings,  this  my  avarice! 
For  these  are  slanders  on  me  spread  abroad! 

Meg.  No*  more, — the  chider's   chid. — You've 

tied  my  tongue, 
And  nothing  can  I  answer. 

Cal.  Aid  me  now, 

I  pray  you,  with  your  counsels  ; — let  this  be 
One  common  care  to  both  of  us. 

Meg.  Agreed. 

Cal.  Where  shall  I  find  you  a  while  hence? 

Meg.  At  home. 

Cal.  Any  commands  ? 

Meg.  Be  trusty. 

Cal.  Do  not  doubt  me. 

Meg.  But  hark  ye. — 

Cal.  What  is  it  you  want  ? 

Meg.  The  spark, 

Where  lives  he  now  ? — 

Cal.  Oh, — when  he  sold  the  house, 

The  back  part  he  reserv'd  unto  himself. 

Meg.  That's  what  I  wish'd  to  know. — Now, 

sir,  your  servant. — 
But  harkye. 

Cal.          Well,  what  now  ? 

Meg.  The  maiden,  she's 

With  you  ? 

Cal.  She  is,  and  I  do  tender  her 

Ev'n  as  my  own. 

Meg.  'Tis  well  done  in  you. 

Cal.  Would  you 

Command  me  farther,  ere  I  go  ? 

Meg.  Your  servant. 

[Exit  CALLICLES. 

SCENE   III. 
MEOAROKTIDES  alone. 

In  troth  there  cannot  be  more  errant  dolts, 
More  barefac'd  fibbers,  and  more  prating  pup- 
pies, 

Than  these  officious  fools,  the  busy-bodies. 
And  I  too  should  rank  with  them,  thus  to  credit 
Their  groundless  suppositions.     Every  thing 
They  will  pretend  to  know,  yet  nothing  know. 
They'll  dive   into  your  breast,  and  learn  you : 

thoughts 

Present  and  future  :  nay  they  can  discover 
What  the  king  whisper'd  in  her  highness'  ear, 
And  tell  what  past  in  Juno's  chat  with  Jove. 
They  know  what  never  was,  nor  ever  will  be  : 


PLAUTUS. 


377 


Whether  they  praise  or  dispraise  right  or  wrong, 
They  care  not,  but  invent  whate'er  they  please. 
This  Callicles,  for  instance — Men's  report 
Pronounc'd  him  for  society  unfit, 
For  that  he  spoil'd  a  young  man  of  his  fortunes. 
I,  prompted  by  their  scandal,  sallied  forth, 
To  chide  my  friend,  though  blameless.     Ill  re- 
ports, 

Trac'd  to  their  root,  unless  it  well  appear 
What  ground  and  what  authority  they  have, 
Should  turn  on  those  that  spread  them. — Public 

good 

Requires  it  should  be  so. — These  idle  chatterers, 
That  know  what  they  don't  know,  I  fain  would 

lessen, 

And    shut  up   their  fools-tongues   within    their 
teeth.  [Exit  MEGAROJUDES. 

ACT  II.     SCESTE  I. 
Enter  LTSITELES. 

What  misery  to  myself  do  I  create, 
On  many  things  thus  inward  ruminating! 
1  tea/.e  me,  fret  me,  weary  out  my  mind, 
Which  schools  me,  as  it  were,  like  a  strict  mas- 
ter. 

It  is  not  plain,  nor  have  I  weigh'd  sufficiently, 
What  life  'twere  best  to  follow,  whether  rather 
Attend  to  thrift,  or  yield  me  up  to  Love. 
I  cannot  tell,  which  is  most  pleasurable, 
Nor  am  I  rightly  satisfied. — Suppose 
We  try  both  fairly: — in  the  cause  I'll  be 
Both  judge  and  culprit. — Good!  it  likes  me  well, 
Hi  do  so. — First  then  we'll  discourse  of  Love. — 
Love  only  seeks  to  draw  into  his  toils 
I'he  ea>y.  willing  natures;  these  he  courts, 
Subtly  cajoles,  and  seeks  occasions  apt 
To  win  them  to  him.     Love's  a  gentle  flatterer, 
A  hook  that  grapples  hearts,  an  errant  fibber, 
A  dainty-innuth'd,  a  nice,  a  greedy  niggard, 
A  filcher  of  affections,  pimp  to  those 
That  play  at  bo-peep,  skulk  in  hiding  holes; 
A  pryer  into  secrets, — last,  a  beggar. 
He  -.hat  is  stricken  with  sharp-pointed  kisses, 
Will  find  his  substance  in  a  trice  decay. 
"  My  sweet,  my  honey,  if  you  love  me,  if 
You  have   the  spirit,   won't  you  give  me?  do 

now." 

Then  instantly  the  gudgeon — "Eh!  I  will, 
My  eyes,  my  own  dear  eyes, — aye,  that   and 

more, 

If  you  require  it." — Thus  she  strikes  the  fool, 
For  more  and  more  still  askiiiu.     Nor  is  this 
Sufficient;  something  more  must  still  he  added, 
For  entertainments,  (eastings  and  earun 
Grants  she  the  favour  of  a  night  !      She  brings 
Her  whole  retinue  with  her,  such  a  train 
Of  waiting-women,  such  a  tribe  of  dre- 
Minstrels,  and    lacqueys,  all   such  huge  devour- 

ers, 

Such  wasters  of  his  substance,  that  the  lover 
From  his  extreme  eomp'aeenee  is  undone. 
When  I  reflect  within  me,  and  consider, 
How  cheap  they  hold  one  who  is  little  worth, 
Love,  get  thee  gone — I  like  theo  not — Away — 
I  hold  no  converse  \vith  thee. —  Although  sweet 
His  feastings  and  carousings,  Love  has  yet 
48 


A  smatch  of  bitter  to  create  disgust* 
Love  shuns  the  noisy  bustle  of  the  bar, 
Drives  off  relations,  and  oft  banishes 
Himself  from  his  own  sight.     There's  no  one, 

who 

Would  woo  him  for  companion.    Thousand  ways 
Love  should  be  held  a  stranger,  kept  at  distance, 
Wholly  abstain'd  from.     Hapless,  into  Love 
Who  plunges  headlong;  greater  his  destruction, 
Than  to  have  leapt  down  toppling  from  a  rock.— 
Love,  get  thee  gone  then, — I  divorce  thee  from 

me, 

Nor  ever  be  thou  friend  of  mine. — Go,  torture 
Those  that  are  bound  unto  thee.— I  am  bent 
Henceforward  to  apply  my  mind  to  thrift, 
Although  the  toil  be  great.     Hence  good  men 

gather 

Gain,  esteem,  credit,  reputation  :  This 
The  price  of  virtue. — Tis  my  choice  to  herd 
With  good  men  rather  than  the  vain  and  disso- 
lute. 

SCEXE  II. 
Enter  PHI  LTD. 

Phil.  Where  has  he  ta'en  himself? 

Lys.  I'm  here,  my  father, 

Command  me  what  you  will,  nor  shall  there  be 
In  me  reluctance.     Think  not  that  I  skulk, 
Or  hide  me  from  your  sight. 

Phil,  You  will  do  well, 

And  like  your  other  actions,  to  observe 
Due  reverence  to  your  father.     O  my  son! 
I  would  not  have  you  with  the  profligate 
Hold  any  conversation,  in  the  forum, 
Or  in  the  street.     The  manners  of  this  age 
I  know  :  Bad  men  would  fain  corrupt  the  good, 
And  make  them  like  themselves:  Our  evil  man- 
ners 

Confound,  disorder  every  thing :  The  greedy, 
The  envious,  turn  what's  sacred  to  profane, 
The  public  good  to  private  interest. — 
They  gape  for  gain,  like  the  parch'd  earth  for 

showers. — 

This  grieves  me ;  this  torments  me;  night  and  day 
I  ring  the  same  peal,  bidding  you  beware. 
These  plunderers  only  can  refrain  their  hands 
From  what  they  cannot  touch.     The  word  else 

with  them 
Is,  touch  and  take.     O  but  to  see  these  villainies, 

*  The  same  sentiment  with  this  and  the  forecoing  lines 
is  finely  expressed  by  Lucretius  in  his  fourth  hook. 
Adde,  qufxl  ahsuniiiot  vires  pereuntque  labore  ; 

Ail. I.-,  qnml  .-ilicrius  Hub  until  di",ritiir  tctas. 
Labitur  interefc  res,  et  vadimonia  limit, 
Languent  ofticia  atque  aegrotat  lama  vacillans. 

—       medio  de  fonte  leporum 
Suniit  amari  aliquid,  quod  in  ipsis  florihus  angat. 
They  waste  their  strength  in  the  venereal  strife, 
And  to  a  woman's  will  enslave  their  life  ; 
The  estate  runs  out.  and  mortgages  are  made, 
All  offices  of  friendship  are  decay'd, 
Their  fortune  ruin'd,  and  their  fame  betray'd. 

For  in  the  fountain,  where  their  sweets  are  sought, 
Some  bitter  bubbles  up,  and  poisons  all  the  draught. 

Dry  den. 
2o2 


378 


PLAUTUS. 


Draws  tears  from  me  ;  to  think  my  life  prolong'd 
To  such  a  race ! — O  that  I  had  but  fbllow'd 
Those  that  ai-e  gone  before  me ! — Our  vile  moderns 
Commend  the  ancient  manners,  but  withal 
Defile  what  they  commend.     O  then,  my  son, 
Be  not  enamour'd  of  their  arts,  nor  taint 
Your  disposition  with  them.     Live  like  me, 
Following  our  ancient  manners.     Do  what  1 
Advise  you.     For  these  vile  and  filthy  manners, 
Which  good  men  must  dishonour,  I  disdain  them. 

Lys.  Sir,  from  my  youth  up  to  my  present  age 
I've  bound  me  to  your  precepts  and  commands. 
Though  free  from  birth  and  breeding,  to  your 

bidding 

I  hold  me  still  a  slave,  and  deem  it  just 
My  will  should  bend  to  yours. 

Phil.  Suppose  a  youth 

To  combat  with  his  will,  whether  'twere  best 
To  be,  as  best  his  will  should  think,  or  rather 
Such  as  his  parents  and  relations  wish  him : 
If  the  will  masters  him,  all's  over  with  him, 
By  it  he'll  be  enslav'd :  but  if  his  will 
He  masters,  while  he  lives  he  shall  be  styled 
A  conqueror  of  conquerors.*     If  your  will 
You've  vanquish'd,  you  not  vanquish'd  by  your 

will, 

You've  reason  to  rejoice.     'Tis  better  far 
You  should  be  as  you  should  be,  than  be  such  as 
Your  will  would  have  you.     Fairer  their  repute, 
The  will  who  conquer,  than  those  conquer'd  by  it. 

Lys.  This  prudence,  as  a  buckler  to  my  youth, 
I  ever  had :  I  studiously  forbore 
To  go,  where  vice  was  plotted  as  in  council, 
To  roam  the  streets  at  midnight,  to  defraud 
Another  of  his  right,  or  to  beget 
Vexation,  sir,  to  you,  who  are  my  father. 
I've  ever  kept  your  precepts  as  a  rule 
To  regulate  my  conduct. 

Phil  Wherefore  this  ? 

What's  right  you've  acted  for  yourself,  not  me : 
My  days  are  almost  past :  'Tis  your  concern  then. 
That  man's  an  upright  man,  who  don't  repent 

him, 

That  he  is  upright;  he,  who  seeks  alone 
Self-satisfaction,  merits  not  that  title  : 
The  man,  that  thinks  but  meanly  of  himself, 
Shows  there's  a  just  and  honest  nature  in  him. 
Still  follow  up  good  actions  with  good  actions, 
Heap'd  on  each  other. 

Lys.  For  this  purpose,  father, 

I  would  entreat  a  certain  favour  of  you. 

Phil.  What  is  it?  tell  me,  for  I  \o\vs  to  grant  it. 

Lys.  There  is  a  youth  here  of  a  noble  family, 
My  friend,. and  of  my  years,  who  his  affairs 
Too  heedlessly  has  manag'd,  too  unthinkingly. 
I'd  fain  do  him  a  kindness,  if  that  you 
Refuse  not. 

Phil.  What,  from  your  own  purse  ? 

Lys.  From  mine. 

For  what  is  your's  is  mine,  and  mine  is  yours. 

Phil.  Is  he  in  want? 

Lys.  .In  want. 

*  Victor  victorum.  We  find  the  same  sentiment  in 
Plato's  first  book,  Of  Laws.— To  conquer  one's  self  is  the 
first  and  best  of  all  victories :  but  to  be  conquered  by 
one's  self  is  the  greatest  disgrace  and  calamity. 


Phil.  Had  he  a  fortune? 

Lys.  He  had. 

Phil.  How  lost  he  it?  at  sea?  by  commerce? 
In  the  slave  trade  ?  by  traffic  ? 

Lys.  None  of  these. 

Phil.  How  then? 

Lys.  In  sooth  by  gentle  living,  sir: 

Something  too  much  in  pleasure  has  he  squan- 
der'd. 

Phil.  In  troth  you  speak  of  him  as  of  an  inti- 
mate : 
A  man  forsooth  whose  fortunes  were  not  shat- 

ter'd 

By  any  good  demeanour ; — he's  a  friend, 
A  fine  one  for  you,  with  such  qualities ! 

Lys.  I  would  relieve  the  wants  of  one  distrest, 
One  that  is  free  from  fault. 

Phil.  The  beggar's  thanks 

He  scarce  deserves,  who  gives  him  wherewithal 
To  buy  him  meat  and  drink ;  for  what  is  given 
Is  lost,  and  only  serves  to  lengthen  out 
A  life  of  misery. — I  say  not  this, 
For  that  I  would  not  do  most  willingly 
What  you  desire,  but  in  the  way  of  caution, 
That  I  might  show  you,  not  to  pity  others, 
So  as  yourself  to  others  may  become 
An  object  too  of  pity. 

Lys.  'Twere  a  shame 

To  leave,  not  help  him  in  adversity. 

Phil.  I  can  deny  you  nothing  you  would  have. 
Whose  wants  would  you  relieve? — Come,  tell 

your  father : 
Speak  boldly  to  me. 

Lys.  'Tis  young  Lesbonicus, 

Charmides'  son,  who  lives  here  at  this  house. 

Phil.  He,  who  has   eat  up   all  he  had,   and 
more! 

Lys.  Do  not  reproach  him,  sir :   since   many 

things 
Befall  a  man,  both  wish'd  for,  and  unwish'd. 

Phil.  You  are  mistaken,  son,  nor  judge  aright 
In  what  you  say.     A  wise  man  is  the  maker 
Of  his  own  fortune,  and  except  he  prove 
A  bungling  workman,  little  can  befall  him, 
Which  he  would  wish  to  change. 

Lys.  Sure,  in  this  kind 

Of  workmanship  much  labour  there  doth  need 
One's  life  to  frame  and  fashion  with  repute. 
But  Lesbonicus,  sir,  is  young. — consider. 

Phil  'Tis   not  by  years  that  wisdom  is  ac- 
quired, 

But  waits  on  disposition.     Wisdom  is 
The  food  of  age,  which  lends  to  wisdom  relish. 
But  say,  what  would  you  give  him? 

Lys.  Nothing,  sir, 

So  you  permit  me  from  his  hands  to  accept 
A  gift  most  rare. 

Phil.  What,  thus  relieve  his  wants  "• 

Lys.  This  very  way. 

Phil.  I  fain  would  learn  the  manner 

Lys.  I'll  tell  you. — Know  you  not,  what  family 
He's  of? 

Phil.       I  know  :  of  good  and  reputable. 

Lys.  He  has  a  grown-up  sister  :  her,  my  father, 
I  I  would  fain  take  to  wife. 

Phil  Without  a  portion  ? 


PLAUTUS. 


379 


Lys.  Without  a  portion. 

Phil  Marry  her? 

Lys.  'Tis  so  ;— 

And  you  no  loser.  Thus  you  will  bestow 
A  special  favour  on  him,  neither  can  you 
By  any  other  means  assist  him  more. 

Phil  And  shall  I  suffer  you  to  take  a  wife 
Wrhout  a  portion? 

Lys.  You  must  suffer  me; 

An  1  by  it  to  our  family  you'll  add 
Increase  of  honour. 

Phil  I  could  here  pour  forth 

A  budget  full  of  sayings,  learned  saws, 
And  antique  stories,  which  my  age  would  war- 
rant; 

Bur  since  I  see  your  purpose  is  to  add 
New  friendships,  new  connections  to  our  house, 
E'en  though  I  were  averse  to  the  alliance, 
I'd  give  you  my  permission, — ask  her,  marry  her. 

Lys.  The  gods  preserve  you  to  me ! — Do  but 

add 
To  this  one  favour  more. 

Phil  That  one,  what  is  it? 

Lys.  I'll  tell  you:  go  to  him  yourself,  yourself 
Procure  her  for  me. 

Phil  Hey-day !  I  a  pimp  ? 

Lys.  'Twill  sooner  be  transacted,  and  by  you 
T><  IK-  firm  :  one  word  in  this  affair  from  you 
Wdl  weigh  more  than  an  hundred  words  from 
me. 

Phil  I'm  willing  to  oblige  you. — I'll  about  it. 

Lys.  My  most  sweet  father ! — here  he  lives — 

this  house— 

IIi<  name  is  Lesbonicus — do  this  thing 
Effectually. — I'll  wait  for  you  at  home.        [Exit. 

SCENE  III. 
PHI  LTD  alone. 

This  is  not  for  the  best,  nor  do  I  think 
'Tis  right,  but  yet  'tis  better  than  if  worse. 
I  have  this  consolation  to  my  mind: — 
Who  thwarts  the  inclinations  of  his  son 
In  every  point,  save  those  in  which  himself 
Alone  has  satisfaction,  is  a  fool, 
I  i  hifl  own  soul,  nor  is  the  better  for  it; 

A  id  Mining  up  a  storm  that's  out  of  season, 
Makes  the  hour  winter  of  old  age  more  sharp. 
But  the  door  opens,  whither  I  was  goinur : 
And  Lesbonicus,  he  himself  comes  forth 
Most  aptly  with  his  servant.     I'll  aloof. 

[Retires  at  a  distance.* 


»  I  have  taken  the  liberty  to  add  this  to  the  text  for  the 
pake  of  perspicuity  with  respect  to  the  modern  reader, 
«  in  cannot  be  too  often  reminded,  that  tin-  extent  of  the 
ancient  stage  allowed  of  circumstances,  which  in  the 
present  times  could  not  be  admitted  as  in  any  degree 
probable.  Among  the  other  inconveniences,  which  the 
ai-rients  laboured  under  on  account  of  their  strict  atten- 
tion to  the  preservation  of  the  Unity  of  Place,  may  be 
fairly  reckoned  the  absurdity  of  keeping  some  of  the  cha- 
racters of  the  drama  at  a  distance,  while  others  were 
engaged  in  a  conversation,  perhaps  fore  i  en  to  the  busi- 
ness ;  when  at  the  same  time  these  very  characters  ought 
n.ther  to  have  made  immediate  advances.  This  is  appa- 
rently the  case  in  the  beginning  of  the  IV.  Scene,  that 
fellows. 


SCENE  IV. 
Enter  LESBOSTICUS  and  STASIMUS. 

Les.  'Tis  under  fifteen  days,  since  fourscore 

minae 

You  did  receive  from  Callicles  for  this  house. 
Is  it  not,  Stasimus,  as  I  say  ? 

Stas.  Methinks 

On  due  consideration  I  remember, 
That  so  it  is. 

Les.  What  has  been  done  with  them  ? 

Stas.  Eat,  drank,  anointed,  washed  away  in 

bagnios, 

Cooks,  butchers,  poulterers,  fishmongers,  confec- 
tioners, 

Perfumers,  have  devour'd  them ; — gone  as  soon, 
As  is  a  grain  of  corn  thrown  to  an  ant. 

Les.  Why,  all  these  must  have  cost  less  than 
six  minse. 

Stas.  But  what  you  gave  your  mistresses  ? 

Les.  I  count 

Six  more  for  that. 

Stas.  What — I  have  cheated  ? 

Les.  Oh, 

In  that  indeed  my  reckoning  is  most  heavy. 

Stas.  You  cannot  eat  your  cake  and  have  it 

too;— 

Unless  you  think  your  money  is  immortal. 
The  fool  too  late,  his  substance  eaten  up, 
Reckons  the  cost. 

Les.  Th'  account  is  not  apparent. 

Stas.  Th'  account's  apparent,  but  the  money's 

gone. 

You  did  receive  of  Callicles  forty  minae  ; 
He  by  assigment  had  your  house. 

Les.  'Tis  true. 

Phil,    (overhearing.)    Our    neighbour    then,   it 

seems,  has  sold  his  house : 
And  when  his  father  from  abroad  returns, 
He  must  e'en  lodge  him  in  the  street,  except 
He  creep  into  the  belly  of  his  son. 

Stas.  Count  to  the  banker  due  Olympic  drachms 
A  thousand. 

Les.  I  engag'd  for. 

Stas.  Threw  away, 

Say  rather. — You  stood  bound  for  a  wild  spark, 
Who,  you  declared,  was  rich. 

Les.  Tis  true,  I  did  so. 

Stas.  'Tis  true,  the  money's  gone. 

Les.  It  is  indeed. — 

I  saw  him  in  distress,  and  pitied. him. 

Stas.  For  others  you've  compassion,  for  yourself 
You've  neither  shame  nor  pity. 

Phil.  (nt  a  distance.)  It  is  time 

I  should  make  up  to  him. 

Les.  Is  not  that  Philto, 

Who's  coming  hither?     Sure,  'tis  he  himself. 

Stas.  I  wish  he  were  my  slave  with  all  his 
property. 

Phil.  To  Lesbonicus  and  to  Stasimus, 
The  master  and  the  servant,  Philto  wishes 
All  happiness  and  health. 

Les.  Heaven  grant  you,  Philto, 

All  that  you  wish  and  want!     How  does  your 
son? 

Phil.  You've  his  best  wishes. 


380 


PLAUTUS. 


Les.  He  has  mine, — 'tis  mutual. 

Stas.  Best  wishes!  what  avails  that  phrase, 

unless 

Best  services  attend  them  ? — I  may  wish 
To  have  my  liberty,  but  wish  in  vain; 
My  master,  to  be  frugal, — all  in  vain. 

Phil.  My  son  has  sent  me  to  you,  to  propose 
A  bond  of  friendship  'twixt  yon,  and  alliance. 
Your  sister  he  would  marry,  and  I  hold 
The  same  opinion,  wish  it. 

Les.  Oh,  I  know  you  ; — 

Your  cruel  mockery  I  perceive  : — because 
You  have  an  ample  and  right  good  estate, 
You  come  to  flout  and  jest  at  my  misfortunes. 

Phil.  As  I'm  a  man, — as  you  are, — the  great 

God 

So  love  me, — as  I  came  not  to  deride : — 
Nor  do  I  think  you  worthy. — What  I  said, 
Is  true : — My  son  begg'd  me  to  ask  for  him 
Your  sister,  sir,  in  marriage. 

Les.  My  affairs 

How   they  are   circumstaric'd,  I  can't  be  igno- 
rant : — 

My  fortunes  are  not  to  be  match'd  with  yours.—— 
Then  seek  another,  and  more  fair  alliance. 

Stas.  Art  mad?  art  in  your  senses'?  to  reject 
This  proffer'd  match  ? — Why  you  have  found  a 

friend, 
Will  help  you  at  a  pinch. 

Les.  Away,  you  rascal ! 

Stas.  Were  I  to  budge  a  foot,  you'd  bid  me  stay. 

Les.  (to  Phil.}  Would  you  aught  else,  sir? — 
You  have  got  my  answer. 

Phil.  I  trust  that  you  will  show  to  me  more 

favour 

Than  now  I  have  experienc'd.     Or  in  word 
Or  deed  to  play  the  trifler,  would  ill  suit 
One  of  my  years. 

Stas.  Faith,  what  he  says  is  true. 

Les.  Add  but  another  word,  I'll  tear  your  eyes 
out. 

Stas.  Do — I  will  speak,  though  blind. 

Phil.  You  tell  me  now, 

We  are  not  on  a  footing ;  that  your  means 
Don't  equal  ours. 

Les.  I  say  so. 

Phil.  What  of  that?— 

If  you  were  present  at  a  public  feast, 
And  haply  some  great  man  was  plac'd  beside  you, 
Of  the  choice  cates  serv'd  up  in  heaps  before  him 
Would  you  not  taste,  but  at  the  table  rather 
Sit  dinnerless,  because  he  neighbour'd  you? 
.  Les.  Sure  I  should  eat,  if  he  forbade  me  not. 

Stas.  And  I,  ev'n  if  he  did  ; — so  cram  myself, 
I'd  stuff  out  both  my  cheeks  : — I'd  seize  upon 
The  daintiest  bits  before  him,  nor  give  way  to 

him 

In  matters  that  concern'd  my  very  being. 
At  table  no  one  should  be  shy  or  mannerly, 
Where  all  things  are  at  stake,  divine  and  human. 

Phil.  Faith,  what  you  say  is  right. 

Stas.  I'll  tell  you  fairly. 

Your  great  man  if  I  meet,  I  make  way  for  him, 
Give  him  the  wall,  show  him  respect,  but  where 
The  belly  is  concern'd,  I  will  not  yield 
An  inch, — unless  he  box  me  into  breeding. 


To  me  a  feast  is  an  inheritance 
Without  encumbrance. 

Phil.  Ever  bear  in  mind 

This  maxim,  Lesbonicus.     The  best  policy 
Is  to  be  perfect  in  all  good  ; — if  that 
We  can't  attain  to,  to  be  next  to  perfect. 
The  match  that  I  propose  for  your  consent, 
Why  will  you  not  agree  to? — What  are  riches?— 
The  gods  alone  are  rich :  to  them  alone 
Is  wealth  and  power  : — but  we  poor  mortal  men, 
When  that  the  soul,  which  is  the. salt  of  life, 
Keeping  our  bodies  from  corruption,  leaves  us, 
At  Acheron  shall  be  counted  all  alike, 
The  beggar  and  the  wealthiest. 

Stas.  (to  Phil.}  I  believe, 

Your  wealth  you'll  carry  with  you,  that,  when 

dead, 
You  may  behave  there  as  your  name  imports. 

Phil.  That  you  may  know  it  is  not  wealth  we 

seek, 

But  value  your  alliance,  I  do  ask 
Your  sister  for  my  son  without  a  portion. 
Success  attend  it! — Is't  agreed? — Why  silent? 

Stas.  0  ye  immortal  gods,  a  rare  proposal ! 

Phil.  Do  but  say,  done. 

Stas.  Why  how  row  ?  when  he  could 

Get  nothing  by  the  bargain,  he  could  say 
Done  first;  and  now  he's  sure  to  win,  he's  silent. 

Les.  That   you    esteem   me   worthy  your   al- 
liance, 

I  am  most  thankful ;  but  although  my  folly 
Has  cast  me  down  thus  low,  I've  yet  a  farm 
Near  to  the  town  here :  this  will  I  bestow 
Upon  my  sister  for  her  portion  ;  this 
Is  all,  through  my  imprudence  and  my  folly 
That  I  have  left  me  now  besides  my  life 

Phil.  I  want  no  portion. 

Les.  I'm  resolv'd  to  give  it. 

Stas.  Dear  master,  would  you  part  then  with 

our  nurse, 
That  feeds  us?  our  support?  think  what  you're 

doing. 
How  shall  we  eat  in  future  ? 

Les.  Hold  your  tongue. 

Am  I  accountable  to  you  ? 

Stas.  We're  ruin'd 

Past  all  redemption,  if  I  don't  invent 
Some  flam. — I  have  it. — Philto,  a  word  with  you. 

Phil.  What  would  you? 

Stas.  Step  aside  this  way  a  little. 

Phil.  I  will,  (they  retire.) 

Stas.  The  secret  I  shall  now  unfold 

Let  not  my  master  know,  nor  any  other. 

Phil.  Me  you  may  safely  trust. 

Stas.  By  gods  and  men 

I  do  conjure  you,  let  not  this  same  farm 
Come  into  your  possession,  or  your  son's. 
The  reason  will  I  tell. 

Phil.  I  fain  would  hear  it. 

Stas.  First  then,  whene'er  the  land  is  plough  d, 

the  oxen 
Ev'ry  fifth  furrow  drop  down  dead. 

Phil.  Fyeonit! 

Stas.  A  passage  down  to  Acheron's  in  our  field. 
The  grapes  grow  mouldy  as  they  hang,  before 
They  can  be  gather'd. 


PLAUTUS. 


381 


l-es.  He  is,  I  suppose, 

Persuading  him : — though  he's  an  errant  rogue, 
To  me  he's  not  unfaithful. 

Stas.  Hear  what  follows. 

When  that  the  harvest  promises  most  fair, 
They  gather  in  thrice  less  than  what  was  sown. 

Phil.  Nay !— then  methinks  it  were  a  proper 

place 
For   men  to  sow  their  wild  oats,  where  they 

would  not 
Spring  up. 

Stas.  There  never  was  a  person  yet, 

That  ever  own'd  this  farm,  but  his  affairs 
Did  turn  out  bad  : — some  ran  away,  some  died, 
Some  hang'd  themselves, — Why,  there's  my  mas- 
ter now, 
To  what  sad  straits  is  he  reduc'd ! 

Phil.  0  keep  me 

Fat  from  this  farm  ! 

&Ya«.  You'd  have  more  cause  to  say  so, 

Were  you  to  hear  the  whole. — There's  not  a  tree, 
But  has  been  blasted  with  the  lightning:  more — 
The  hogs  are  eat  up  with  the  mange ;  the  sheep 
Pine  with  the  rot,  all  scabby  as  this  hand  : 
Anl  no  man  can  live  there  six  months  together, 
No.  not  a  Syrian,  though  they  are  most  hardy, 
The  influenza  is  to  all  so  fatal. 

Phil.  I  do  believe  it  true :  but  the  Campanians 
The  Syrians  far  outgo  in  hardiness. — 
Th.s  farm  is  a  fit  spot,  as  you've  described  it. 
Wherein  to  place  bad  men  :  And  as  they  tell  us, 
Th  it  in  those  islands  styl'd  The  Fortunate 
Assemble  the  upright,  and  the  virtuous  livers, 
So  should  the  wicked  here  be  thrust  together, 
Since  'tis  of  such  a  nature. 

Mas.  'Tis  the  abode 

Of  misery.    But,  without  more  words, — whatever 
Evil  you'd  search  for,  you  might  find  it  here. 

Phil.  You  may  go  seek  it  there,  or  where  you 
will. 

Stas.  Be  cautious  how  you  tell  what  I  have 
told  you. 

Phil.  You've  told  it  to  no  blabber. 

Stas.  Now  my  master 

Would  gladly  part  with  it,  could  he  but  find 
A  gudgeon  to  his  purpose. 

Phil.  I'll  have  none  of  it. 

Stas.  If  you  are   wise   indeed,  you  will  not 

have  it. 
(aiide.)  So — I  have  frighten'd  this  old  hunks  most 

rarely 

From  taking  of  this  farm  :  if  that  were  gone 
We've  nothing  to  subsist  on. 

Phil.  Lesbonicus, 

I  row  return  to  you. 

Les.  I  prithee  tell  me, 

What  has  he  said? 

Phil.  Think  you?— The  fellow  wants 

His  liberty,  but  has  not  wherewithal 
Tc  purchase  it. 

Les.  And  I  too  would  be  rich, 

Bu  t  cannot. 

Stas.  (aside.)  Once  you  might  have   been,  if 

then 

You  had  chose  it ;  now  you  cannot,  since  you've 
nothing. 


Les.  What  was  it  you  were  muttering  to  your- 
self? 

Stas.  Concerning  what   you    said. — You  had 

been  rich, 

If  it  had  been  your  pleasure  heretofore  ; 
'Tis  now  too  late  to  wish  it. 

Phil.  For  this  portion, 

I  can  determine  nothing;  with  my  son 
You'll  settle  it,  and  to  your  liking. — Well  then,— 
Your  sister  I  request  for  him  in  marriage. 
Success  attend  it!  What?  still  scrupulous! 

Les.  Well,  since  you'll   have  it  so,  heaven's 

blessing  on  it! 
I  here  betroth  her  to  him. 

Phil.  Never  did 

A  father  joy  more  in  a  new-born  son, 
Than  I,  when  you  brought  forth   that  word,  be- 
troth, 

Stas.  Heavens  prosper  this  agreement ! 

Phil.  ;Tis  my  prayer. 

Les.  Go,  Stasimus,  to  my  sister,  and  relate 
To  Callicles  this  transaction. 

Stas.  I'll  be  gone. 

Les.  Congratulate  my  sister. 

Stas.  To  be  sure ! 

Phil.  Go  with  me  in,  sir,  where  this  compact 

we'll 
Confirm,  and  for  the  nuptials  fix  a  day. 

Les.  (to  Stas.)  Do  as  I  bade  you. — I'll  be  here 

this  instant. — 
Tell  Callicles  to  meet  me. — 

Stas.  Prithee  go! 

Les.  To  fix  the  portion. — 

Stas.  Go.— 

Les.  For  I'm  resolv'd 

A  portion  she  shall  have. 

Stas.  Nay,  pray  be  gone  ! 

Les.  Nor  will  I  suffer  her  to  lose — 

Stas.  Go,  go ! — 

Les.  By  my  neglect. — 

Stas.  Be  gone  now. — 

Les.  'Tis  but  just 

For  my  offences. — 

Stas.  Will  you  not  be  gone? 

Les.  That  I  alone  should  surfer. — 

Stas.  Go — be  gone. 

Les.  My  father !  shall  I  never  see  you  more  ? 

Stas.  Go,  get  thee  gone !  be  gone !  be  gone !  be 
gone! 

[Exeunt  LKSBONICUS  and  PHILTO. 

SCEXE  V. 

STASIMPS  alone. 

At  length  I  have  prevail'd  on  him  to  go. 
Ye  gods!  from  wrongly  we  shall  manage  right, 
If  we  but  keep  this  farm  :  and  yet  I  have 
Some  doubt  concerning  what  will  be  the  issue. 
If  it  be  once  made  over  to  another, 
'Tis  over  then  with  me:  I  must  abroad, 
Carry  a  knapsack,  helmet,  sword,  and  target: 
He'll  fly  the  city  when  the  wedding's  o'er 
And  will  enlist  him  somewhere  for  a  soldier, 
In  Asia  or  Cilicia. — But  I'll  go, 
Where    master  bade    me;    though    I    hate    this 

house, 
Ever  since  he,  who  bought  it,  turn'd  us  out. 


382 


PLAUTUS. 


ACT  III.     SCENE  I. 
Enter  CALLICLES  and  STASIMUS. 

Cal.  How  said  you,  Stasimus?  that  your  mas- 
ter's son, 
Young  Lesbonicus,  had  betroth'd  his  sister? 

Stas.  The  same. 

Cal.  To  whom  ? 

Stas.  To  Philto's  son,  Lysiteles, 

Without  a  portion. 

Cal.  How  ?  without  a  portion 

Married  in  so  rich  a  family.     What  you  say 
Is  not  to  be  believed. 

Stas.  I  cannot  help 

Your  incredulity :  if  this  you  don't 
Believe,  I  shall  believe  that — 

Cal  What  ? 

Stas.  You  hold  me 

Of  no  account. 

Cal.  Tell  me,  how  long  ago, 

And  where  was  this  transacted  ? 

Stas.  Here, — before 

This  very  door, — now,  at  this  very  instant. 

Cal.  Has  Lesbonicus  prov'd  a  better  manager, 
Now   that   his    fortune's    shatter'd,    than  when 
whole? 

Stas.  Nay,  what  is  more,  sir,  Philto  came  him- 
self 
A  suitor  for  his  son. 

Cal.  It  were  a  shame 

To  send  the  maiden  dowerless  :  this  concerns  me : 
I'll  straight  to  my  corrector,*  and  will  ask 
His  counsel.  [Exit. 

SCENE  II. 
STASIMUS  alone. 

Aye,  I  smell  it  out,  I  guess, 
Why  he  does  speed  him  thither :  his  intent  is 
To  get  the  farm  too,  as  he  got  the  house, 
From  Lesbonicus.     O  my  master  Charmides! 
How  has  your  absence  your  affairs  distracted! 
Would  I  could  see  you  safe  return'd,  to  reck 
Due  vengeance  on  your  foes,  and  so  reward  me, 
As  I  have  been,  and  am,  your  faithful  slave. 
'Tis  very  difficult  to  find  a  friend 
More  than  in  name,  to  whom  your  near  concerns 
Having  entrusted,  you  may  sleep  at  ease. 
But  see — our  son-in-law,  Lysiteles, 
Comes  this  way  with  his  neighbour  Lesbonicus: 
Some  difference,  what  I  know  not,  is  between 

them. 

They  walk  with  hasty  steps :  one  holds  the  other 
Fast  by  the  cloak :  and  now  they  stop  abruptly. 
I'll  step  aside  here;  for  I  long  to  listen 
The  conversation  of  these  neighbour-youths. 

(retires  to  a  distance.') 

SCENE  III. 

Enter  LYSITELES  and  LESBONICUS. 
Lys.  Stay  prithee,   don't  oppose   me,  do   not 

seek 
To  hide  thee  from  me. 

Les.  Can't  you  let  me  go, 

Where  I  intend  ? 

*  Meaning  Megaronides,  who  had  taken  him  to  task  in 
the  First  Act. 


Lys.  I  would,  if  it  appear'd 

It  were  for  your  advantage,  fame,  or  honour. 

Les.  Indeed,  you  do  it  with  such  ease. 

Lys.  Do  what? 

Les.  You  give  your  friend  offence. 

Lys.  That's  far  from  me ; 

And  such  behaviour  I  am  yet  to  learn. 

Les.  How  learn'd  without  a  master!     What 

would  you 
Have  done,  had  you  been  school'd,  to  plague  me 

more? 
While  kindness  you  pretend,  you  do  me  wrong. 

Lys.  I? 

Les.         You. 

Lys.  How  do  you  wrong? 

Les.  In  doing  that 

Displeases  me. 

Lys.  I  mean  it  for  your  good. 

Les.  Are  you  then  friendlier  to  me,  than  my- 
self 

Am  to  myself?  I  understand  sufficiently, 
And  for  myself  can  spy  out  my  advantage. 

Lys.  Is  this  a  proof  of  understanding  in  you, 
To  slight  a  proffer'd  benefit  from  one, 
Who's  your  well-wisher  ? 

Les.  Nothing  can  I  deem 

A  benefit,  if  it  displeases  him 
On  whom  it  is  bestow'd.     I  know  my  duty: 
Yet  all  that  you  can  utter  will  not  shield  me 
From  men's  reports. 

Lys.  How  say  you?  (for  I  can 

No  longer  be  withheld  from  talking  to  you, 
As  you  deserve,)  the  reputation,  which 
Your  forefathers  to  you  deliver'd  down, 
Was  it  for  this,  that  what  their  virtue  got, 
You  by  excess  should  lose  ?  Your  father,  grand- 
father, 

Had  oped  for  you  a  plain  and  easy  road, 
To  lead  you  to  renown :  you've  made  it  hard 
Through    vice,    and    indolence,    and    shameless 

manners. 
Love  you  have  chose,  your  love  you  have  pre- 

fer'd 

Before  your  honour :  and  can  this,  believe  you, 
Cover  your  faults  ?  Ah !  no,  it  is  not  so. 
Take  virtue  to  your  mind,  be  indolence 
Expell'd  thence:  in  the  Forum  dedicate 
Your  service  to  your  friends,  and  not  in  bed 
To  a  she-friend,  a  mistress,  as  you're  wont. 
Moreover,  I  most  earnestly  entreat  you 
Not  to  relinquish  this  same  farm,  but  keep  it 
For  your  support,  that  those  who  are  your  ene- 
mies 
May  not  reproach  you  with  extremest  want. 

Les.  All  you  have  said  I  know,  could  sign  and 

seal  to, — 

That  I  have  wasted  my  inheritance, 
Tarnish'd  the  glory  of  my  ancestors; — 
Knew  how  I  should  have  acted,  but  alas ! 
I  could  not  do  it ;  by  the  pow'r  of  Love 
Subdued,  by  idleness  held  captive,  readily 
I  fell  into  the  snare.    And  now  to  you, 
As  you  deserve,  I  owe  my  utmost  thanks. 

Lys.  I  cannot  bear  to  lose  my  labour  thus ; — 
That  you    should    slight   my  counsels!    and    it 
grieves  me, 


PLAUTUS. 


383 


You  have  so  little  shame. — In  fine,  except 
You  list  to  me,  and  act  as  I  advise, 
Soreen'd  as  it  were  by  folly  you'll  lie  hid, 
That  honour  cannot  find  you  :  base  obscurity 
Will  shroud  your  brightness,  which  should  blaze 

abroad. 

The  fashion  of  your  mind  full  well  I  know, 
How  uninfurm'd: — I  know  that  you  have  err'd 
Not  of  yourself,  nor  of  your  own  accord, 
But  Love  has  blinded  you ; — and  all  his  ways 
To  me  are  manifest. — It  is  with  Love, 
As,  with  a  stone  whirl'd  from  a  sling; — it  flies, 
Nothing  so  quick. — Love  makes  a  man  a  fool, 
Hard  to  be  pleas'd. — What  you'd  persuade  him  to, 
He  likes  not,  and  embraces  that,  from  which 
You  would  dissuade  him. — What  there  is  a  lack 

of, 

That  will  he  covet; — when  'tis  in  his  power, 
Ee'll  none  on't. — Whoso  bids  him  to  avoid 
A  thing,  invites  Kim  to  it;  interdict?, 
Who  recommends  it. — 'Tis  the  height  of  mad- 
ness, 

I  ver  to  take  up  your  abode  with  Love.^ 
But  I  advise  you, — think  and  think  again, 
How  you  should  act :  for  if  you  still  go  on 
So  as  you  seem  to  promise,  you'll  at  once 
Destroy  the  reputation  of  your  house: 
You'll  set  it,  as  it  were,  on  fire  ;  and  then 
Will  you  want  water,  to  extinguish  it ; 
Which  when  you've  got,  (as  is  the  way  of  lovers, 
'I  hey  are  so  wondrous  cunning,)  you'll  not  leave 
A  single  spark  to  light  it  up  again. 

Les.  That's  easy  to  be  found ;  and  if  you  ask  it, 
Your  very  enemy  will  give  you  fire. — 
But,  while  you  rate  me  for  my  misdemeanours, 
Yourself  would  urge  me  to  a  viler  course. — 
My  sister  you  would  have,  and  would  persuade 

me 

Without  a  portion  to  bestow  her :  but 
Ii  is  not  fit,  that  I,  who  have  run  out 
So  large  a  patrimony,  should  be  rich, 
And  own  a  farm,  while  want  is  all  her  portion; 
So  should  I  justly  be  her  scorn  and  hatred. 
Who  bears  him  gently  to  his  own  relations, 
Will  ne'er  show  hard  to  others. — As  I've  said, 
I'll  do, — no  longer  then  oppose  me  in  it. 

Lys.  And  is  it  hotter  you  should  suffer  want 
By  reason  of  your  >i>ter,  and  that  I 
Should   have   the   farm   rather  than  you,  where- 
with 
You  might  repair  your  >hatter'd  fortune? 

Les.  No, 

My  poverty  ne'er  think  on ;  let  me  be 

«t,  not  infamous;    nor  let  them  say, 
That  in  bestowing  her  without  a  portion, 
I  gave  her  into  keeping,  not  in  marri:: 
I  should  be  held  a  rascal,  no  one  greater; 
And  such  report  would  give  a  grace  to  you, 
But  sully  me,  if  portionless  you  took  her  : — 
You  would  gain  honour,  1  should  meet  reproach. 

Lys.  By  giving   me  the  farm,  you'd   lain  be 

styl'd 
A  man  of  honour ! 

Les.  'Tis  not  in  my  thoughts : 

This,  this  is  honour  to  an  honest  man, 
lor  ever  to  be  mindful  of  his  duty. 


Lys.  In  sooth  I  know  the  purpose  of  your  heart; 
I  see  it  all,  I  scent  it.  I  perceive  it. 
Soon  as  the  bond  of  near  affinity 
Is  knit  betwixt  us, — when  you've  given  the  farm, 
And  nothing  left  you  here  for  your  support, — 
The  marriage  ended, — straight  you'll  fly  the  city 
A  needy  wanderer,  desert  your  country, 
Relations,  friends;  and  they  will  say,  my  avarice 
Had  frighted  you  away :  then  think  not,  I 
Shall  suffer  it. 

Stas.  (advancing.)  I  can't  help  crying  out, 
Bravo !  bravo  !  Lysiteles,  encore ! 
You've  won  the  prize  with  ease;  your  play's  the 

best; 

The  subject  better  manag'd,  and  the  lines 
Are  better. — How  then  1  (to  Les.)  Are  you  such 

an  oaf 
Still  to  dispute  it  ? — Think  you  of  the  fine. 

Les.  Who  bid  you  meddle,  and  what  brought 

you  hither, 
To  join  our  councils  ? 

Stas.  That  which  brought  me  hither 

Shall  carry  me  away,  (retires.) 

Les.  Come  with  me  home, 

Lysiteles,  where  we  will  talk  together 
More  of  these  matters. 

Lys.  Nothing  am  I  wont 

To  do  in  private,  I'll  now  speak  my  mind.— 
If,  as  I  think  you  ought,  you'll  give  your  sister 
In  marriage  to  me,  and  without  a  portion, 
Nor  you  yourself  will  after  go  abroad, 
What's   mine    is    yours. — But    if    you're    other 

minded, 

All  good  betide  you ! — On  no  other  terms 
I'll  hold  you  for  a  friend.— So  I'm  resolv'd. 

[Exit  LYSITELES  ;  and  LESBONICUS  goes 
off  directly  after. 

SCEWE  IV. 
STASIMUS  alone. 

He's  gone. — D'ye  hear,  Lysiteles  ? — I  want  you. — 
My  master,  he  is  gone  too. — Stasimus,  thou 
Art  left  alone  then. — What  now  shall  I  do? — 
Why,  strap  my  knapsack  tight  together,  fit 
My  buckler  to  my  back,  order  my  shoes 
To  be  new  soled  : — we  cannot  stay. — I  see, 
That  I  must  shortly  be  a  soldier's  skip  : 
My  master  for  support  will  throw  himself 
It) to  the  service  of  some  prince  or  other. 
Faith  he  will  prove  himself  the  best  of  warriors. — 
In  a  retreat; — he'll  fall  an  easy  prey, 
To  any  one  who  chances  to  oppose  him. 
For  me, — when  with  a  bow  I'm  strongly  arm'd, 
A  quiver  stuck  with  arrows,  on  my  head 
A  helmet, — in  the  tent  I'll  sleep  at  ease. 
Now  will  I  to  the  Forum,  and  demand 
The  talent,  which  I  lent  six  days  ago; 
That  with  me  I  may  have  something  withal 
To  bear  my  travelling  charges  on  the  way. 

[Exit. 

SCEXE  V. 

Enter  MEOARONIDES  and  CAHICLES. 
Meg.  As  you  relate  the  affair,  it  cannot  be 
By  any  means,  but  that  a  portion  must 
Be  given  with  the  maid. 


384 


PLAUTUS. 


Col.  It  cannot  be 

Right  honest  in  me  sure  to  let  her  wed 
Without  a  portion,  when  I've  wherewithal 
At  home  in  my  possession  for  that  purpose. 

Meg.  You  have  a  portion,  true ; — unless  you 

choose 

To  wait,  'till  she's  dispos'd  of  by  her  brother 
In  marriage  without  dower :  then  yourself 
May  go  to  Philto,  tell  him  that  you'll  give 
A  portion,  that  you  do't  by  reason  of 
Your  friendship  with  her  father.     Yet  I  fear 
This  very  proffer  might  perhaps  involve  you 
In  foul  report  and  scandal  with  the  people : 
That  you  were  friendly  to  the  girl,  they'd  say, 
Was  not  without  a  reason,  and  the  dower, 
They  will  pretend,  was  given  you  by  her  father, 
To  give  to  her ;  with  that  you  were  so  generous. 
Nor  even  that,  would  they  believe,  that  you 
Had  given  her  whole,  and  nothing  had  subtracted. 
Now,  if  the  coming  you  would  wait  of  Charmides, 
The  time  is  very  long,  and  all  the  while 
No  portion  to  the  man  that  marries  her. 

Cal  In  troth  all  this  has  come  into  my  mind. 

Meg.  Think  you  'twould  be  more  useful  to  our 

purpose, 

For  me  to  go  to  Lesbonicus,  and 
Inform  him  of  the  matter  ? 

Col.  How?  discover 

The  treasure  to  a  wild  young  spark,  brimfull 
Of  love  and  wantonness?  No,  by  no  means: 
For  I  do  know  for  certain,  he  could  eat  up 
That,  and  the  very  place  too,  where  'tis  hid; 
Where  I'm  afraid  to  dig,  lest  he  should  hear 
The  sound,  and  at  a  word  spoke  of  the  portion, 
Smell  out  the  very  thing. 

Meg.  What's  to  be  done  then  ? 

Col.  The  treasure  may  be  dug  up  privately, 
When  opportunity  is  found  :  mean  while 
I'll  borrow  somewhere  of  some  friend  or  other, 
What  money's  needful. 

Meg.  Can  you  anywhere 

Prevail  upon  a  friend  to  lend  it? 

Cal.  Surely. 

Meg.  No,  no, — you'll  find  they  have  an  answer 

ready : 
"Indeed  I  have  it  not,  I  cannot  lend  it." 

Cal.  Were  they  sincere  in  this,  I'd  rather  hear  it, 
Than  have  their  money. 

Meg.  Hold — I  have  a  thought ; — 

See,  if  it  likes  you. 

Cal.  What's  your  thought? 

Meg.  A  brave  one, 

At  least  in  my  opinion. 

Cal.  Say,  what  is  it  ? 

Meg.  Let  there  be  forthwith  hired,  as  soon  as 

can  be, 
Some  man  to  personate  a  stranger. 

Cal  What 

Is  he  to  do  then  ? 

Meg.  Let  his  dress  be  shaped 

Exactly  to  the  foreign  mode ;  his  face 
Unknown,  an  impudent  and  lying  knave. 

Cal.  What  after? 

Meg.  To  our  spark  then  let  him  come 

As  from  his  father,  from  Selucia ; 
Salute  him  in  the  old  man's  name,  acquaint  him, 


That  he  is  well,  and  purpos'd  to  return 
Forthwith :  two  letters  he  must  likewise  bring, 
Which  we  will  forge,  as  coming  from  the  father ; 
One  for  the  son,  the  other,  he  must  say, 
To  you  he  would  deliver. 

Cal.  Well,— go  on. 

Meg.  Moreover,  from  the  father  let  him  say 
He  has  brought  money  for  the  maiden's  portion, 
Which  he  has  orders  to  deliver  you. — 
Do  you  conceive  me  now  ? 

Cal.  Most  thoroughly, 

And  hear  with  pleasure. 

Meg.  You  will  give  the  youth 

This  money,  when  the  maid  shall  be  dispos'd 
In  marriage. 

Cal.  A  most  admirable  thought ! 

Meg.  By  this,  when  you  have  dug  the  treasure 

up, 

You  will  remove  suspicion  from  the  youth, 
Who'll  think  the  money  brought  you  from  his 

father : 
You'll  take  it  from  the  treasure. 

Cal.  Very  good : — • 

Though  at  these  years  I  am  asham'd  to  play 
A  double  part. — But  hold — when  he  shall  bring 
The  letters  seal'd,  for  seal'd  they  must  be  brought, 
Do  you  not  think,  the  spark's  acquainted  with 
The  impression  of  his  father's  ring  ? 

Meg.  No  more : 

You'll  find  an  hundred  reasons: — he  has  lost 
That  which  he  used  to  have,  and  got  a  new  one  :— 
What  if  indeed  they  were  riot  seal'd  at  all, 
This  might  be  said,  that  they  were  open'd,  and 
Inspected  at  the  customs. — But  in  troth 
To  wear  the  day  in  prating  of  this  business, 
Is  merely  idleness,  and  waste  of  time  : — 
Though  we  could  spin  our  talk  out  ere  so  long. 
Go  to  the  treasure  privily, — remove 
Your  servants,  men  and  maids, — and  harkye — 

Cal  What? 

Meg.  See,  you  conceal  it  even  from  your  wife : — 
For  there  is  nothing  she  can  keep  a  secret. 
Why  do  you  stand  ?  why  do  you  loiter  now  ? 
Why  don't  you  hence?    Dig,  open,  and   draw 

forth 

What  sum's  sufficient  for  the  purpose,  then 
Close  up  again ; — but  do  it  privily, 
As  I  directed : — turn  out  all  your  people. 

Cal  I'll  do  so. 

Meg.  But  we  talk  too  long :  the  day 

Is  wasting,  while  there's  need  of  haste.    Believe 

me, 

You've  nought  to  fear  about  the  seal :  the  excuse 
I  mention'd  is  a  rare  one, — that  they  were 
Inspected  at  the  customs.     And  besides 
Do  you  not  see  the  time  of  day?    What  think 

you 

One  of  his  nature,  of  his  disposition, 
Can  be  about?  he  has  been  drunk  long  since. 
He  will  agree  to  what  you  please  :  and  then, 
What  makes  most  for  us,  he  that  we  shall  hire 
Will  bring,  not  ask  for  money. 

Cal  I  am  satisfied. 

Meg.  I'll  to  the  Forum,  hire  a  counterfeit, 
And  send  him  with  two  letters  to  the  youth, 
Fully  instructed. 


PLAUTUS. 


385 


Cat.  I  then  will  go  in, 

And  straight  about  the  business.    You  11  take  care 
Of  yours. 

Meg.         It  shall  be  done,  or  I'm  a  fool  else. 

ACT  IV.     SCEXE  I. 
Enter  CHARMIDES. 

To  the  high  ruler  of  the  sea,  Jove's  brother, 
And  to  his  Thetis,  I  give  praise  and  thanks 
With  joy  and  gratitude ;  to  the  salt  floods, 
That  having  in  their  power  my  life,  my  all, 
From   their    dread    realms   restor'd   me  to  my 

country. 

To  you,  great  Neptune,  above  other  gods, 
1  pay  my  utmost  thanks. — Men  call  you  cruel, 
Rude,  and  severe,  of  greedy  disposition, 
Blood-thirsty,  fierce,  unsufferable,  outrageous  : 
3ut  I  have  prov'd  you  other ;  in  the  deep 
'.[  found  you  of  an  easy  clement  nature, 
And  mild  as  I  could  wish. — I've  heard  before 
This  commendation  of  you,  and  from  great  ones, 
That  you  were  wont  to  spare  the  indigent, 
And  crush  the  wealthy.— I  applaud  your  justice 
l\\  treating  men  according  to  their  merits. — 
Tis  worthy  of  the  gods  to  have  respect 
I'M  to  the  poor. — I  know  you  may  be  trusted, 
rhough  they  proclaim  you  treacherous :  for  with- 
out 

Your  aid  your  wild  attendants  in  the  deep 
Had  maul'd  me  sorely,  scatter'd  all  I  have, 
All  mine,  and  me  too,  through  the  azure  plains. 
Fierce  hurricanes  beset  the  ship,  like  dogs : 
Rain,  winds,  and  waves  had  broke  the  masts  and 

yards. 

And  split  the  sails,  if  with  propitious  peace 
You  had  not  been  at  hand. — Away  then,  I'm 
lie-«,lv'd  henceforth  to  L'ive  me  up  to  ease. — 
I  've  got  enough. — O  with  what  troubles  have  I 
Strugirled,  in  seeking  riches  for  my  son? 
But  who  is  this,  that's  entering  now  our  street? — 
A  .-tranter  in  appearance,  and  in  dress. — 
Well. — though  I  needs  must  long  to  be  at  home, 
I'll  wait  awhile,  and  see  what  he's  about. 

SCENE  II. 
Enter  the  COUNTERFEIT  at  a  distance. 

Count.  I'll  name  this  day  the  festival  of  three 

pie- 

On  which  I've  let  my  art  out  for  that  sum. 
Here  I  am,  from  Seleucia  just  arriv'd, 
Arabia,  Asia,  Macedon, — which  I  never 
Si\v  with  my  eye?,  nor  ever  once  set  foot  on. — 
Behold,  what  troubles  will  not  poverty 
Bring   on   a    needy    wretch! — For    those    three 

pieces 
Am  I  compell'd  to  say,  that  I  receiv'd 

B  letters  from  a  man,  of  whom  I'm  ignorant, 
Who  he  may  be ;  nor  do  I  know  indeed, 
If  such  a  one  was  ever  born. 

Charm.  In  troth 

This  fellow's  like  a  mushroom :  he's  all  head.— 
His  countenance  bespeaks  him  an  Illyrian, 
His  garb  too  of  that  country. 

*  See  the  note  on  the  prologue  to  this  play,  p.  374. 


Count.  He,  who  hired  me, 

Gave  me  instructions  how  and  what  to  do : 
If  my  disguise  succeed,  I'll  prove  myself 
No  common  cheat. 

Charm.  The  more  I  see  his  looks, 

The  less  I  like  them. — He's  some  night-adven- 
turer, 

Or  cut-purse  surely. — How  he  looks  about  him, 
How  he  surveys  the  place,  and  of  my  house 
Takes  special  note ! — Why  sure  he   marks  the 

place, 

To  come  and  rob  it  by  and  by. — 'Twere  best 
To  watch  him  close  what  he's  about: — I'll  do  so. 

Count. "This  is  the  spot  my  hirer  pointed  out, 
And  this  the  house,  where  I'm  to  play  my  part. 
I'll  knock  then  at  the  door. 

Charm.  The  fellow  makes 

Directly  to  my  house. — Egad,  I  fancy 
I  must  keep  watch  to-night,  though  just  arriv'd. 

Count.  Open  the  door  there— open. — Where's 
the  porter? 

Charm.  What  do  you  want,  young  man? — Why 
knock  you  here? 

Count.  Prithee,  old  grey-beard,  I  have  given 

account 

Already,  when  examined  at  the  customs. — 
I  want  a  young  man, — somewhere  hereabout 
He  dwells, — one  Lesbonicus, — awl  another 
With  a  white  pate  as  yours  is ; — h'.?,  from  whom 
I  had  these  letters,  said  his  name  was  Callicles. 

Charm,  (aside.)  'Tis  Lesbonicus,  my  own  son, 

he  seeks, 

And  Callicles  my  friend  too,  in  whose  charge 
I  left  my  means  and  children. — 

Count.  If  you  know, 

Most  rev'rend  sire,  inform  me  where  they  dwell. 

Cliarm.  Why  do  you  want  to  find  them  out? — 

Who  are  you? 
Whence  are  you?  where  d'you  come  from"? 

Count.  Hey! — you  ask 

So  many  qubStions  in  a  breath,  I  know  not 
Which  to  resolve  you  first:  but  if  you'll  put  them 
Gently  and  singly,  one  by  one,  my  name 
I'll  tell,  and  wherefore  I  have  journey'd  hither. 
Charm.  Well, — as  you  please.    Come, — tell  me 
first  your  name. 

Count.  You  ask  an  arduous  task. 

Charm.  Why  so? 

Count.  Because 

Should  you  set  out,  before  the  day  began, 
With  the  lirst  part  and  foremost  of  my  name, 
The  night  would  go  to  bed  ere  you  had  reach'd 
The  hindmost  of  it. 

Charm.  He  had  need  of  torches 

And  of  provisions,  whoso  undertakes 
To  journey  through  it. 

Count.  I've  another  name  though; 

A  tiny  one, — no  bigger  than  a  hogshead. 

Charm.  This  is  a  rogue  in  grain ! — But  hark- 
ye— 

Count.  What? 

Charm.  What  want  you  with  those    persons 
you  inquire  for? 

Count.  The  father  of  the  young  man  Lesbo- 
nicus 
Gave  me  these  letters.     He's  my  friend. 


386 


PLAUTUS. 


Charm,  (etsick.)  I  have  him, — 

He's  taken  in  the  manner. — He  pretends 
Myself  did  give  him  letters. — I  will  have 
Rare  fun  with  him. 

Count.  Attend,  and  I'll  proceed. 

Charm.  I  am  attentive. 

Count.  He  commissioned  me 

To  give  one  letter  to  young  Lesbonicus, 
His  son,  the  other  to  his  friend,  to  Callicles. 

Charm.  A  pretty  joke,  i'faith ! — I'll  keep  it  up. — 
Where  was  he? 

Count.  He  has  manag'd  matters  well. 

Charm.  Where? 

Count.  In  Seleucia. 

Charm.  You  had  letters  of  him  ? 

Count.  With  his  own  hands  he  gave  them  into 
mine. 

Charm.  What  sort  of  man? 

Count.  He's  taller  than  yourself 

By  half  a  foot. 

Charm,  (aside."]  Faith  he  has  gravel'd  me, 
To  find  that  I  was  taller  when  away, 
Than  now  I'm  here. — You  knew  him,  did  you 
not? 

Count.  Knew  him  ? — A  foolish  question  ? — We 

were  us'd 
To  mess  together. 

Charm.  Say  then,  what  name  bore  he  ? 

Count.  A  fair  one  verily. 

Charm.  I'd  hear  his  name. 

Count,  (hesitating.}    It's  —  it's — ah    me!— —his 
name  is— 

Charm.  What's  the  matter? 

Count.  I've  swallow'd  it  this  instant  unawares. 

Charm.  How  ?   swallow'd,   say  you  ?  troth,   I 

like  him  not, 
Who  holds  his  friends  enclos'd  within  his  teeth. 

Count.  I  had  it  at  my  tongue's  end  but  just 
now. 

Charm,  (aside.}  'Twas  opportune  my  coming 

here  to-day 
Before  this  rascal. 

Count.  (asiWe.)  I  am  caught  most  plainly. 

Charm.  Have  you  yet  found  the  name  ? 

Count.  'Fore  gods  and  men 

I  own  myself  abash'd. 

Charm.  Behold,  how  much 

You  knew  him ! 

Count.  As  myself. — It  happens  oft, 

That  what  we  hold  in  hand,  and  have  in  sight, 
We  look  for  as  if  lost. — I'll  recollect  it 
Letter  by  letter. — It  begins  with  C. 

Charm.  Is  it  Callicius  ? 

Count.  No. 

Charm.  Callippus  ? 

Count.  No. 

Charm.  Is't  Callidemides  ? 

Count.  No. 

Charm.  Callinicus  ? 

Count.  No. 

Charm.  Is't  Callimarchus? 

Count.  'Tis  in  vain  to  seek  it, 

Nor  do. I  heed  it  much,  so  my  own  name 
I  don't  forget. 

Charm.  But  there  are  many  here 

Call'd  Lesbonicus;  and,  unless  you  tell 


The  father's  name,  I  cannot  show  them  to  you 
Whom  you  inquire  for, — What  is'tlike? — We'll  try 
If  we  can  hit  upon  it  by  conjecture. 

Count.  'Tis  like  Char. 

Charm.  Is't  Chares  ?  Charidemus  ? 

Or  Charmides  ? 

Count.         Oh,  that. — The  gods  confound  him! 

Charm.  'Tis  fitter  you  should  bless  a  friend 
than  curse  him. 

Count.  A  worthless  fellow,  to  have  lain  perdue 

thus 
Within  my  lips  and  teeth. 

Charm.  You  should  not  speak 

111  of  an  absent  friend. 

Count.  Why  did  the  knave 

Then  hide  him  from  me  ? 

Charm.  He  had  answer'd,  had  you 

But  call'd  him  by  his  name. — Where  is  he  now? 

Count.  Truly  I  left  him  last  at  Rhadamanth* 
In  the  Cecropian  island. 

Charm.  Can  there  be 

A  greater  simpleton  than  I,  to  ask 
Where  I  myself  am  ?  But  no  matter. — Tell  me, — 

Count.  What? 

Charm.  Let  me  ask,  what  places  have  you 
been  at  ? 

Count.  Most  wondrous  ones. 

Charm.  I  should  be  glad  to  hear, 

If  'tis  not  too  much  trouble. 

Count.  I'm  impatient 

To  give  you  an  account. — Then  first  of  all, 
We  came  to  Araby  in  Pontus. 

Charm.  How  ? 

Is  Araby  in  Pontus? 

Count.  Yes,  it  is ; 

But  not  that  Araby,  where  frankincense 
Is  grown,  but  where  sweet-marjoram,  and  worm- 
wood. 

Charm,  (aside.)  'Tis  the  completest  knave! — 

More  fool  am  I  though, 

To  ask  him  whence  I  came,  (which  I  must  know, 
He  cannot,)  but  that  I've  a  mind  to  try, 
How  he'll  get  off  at  last. — What  is  your  name, 
Young  man  ? 

Count.  'Tis  Touchit ; — that,  sir,  is  my  name, 
A  common  one.f 

Charm..  A  very  knavish  name  5 

As  though  you  meant  to  say,  if  any  thing 
Was  trusted  to  you,  touch  if,  and  'tis  gone. — 
But  harkye, — whither  did  you  further  travel  ? 

Count.  Attend,  and  I'll  relate.    We  journey'd  on 
To  the  river's  head  that  rises  out  of  heaven 
Beneath  the  throne  of  Jove  ? 

Charm.  The  throne  of  Jove  ? 

Count.  I  say  it. 

Charm.  Out  of  heaven  ? 

Count.  Aye,  from  the  midst  cn't. 

Charm.  How  !  you  ascended  up  to  heaven  ? 

Count.  We  did ; 

In  a  small  cock-boat  were  we  carried  thither 
Against  the  stream. 

Charm.  Oh  ho ! — And  saw  you  Jove  ? 


*This  is  a  fictitious  name,  and  alludes  to  Rhadaman- 
thus,  one  of  the  three  judges  of  the  infernal  regions. 

t  The  original  is,  Tax,  from  tangere,  to  touch,  01  to 
steal,  to  which  Charmides'  answer  alludes. 


PLAUTUS. 


387 


Count.  The  other  gods  inform'd  us  he  was  gone 
Unto  his  villa  to  dispense  provisions 
Among  his  slaves. — Moreover — 

Charm.  Pshaw !  moreover 

I  want  to  hear  no  more. 

Count.  Nay,  I  have  done, 

If  you  are  tired. 

Charm.  How  shameless!  who  pretends, 

That  he  has  mounted  up  from  earth  to  heaven. — 

Count.  I'll  let  you  go  then,  since   I  see  you 

choose  it: — 

But  show  me  where  they  live  whom  I  inquire  for, 
Where  I  may  bear  these  letters. 

Charm.  Harkye  now, 

If  haply  you  should  see  this  Charmides, 
The    same    that   you   pretend    gave   you   those 

letters, 
Say,  should  you  know  him  ? 

Count.  Think  you  I'm  a  beast, 

As  not  to  know  a  man  I've  past  my  life  with  ? 
Or,  can  you  think,  would  he  be  such  an  oaf, 
To  trust  me  with  a  thousand  Philippeans, 
Enjoining  me  to  bear  them  to  his  son 
And  Callicles  his  friend,  to  whom,  he  told  me, 
He  had  consign'd  the  charge  of  his  affairs  ? 
Would  he,  I  say,  have  trusted  me,  except 
We  had  been  well  acquainted  with  each  other  ? 

Charm,  (aside.)  Now  would  I  trick  this  trick- 
ster,— if  I  could 

But  cozen  him  of  those  thousand  Philippeans, 
He  said  I  gave  him !  though  I  know  him  not, 
Nor  ever  saw  him  till  this  day. — What,  I 
Trust  him  with  gold  ?  who  would  not  even  give 
A  lump  of  lead  to  save  him  from  a  hanging. — 
I  must  go  cunningly  to  work. — Hoa,  Touchit, 
Three  words  with  you. 

Count.  Three  hundred,  if  you  please. 

Charm.  Have  you  the  money  you   receiv'd  of 
Charmides  ? 

Count.  In  Philippeans,  told  upon  the  nail, 
A  thousand  pieces. 

Charm.  You  received  them,  did  you, 

Of  Charmides  himself? 

Count.  It  had  been  wondrous, 

Had  I  receiv'd  them  of  his  grandsire  truly, 
Or  his  great-grandsire, — who  are  dead. 

Charm.  Young  man, 

Prithee  give  me  the  gold. 

Count.  Give  you  what  gold? 

Charm.  That  which  you  own'd  you  did  receive 
of  me. 

Count.  Receiv'd  of  you  ? 

Charm.  I  say  it. 

Count.  Who  are  you? 

Chnrm.  Who  gave  to  you  the  thousand  pieces : — I 
Am  Charmides. 

Count.  You're  not,  nor  ever  shall  be, 

I  mean  the  master  of  this  gold. — Away, — 
You  are  a  knowing  one  ! — you'd  take  me  in  ! — 
But  I  too  am  a  knowing  one. 

Charm.  I'm  Charmides. 

Count.  You  may  be,  but  in  vain. — I  bring  no 

money. 

You've  crept  upon  me  in  the  very  nick 
Most  slily.     When  I  said  I  had  brought  gold, 
You  then  was  Charmides ;  before  you  was  not, 


Till  I  made  mention  of  the  gold. — 'T  won't  do. — 
So  prithee,  as  you've  taken  up  the  name 
Of  Charmides,  e'en  lay  it  down  again. 

Charm.  Who  am  I,  if  I  am  not  what  I  am  ? 

Count.  What's    that   to    me  ?    Be    whom    you 

please,  you're  welcome, 
So  you  are  not  the  person  I'd  not  have  you. 
Before,  you  was  not  who  you  was ;  and  now, 
You  are  who  then  you  was  not. 

Charm.  Come,  despatch. 

Cownt.  How  ?  what  despatch  ? 

Charm.  Give  me  the  money. 

Count.  Sure, 

You  dream,  old  gentleman. 

Charm.  Did  you  not  own, 

That  Charmides  had  giv'n  it  you  ? 

Count.  I  did, — 

In  writing, — not  in  specie. 

Charm.  Prithee  hence, 

And  leave  the  place  this  instant,  ere  I  order  you 
A  hearty  drubbing. 

Count.  Why? 

Charm.  Because  myself 

Am  that  same  Charmides  that  you've  invented; — 
Who  you  pretend  has  given  you  letters. 

Count.  How ! 

I  pray  you,  are  you  he  ? 

Charm.  Yes,  I  am  he. 

Count.  What  say  you  ?  are  you  he  ? 

Charm.  I  am,  I  say. 

Count.  Himself? 

Charm.  I  say,  I'm  Charmides, — himself. 

Count.  And  are  you  he  himself? 

Charm.  His  very  self. — 

Out  of  my  sight ; — Be  gone  then. 

Count.  Now,  because 

Your  coming  was  so  late,  I'll  have  you  beaten 
At  the  new  ^diles'  and  my  own  award. 

Charm.  What !  you  abuse  me  ? 

Count.  All  the  gods  confound  you. 

For  your  arrival !  I  had  little  car'd, 
If  you  had  perish'd  first. — I've  got  at  least, 
The  money  for  my  trouble. — 111  betide  you! 
And  now,  or  who  you  are,  or  who  you  are  not, 
I  value  not  a  straw. — To  him  I'll  go, 
Who  hir'd  me  for  three  pieces,  and  acquaint  him, 
How  that  his  money's  thrown  away. — I'm  gone. — 
Farewell? — Fare  ill! — May  all   the    gods   con- 
found you, 

For   coming   from   abroad, — you,  Master  Char- 
mides?* [Exit. 

SCENE  III. 
CHARMIBES  alone. 

Now  he  is  gone,  I've  opportunity 

And  time  more  freely  to  debate  this  matter. — 


*  The  situation  in  this  scene  is  highly  comic.  Mr.  Col- 
man,  in  the  Preface  to  his  translation  of  Terence,  takes 
notice,  that  he  does  not  recollect  ever  to  have  seen  it  ob- 
served, that  the  disguise  of  the  Pedant  in  Shakspeare's 
Taming-  of  the  Shrew,  his  assuming  the  name  and  charac- 
ter of  Vincentio,  together  with  his  encountering  the  real 
Vincentio,  seem  to  be  evidently  taken  from  this  scene  in 
our  author. — An  incident  of  the  snui«  kind  we  meet  with 
in  the  old  play  of  -llbinna-.rr.  Act  iv.  Scene  vii.,  which 
appears  likewise  to  be  palpably  borrowed  from  this  place. 


388 


PLAUTUS. 


I  am  perplex'd,  I'm  stung  at  heart  to  think 
What  business  he  could  have  now  at  my  door. — 
Those  letters  that  he  talk'd  of  fill  my  mind 
With  apprehensions ; — and  those  thousand  pieces, 
What  could  he  mean  by  them  ?— The  bell  doth 

never 

Clink  of  itself:  unhandled,  and  unmov'd, 
;Tis   dumb. — But  who   is   this,  that   down   the 

street 

Comes  running  hither  ? — I've  a  mind  to  watch 
What  he's  about, — I'll  step  aside.  (retires.) 

SCENE  IV. 

Enter  STASTMUS,  running,  at  a  distance. 
Stas.  (to  himself.)  Run,  Stasimus, 

Be  quick,  and  hie  thee  with  what  speed  thou 

canst 

Home  to  thy  master,  or  thy  sluggard  folly 
Will  make  thy  shoulders  shrug  for  fear. — Then 

haste  thee, 
Quicken  thy  pace ; — thou  hast  been  gone  from 

home 

A  long  while. — Have  a  care  then,  that  the  lash 
Smack  not  upon  thee,  if  thou  should'st  be  ab- 
sent, 

When  that  thy  master  make  for  thee  inquiry. — 
Run,   run  then  without  ceasing. — (stopping.) — 

Hold  thee, — Stasimus, 
What  a  sad  fellow  art  thou.  to  forget 
Thy  ring,  and  leave  it  at  the  tippling-house, 
Where  thou   hadst  warm'cl    thy  gullet? — Back 

again, 
And  ask  fort  ere  too  late. 

Charm.  Whoe'er  he  be, 

He  skips  and  frisks  about,  as  if  a  horse-fly 
Had  him  to  break,  and  taught  him  the  menage. 

Stas.  Art  not  asham'd,  to  lose  thy  memory 
In  drinking  but  three  pottles  ? — or  didst  think 
The  men  thou  drank'st  with  were  such  honest 

souls, 
They'd  keep  their  hands  from  picking.     There 

was  Theruchus, 

Cerconicus,  Crinnus,  Cercobulus,  Collabus, 
A  race  of  broken-shinn'd  and  black-eyed  bruisers, 
Knights  of  the  chain,  and  squires  o'  th'  whipping- 
post, 
And   canst   thou   hope  then  from  among  such 

fellows 

To  get  thy  ring,  when  one  of  them  did  steal 
A  racer's  shoe  off  in  his  utmost  speed  ? 
Charm.  'Fore  heaven,  a  finish'd  thief! 
Stas.  What's  best  to  do? 

Shall  I,  in  seeking  what  is  gone  for  ever, 
Add  loss  of  labour  too  ? — What's  gone,  is  gone. — 
Then  tack  about,  and  hie  thee  to  thy  master. 
Charm.  This  is  no  runaway  rogue,  that  having 

stray'd 
Forgets  to  find  his  way  home. 

Stas.  Would  to  heaven, 

That  the  old  manners,  and  the  ancient  thrift, 
Were  held  in  greater  honour  now-a-days 
Than  the  base  fashion  of  our  times. 

Charm.  Good  heavens ! 

How  gravely  and  how  solemnly  he  talks  ! 
The  old,  the  old  he  praises,  he  is  all 
For  the  old  manners. 


Stas.  Modern  uses  teach  us 

To  do  what  best  we  like,  not  what  is  best. 
Ambition  is  by  custom  sanctified, 
Freed  from  the  law's  restraint : — To  throw  away 
One's  shield,  and  turn  one's  back  upon  (he  foe, 
Is  licens'd  by  our  manners :  to  make  vice 
The  ready  road  to  honour,  is  the  practice. 

Charm.  0  villainous  manners ! 

Stas.  To  neglect  the  brave, 

And  pass  them  by  unheeded,  is  the  custom. 

Charm.  'Tis  infamous! 

Stas.  These  manners  have  o'erpower'd 

The  laws  themselves,  and  hold  them  in  submis- 
sion 

With  more  authority  than  children  now 
Are  used  to  sway  their  parents.  The  poor  statutes 
With  iron  nails  are  fix'd  against  the  walls:* 
But  it  were  fitter  our  degenerate  manners 
Were  stuck  up  in  their  stead. 

Charm.  I  have  a  mind 

To  join,  and  enter  into  talk  with  him, 
I  hear  him  with  such  pleasure :  but  I  fear, 
If  I  address  him,  the  discourse  he'll  turn 
To  other  matters. 

Stas.  Nothing  now  requires 

The  sanction  of  the  laws;  for  these  are  bent 
In  pliable  subjection  to  our  manners, 
Which  in  their  wild  career  destroy,  confound 
All  sacred  and  all  public  rights. 

Charm.  A  mischief 

Light  on  these  manners ! 

Stas.  Does  not  this  require 

The  reprehension  of  the  public  state  ? 
For  men  of  such  a  stamp,  such  evil  habits, 
Are  universal  enemies  to  all ; 
They  injure  the  whole  people,  while  they  break 
Through  faith  and  honesty;  nay,  they  destroy 
All  confidence  in  those,  who  nothing  merit  it, 
By  rend'ring  them  suspected  like  themselves: 
For  'twill  be  thought  that  other's  dispositions 
Resemble  their's. — Now,  as  for  these  reflections, 
How  they  have  chanc'd  to  come  into  my  mind, 
A  certain  matter  that  of  late  concerned  me, 
Prompted   me  with  them. — What  you   lend,  is 

lost; 

And  when  you  ask  it  of  your  friend  again, 
You  make  that  friend  your  enemy  by  your  kind- 
ness. 

Still  would  you  press  him  further,  of  two  things 
You  have  the  choice,  either  to  lose  your  loan, 
Or  lose  your  friend.f 

Charm.  Why  surely  this  is  Stasimus, 

My  fellow. 

Stas.  For  example, — with  the  talent 

I  lent  a  friend,  what  did  I  ?  why,  I  bought 
Myself  an  enemy,  and  sold  a  friend. — 
But  I'm  a  fool  to  busy  thus  my  brain 


*  It  was  the  custom  formerly  to  hang  up  the  laws  out 
in  wood  or  brass  for  the  public  inspection,  which  Stasi- 
mus supposes  to  be  done  by  way  of  punishment  to  them, 
t  This  same  sentiment  is  more  briefly  expressed  by 
Shakspeare  in  his  Hamlet ;  but  it  resembles  this  passage 
so  nearly,  that  one  could  almost  be  tempted  to  suppose  it 
taken  from  our  author. 

Neither  a  borrower  nor  a  lender  be ; 
For  loan  oft  loseth  both  itself  and  friend. 


PLAUTUS. 


389 


About  the  public,  rather  than  take  heed 
To  that  which  most  concerns  myself,  contrive 
How  to  secure  my  back. — I'll  go  me  home,  (going.) 
Charm.    Hola,   you, — stop, — hola, — d'ye    hear 

me  ? — stop. 

Stas.  Stop  ? — I'll  not  stop. 
Charm.  But  prithee — 

Stas.  What  if  I 

Dislike  your  prithee  ? 

Charm.  How  now? — Stasimus, 

You  are  too  saucy. 

Stas.  You  had  better  buy 

One  that  will  mind  your  bidding. 

Charm.  I  have  bought, 

And  paid  for  one ;  but  if  he  heed  me  not, 
What  should  I  do? 

Stas.  Belabour  him  most  heartily. 

Charm.  Your  counsel's  right,  and  I'm  resolved 

to  do  so. 
Stas.  Except,  indeed,  that  you  are  bounden  to 

him 
For  his  good  services. 

Chnrm.  If  you  are  good  then, 

I'll  hold  me  bounden  to  you;  but  if  otherwise, 
I'll  do  as  you  direct. 

Stas.  What  is't  to  me, 

Whether  your  slaves  are  good  or  bad  ? 

Charm.  Because 

You  have  a  share  in't,— in  the  good  or  bad. 

Stas.  As  to  the  one,  I  give  it  to  you  all : 
The  other  (that's  the  good)  place  all  to  me. 
Charm.  I  shall,  if  you  deserve  it.— Turn  your 

head, 
And  look  upon  me :  I  am  Charmides. 

Stas.  Ha !  who  makes  mention  of  that  best  of 

mortals? 
Charm.  That  best  of  mortals,  he  himself, — 

'tis  I. 
Stas.  (turning.)  0  sea !  0  earth !  O  heaven ! 

O  all  ye  gods! 

Have  I  my  eyesight  clear  ?  and  is  it  he  ? 
Or  is  it  not? — Tis  he! — 'tis  he,  for  certain! — 
;Tis  he  indeed ! — 0  my  most  wish'd-for  master, 
Save  you — 

Charm.     And  you  too,  Stasimus. 

Tli at  you're  safe— 
Charm,  (interrupting.)  I  know  what  you  would 

:ui'l  <!•>  believe  you. 

Wave  other  points:  resolve  me  but  in  this: 
How  do  my  children  do,  whom  here  I  left, 
My  son  and  daughter  ? 

They're  alive,  and  well 
Charm.  Both,  say  you  ? 
St,i*.  Both. 

Charm.  Gods!  'twas  your  graeious  wil 

To   save   me    for   them.     What   1   more  woulc 

know, 

I  at  my  leisure  will  inquire  within. — 
Let's  enter. — Follow.        [advancing  to  his  house. 
Stas.  Whither  are  you  g 

Charm.  Whither  but  home? 
Si  an.  You  think  then  we  live  here 

Chnrm.  Where  else  can  I  imagine? 
Stas.  N'-w — 

Charm.  What  now 

Stas.  This  house — is  none  of  your's. 


Charm.  What's  that  you  say  ? 

Stas.  Your  son  has  sold  it,  — 

Charm.  Ruin'd  ! 

Stag.  For  the  ready, 

'aid  on  the  spot. 

Charm.  For  how  much  ? 

Stas.  Forty  minse. 

Charm.  Undone  !—  Who  bought  it  ? 

Stas.  Callicles,  to  whom, 

hile  absent,  your  affairs  you  trusted  :  hither 
las  he  remov'd,  and  now  abides  here  ;  us 
le  has  turn'd  out  of  doors. 

Charm.  Where  lives  my  son? 

Stas.  Here  in  this  back  part. 

Charm.  Utterly  undone  ! 

Stag.  I  thought  'twould  grieve  you,  when  you 
came  to  hear  it. 

Charm.  What  dangers  have  I  pass'd!  borne, 

hapless  wretch, 

Through  oceans  vast,  to  pirates  numberless 
Sxpos'd,  with  hazard  of  my  life  !  —  At  length 

reserved,  return'd  in  safety,  I  am  lost, 
iere  perish,  and  through  those,  for  whom  alone, 
Old  as  I  am,  I  struggled  with  misfortunes.  — 
'm  sick  at  heart  with  grief.  —  Support  me,  Sta- 
simus ! 

SCEXE  V. 
Enter  CALLICLES. 

Cal.  What  noise  is  that  I  hear  before  the  door  ? 
Charm.  O  Callicles  !  O  Callicles  !  to  whom 
Have  I  intrusted  my  affairs  ?  ah  me  ! 
To  what  a  friend  ? 

Cal.  An  honest  and  a  faithful, 

A  trusty  one,  of  strict  fidelity.  — 
[  am  rejoic'd  to  see  you  here  return'd 
[n  safety. 

Charm.     I  believe  it  all,  if  so 
You  prove  yourself  as  you  pretend  you  are.—  • 
But  wherefore  thus  accoutred  ? 

Cal.  I'll  inform  you. 

I  have  been  digging  up  your  treasure  here, 
To  portion  out  your  daughter.  —  But  within 
More  fully  I'll  unfold  to  you  both  this, 
And  other  matters.     Come  along. 

Charm.  Here,  —  Stasimus! 

Stag.  Sir! 

Charm.  Run  with   speed  unto  the  haven;  — 

make 

One  running  of  it  ;  —  there  you'll  find  the  ship, 
That  brought  me  hither  :  bid  Sangario  see 
The  goods  unladen,  which  I  order'd;  —  go  then,  — 
The  impost  I  have  paid. 

Stas.  I'll  make  despatch. 

Charm.  Go,  get  you  gone;  —  be  back  with  speed. 

Stas.  I'm  there, 

And  here  too,  in  a  twinkling. 

Cal.  Will  you  please 

To  enter  with  me?  —  Come  now. 

Charm.  I  attend  you. 

[Exeunt  CALLICLES  and  CHARMIDES. 


VI. 

STASIMUS  alone. 

This  is  my  master's  friend,  the  only  one 
That  has  stuck  firmly  to  him  !  he,  good  man, 


390 


PLAUTUS. 


Has  lov'd  him  with  unchangeable  affection ! 
Oh,  he's  the  only  one,  I  dare  be  sworn, 
That's  faithful  to  him  ! — Aye, — he  has  a  view 
To  serve  himself  in  serving  of  my  master.    [Exit. 

ACT  V.     SCETTE  I. 
Enter  LTSITELES. 

I  am  the  first  of  men,  surpassing  all 
In  pleasure  and  in  joy,  so  happily 
Does  every  thing  befall  me,  that  I  wish : 
Still  one  success  is  followed  by  another 
In  all  I  do,  and  transport  seconds  transport. 
Young  Lesbonieus'  servant,  Stasimus, 
Met  me  just  now,  and  told  me,  Charmides 
His  master  was  return'd  here  from  abroad. 
'Tis  proper  I  should  meet  him  with  all  speed, 
That  so  the  compact  'twixt  his  son  and  me 
May  by  the  Other's  sanction  be  confirm'd. 
I:ll  go. — But  hark,  the  door  I  hear  is  opening: — 
This  hindrance  now  is  most  unseasonable. 

(retires  to  a  distance.') 

SCEXE  II. 
Enter  CHAIIMIDES  and  CALLICLES. 

Charm.  I  cannot  think  there  is  a  man  on  earth, 
Or  ever  was  a  man,  or  ever  will  be, 
Whose  faith  and  honest  firmness  to  his  friend 
Can  equal  thine :  had  it  not  been  for  thee, 
He  had  unhousM  me  of  my  house  and  home. 

Cal.  If  I  have  serv'd  my  friend  in  any  thing, 
Or  acted  towards  him  with  fidelity, 
I  scarce  can  seem  to  merit  any  praise, 
But  think,  I  only  have  avoided  blame. 
Whatever  we  confer  upon  a  friend 
To  have  and  hold  for  ever,  is  his  own; 
But  what  is  only  lent  him  for  a  time, 
May  be  demanded  back  again  at  pleasure. 

Charm.  'Tis  as  you  say. — But  now,  my  honest 

friend, 

I  cannot  enough  wonder,  that  my  son 
Should  have  betroth'd  his  sister  in  a  family 
So  wealthy  as  Lysiteles',  Philto's  heir. 

Lys.  (behind.}  My  name  he  mentions. 

Charm.  By  my  troth,  the  girl 

Has  got  into  the  best  of  families. 

Lys.  Why  not  address  me  to  them  ? — Yet  'tis 

better 
To  wait  awhile ;  for  the  discourse  concerns  me. 

Charm.  Ah! 

Cal.  What's  the  matter  ? 

Charm.  I  forgot  indeed 

To  tell  you,  while  we  were  within. — Just  now, 
On  my  arrival  here,  a  certain  knave 
Accosted  me,  a  very  knave  in  grain. 
He  told  me,  he  had  brought  a  thousand  pieces 
For  you  and  Lesbonieus,  of  my  giving ; — 
Though  who  he  is,  I  know  not,  nor  did  ever 
See  him  before. — But  wherefore  do  you  laugh? 

Cal.  He  came  by  my  direction,  as  from  you 
Bringing  me  sums  of  gold,  for  me  to  give 
In  dowry  with  your  daughter ;  so  your  son 
On  the  receipt  might  think  it  came  from  you  ; 
Lest  knowing  of  the  truth,  and  that  the  treasure 
Was  lodg'd  in  my  possession,  by  our  laws 
He  might  demand  it  as  his  patrimony. 

Charm.  A  rare  conceit ! 


Cal.  Good  Megaronides, 

Our  common  friend,  devis'd  it. 

Charm.  I  approve, 

Applaud  his  counsel. 

Lys.  Wherefore  do  I  stand, 

Fool  that  I  am,  alone  here,  and  afraid 
To  interrupt  them  in  their  conversation  ? 
Why  not  about  the  business  I  purposed  ? — 
I  will  accost  them.  (advances.] 

Charm.  Look  you,— who  is  this 

Coming  towards  us  here  ? 

Lys.  (going  up.}  Lysiteles 

Salutes  his  father-in-law,  good  Charmides. 

Charm.  Heaven  grant  you  all  you  wish  ! 

Cal.  And  am  not  I 

Worth  a  salute  ? 

Lys.  Yes,  save  you,  Callicles  I—- 

But I  must  give  him  preference. — My  coat, 
Dear  sir,  is  nearer  to  me  than  my  cloak.* 

Cal.  Heaven  prosper  you  in  all  that  you  design ! 

Charm.  My  daughter  is,  I  hear,  betroth'd  to  you. 

Lys.  If  you  object  not. 

Charm.  No,  by  no  means  I. 

Lys.  Your  daughter  you  betroth  to  me  for  wife 
then? 

Charm.  I  do  betroth  her,  and  will  give  withal 
A  thousand  Philippeans  for  her  portion. 

Lys.  The  portion  I  regard  not. 

Charm.  If  you  like 

The  maiden,  you  must  like  the  portion  too: 
In  short,  you  will  not  have  the  wife  you  want, 
Except  you  take  the  portion  which  you  want  not. 

Cal.  He  asks  but  justice. 

Lys.  And  he  shall  prevail, 

Since  you're  his  advocate,  and  judge  betwixt  us. 
On  this  condition  then  you  do  engage 
To  give  your  daughter  to  me  for  a  wife  ? 

Charm.  I  do  engage. 

Cal.  I'll  answer  for  it  too. 

Lys.  Dear  kinsmen,  health  and  happiness  at- 
tend you ! 

Charm.  O  Callicles!  and  yet  there  is  a  point 
In  which  I've  reason  to  be  angry  with  you. 

Cal  What  have  I  done  ? 

Charm.  My  son! — you've  suffer'd  him 

To  be  debauch'd. 

Cal.  If  wilfully  'twere  done, 

With  my  consent,  you  would  have  cause  indeed 
To  be  most  angry  with  me. — But  I  pray  you, 
Let  me  obtain  from  you  this  one  request, 
Which  I  entreat. 

Charm.  What  is  it  ? 

Cal.  You  shall  know. 

Whatever  he  has  done  imprudently. 
Forget  it  all. — Why  do  you  shake  your  head  ? 

Charm.  I'm  sorely  vex'd  at  heart;  and  oh!  I 
fear — 

Cal.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Charm.  I'm  vex'd  that  he  should  prove 

Such  as  I  would  not  have  Iftm, — and  I  fear, 
Should  I  deny  you  your  request,  you'd  think 
I  bore  me  slightingly  towards  you. — Come, 
I'll  not  stand  out,  but  do  as  you  desire. 

*  The  original  is,  Tunica  propior  pallia  est.    This  is  a 
proverbial  expression,  the  meaning  of  which  is  obvious. 


TERENCE. 


391 


Cat.  Now  thou'rt  a  right  good  fellow : — I  will  go, 
And  call  him  forth. 

Charm.  'Tis  hard  you  will  not  let  me 

Take  vengeance  on  him,  such  as  he  deserves. 

Cal.  Open  the  door  there,— open  quick,— call 

forth 

Young  Lesbonicus,  if  he  be  at  home. — 
The  cause  is  sudden,  wherefore  I  require 
His  presence  here  this  instant. 

SCENE  III. 
Enter  LESBONICCS. 

Les.  Who  is  it, 

With  boisterous  voice  calls  on  me  to  come  forth 
With  speed  here? 

Cal.  A  well-wisher,  and  a  friend. 

Les.  Tell  me,  is  any  thing  amiss  ? 

Cal.  All's  right— 

I  am  rejoic'd,  your  father  is  returned 
In  eafety  from  abroad. 

Les.  Who  says  so  ? 

Cal.  I. 

Les.  How  !  have  you  seen  him  ? 

Cal.  Yes, — and  you  yourself 

"May  ?ee  him  too.  (pointing  to  Charm.*) 

Les.  (going  t<;>.)  My  father !  0  my  father ! 
Heaven's  blessings  on  you. 

Charm.  And  on  you,  my  son ! 

Les.  Any  mischance,  good  father1? 

Charm.  Never  fear : 

Nothing  has  happen'd  :  I  am  safe  arrived  ; 
And  well  have  rnanag'd  my  affairs. — 0  sonl 
If  you  would  but  be  prudent,  Callicle"s 
Has  promis'd  you  his  daughter. 


Leg.  Sir,  I'll  take  her, 

And  whomsoever  else  you  shall  command. 

Charm.  I  could,  I  am  so  angry — 

Cal.  Come, — one  misery 

For  one  man's  full  enough. — 

Charm.  Nay,  but  for  him 

It  is  too  little ;  were  he  for  his  sins 
To  wed  a  hundred  wives,  'twere  all  too  little. 

Les.  But  now  henceforward  I'll  refrain  myself 
From  wild  and  evil  courses. 

Charm.  So  you  say: 

Would  you  but  do't ! 

Les.  What  hinders,  but  my  wife 

To-morrow  I  may  bring  home. 

Charm.  It  were  best: 

Then  be  it  so.  (to  Lys.)  And  you,  sir,  be  prepar'd 
For  marriage  the  day  after. — Clap  your  hands. 


FROM  THE  MERCHANT. 

WIVES  AND   HUSBANDS. 

Now,  by  my  troth,  the  poor  unhappy  women 
Are  much  more  hardly  dealt  with  than  the  men. 
For  if  a  husband  brings  a  mistress  home, 
Though  the  \vife  finds  her  under  her  own  roof, 
There  is  no  law  that  punishes  the  man : 
But  catch  her  rambling  with  gallants  abroad, 
The  husband  truly  sues  for  a  divorce. 
Would  the  same  law  held  good  for  man  and 

wife! 

For  since  the  wife,  if  she's  an  honest  woman. 
Will  be  contented  with  her  husband ;  why 
Should  not  the  husband  also  with  the  wife? 
I  would  fain  have  fair  play  between  them  both. 


TERENCE. 


iBom  195,-Died  159,  B.  C.] 


PUBLIUS  TEHENTICS  AFER,  better  known  to 
tlio  Enirlish  reader  by  the  name  of  Terence,  was 
a  native  of  Carthage,  and  the  slave  of  Terentius 
Lncanns,  a  Roman  senator.  His  master,  per- 
ociviiiir  tlit1  youth's  talent-,  not  only  bestowed  on 
him  a  liberal  education,  but  crowned  the  good 
deed  by  add  irr.:  to  it  his  freedom.  At  Rome  our 
po,-t  s.-cins  tu  have  been  -cm-rally  respected  and 
beloved,  living  on  terms  of  friendly  inter< 
with  Cains  L-rlius  ;uul  the  most  distiinrni>lic d 
nobles  of  the  common  wealth,  but.  above  all.  with 
that  practise  and  patron  of  all  that  was  good 
and  groat,  the  younger  Afrieanus. — After  writing 
six  comedies,  all  of  which  wrei  :  with 

more  or  less  admiration  and  app!au<o  by  the  Ro- 
mans, ho  embarked  for  Greece  and  was  never 
heard  of  more,  having  probably  perished  ; 

-t  of  the  plots  in  Terence's  plav<  were 
taken  from  the  Greek,  but  he  has  shown  the 
greatest  taste  and  judgment  in  the  additions  and 


alterations  made  on  them,  and  in  his  manner  of 
accommodating  them  to  the  Roman  stage ;  nor 
can  I  help  thinking,  with  Mr.  Dunlop.  that,  "had 
he  lived  an  age  later,  when  all  the  arts  were  in 
full  glory  at  Rome,  and  the  empire  at  its  height 
of  power  and  splendour,  he  would  have  found 
domestic  subjects  sufficient  to  supply  his  scene 
with  interest  and  variety,  and  no  longer  accounted 
it  a  greater  merit — 'Gnvoas  tran^ferre  quam  pro- 
prias  scribere..'  "  For  the  beauties  of  style  and 
language  Terence  may  bo  placed  at  the  head  of 
all  the  comic  writers.  His  diction  is  uniformly 
terse,  elegant,  and  unaffected, — unsurpassed  in 
purity  and  grace  by  the  writers  of  the  Augustan 
age  itself.  He  is  characterized  by  Caesar  as 
"  ptiri  sermonis  amator,"  and  by  Cicero  as — 
"  quicquid  come  loquens,  ac  omnia  dulcia  di- 
cens."  Tlie  elegant  conversations  of  Africanus, 
and  the  "Mitis  sapiontia  L-eli."  were  not  lost 
upon  their  humble  friend  and  admirer. 


392 


TERENCE. 


THE  ANDRIAN.' 


DRAMATIS  PEHSOXJE. 


PROLOGUE. 

SIMO. 

PAMPHILIUS. 

CHREMES. 

CHARIXUS. 

CRITO. 

SOSIA. 


DAVUS. 

BTRRHIA. 

DROMO. 

GLYCERIUM. 

MYSIS. 

LESBIA. 

AB.CHYLLIS. 


SCENE,  at  Miens. 


PROLOGUE. 

THE  bard,  when  first  he  gave  his  mind  to  write, 
Thought  it  his  only  business,  that  his  plays 
Should  please  the  people :  But  it  now  falls  out, 
He  finds,  much  otherwise,  and  wastes,  perforce, 
His  time  in  writing  prologues;  not  to  tell 
The  argument,  but  to  refute  the  slanders 
Broach 'd  by  the  malice  of  an  older  bard./. 

And  mark  what  vices  he  is  charg'd  withal! 
Menander  wrote  the  Andrian  and  Perinthian: 
Know  one,  and  you  know  both ;  in  argument 
Less  diff'rent  than  in  sentiment  and  style. 
What  suited  with  the  Andrian  he  confesses 
From  the  Perinthian  he  transferr'd,  and  us'd 
For  his :  and  this  it  is  these  sland'rers  blame, 
Proving  by  deep  and  learned  disputation, 
That  fables  should  not  be  contaminated. 
Troth  !  all  their  knowledge  is  they  nothing  know : 
Who,    blaming    him,    blame    Nsevius,    Plautus, 

Ennius, 

Whose  great  example  is  his  precedent ; 
Whose  negligence  he'd  wish  to  emulate 
Rather  than  their  dark  diligence.     Henceforth, 
Let  them,  I  give  them  warning,  be  at  peace, 
And  cease  to  rail,  lest  they  be  made  to  know 
Their  own  misdeeds.     Be  favourable !  sit 
With  equal  mind,  and  hear  our  play ;  that  hence 
Ye  may  conclude,  what  hope  to  entertain, 
The  comedies  he  may  hereafter  write 
Shall  merit  approbation  or  contempt. 

ACT  I.     SCENE  I. 
SIMO,  SOSIA,  and  Servants  with  provisions. 

Sim.  Carry  these  things  in:  go  !   [Exit  servants. 
Sosia,  come  here ; 
A  word  with  you ! 

Sos.  I  understand :  that  these 

Be  ta'en  due  care  of. 

Sim.  Quite  another  thing. 

Sos.  What  can  my  art  do  more  for  you  ? 

Sim.  This  business 

Needs  not  that  art;  but  those  good  qualities, 
Which  I  have  ever  known  abide  in  you, 
Fidelity  and  secrecy. 

Sos.  I  wait 

Your  pleasure. 

Sim.  Since  I  bought  you  from  a  boy 

How  just  and  mild  a  servitude  you've  pass'd 


*  The  plot  of  this  play  is  taken  from  the  rfndrian  and 
Perinthian  of  Menander,  and  has  been  imitated,  in  modern 
times,  by  Baron  in  his  Jindrienne,  by  Steele  in  his  Con- 
scious Lovers,  and  by  Moore  in  his  Foundling. 


With  me,  you're  conscious:    from   a  purchas'd 

slave 

I  made  you  free,  because  you  serv'd  me  freely : 
The  greatest  recompense  I  could  bestow. 

Sos.  I  do  remember. 

Sim.  Nor  do  I  repent. 

Sos.  If  I  have  ever  done,  or  now  do  aught 
That's  pleasing  to  you,  Simo,  I  am  glad, 
And  thankful  that  you  hold  my  service  good. 
And  yet  this  troubles  me :  for  this  detail, 
Forcing  your  kindness  on  my  memory, 
Seems  to  reproach  me  of  ingratitude. 

0  tell  me  then  at  once,  what  would  you  ?  sir ! 
Sim.  I  will ;  and  this  I  must  advise  you  first: 

The  nuptial  you  suppose  preparing  now, 
Is  all  unreal. 

Sos.  Why  pretend  it  then  ? 

Sim.  You  shall  hear  all  from  first  to  last :  and 

thus 

The  conduct  of  my  son,  my  own  intent, 
And  what  part  you're  to  act,  you'll   know  at 

once. 

For  my  son,  Sosia,  now  to  manhood  grown, 
Had  freer  scope  of  living :  for  before 
How  might  you  know,  or  how  indeed  divine 
His  disposition,  good  or  ill,  while  youth, 
Fear,  and  a  master,  all  constrain'd  him  ? 

Sos.  True. 

Sim.  Though  most,  as  is  the  bent  of  youth, 

apply 

Their  mind  to  some  one  object,  horses,  hounds, 
Or  to  the  study  of  philosophy ; 
Yet  none  of  these,  beyond  the  rest,  did  he 
Pursue ;  and  yet,  in  moderation,  all. 

1  was  o'erjoy'd. 

Sos.  And  not  without  good  cause. 

For  this  I  hold  to  be  the  golden  rule 
Of  life,  too  much  of  one  thing's  good  for  nothing. 

Sim.  So  did  he  shape  his  life  to  bear  himself 
With  ease  and  frank  good-humour  unto  all ; 
Mixt  in  what  company  soe'er,.to  them 
He  wholly  did  resign  himself;  and  join'd 
In  their  pursuits,  opposing  nobody, 
Nor  e'er  assuming  to  himself:  and  thus 
With  ease,  and  free  from  envy,  may  you  gain 
Praise,  and  conciliate  friends. 

Sos.  He  rul'd  his  life 

By  prudent  maxims :  for  as  times  go  now, 
Compliance    raises    friends,    arid    truth   breeds 
hate, 

Sim.  Meanwhile,  'tis  now  about  three  years 

ago, 

A  certain  woman  from  the  isle  of  Andros, 
Came  o'er  to  settle  in  this  neighbourhood, 
By  poverty  and  cruel  kindred  driv'n: 
Handsome  and  young. 

Sos.  Ah !  I  begin  to  fear 

Some  mischief  from  this  Andrian. 

Sim.  At  first 

Modest  and  thriftily,  though  poor,  she  liv'd, 
With  her  own  hands  a  homely  livelihood 
Scarce  earning  from  the  distaff  and  the  loom. 
But  when  a  lover  came,  with  promis'd  gold, 
Another,  and  another,  as  the  mind 
Falls  easily  from  labour  to  delight, 
She  took  their  offers,  and  set  up  the  trade. 


TERENCE. 


393 


They,  who  were    then    her   chief  gallants,  by 

chance 

Draw  thither,  as  oft  happens  with  young  men, 
My  son  to  join  their  company.     So,  so ! 
Sa.d  I  within  myself,  he's  smit!  he  has  it! 
And  in  the  morning  as  I  saw  their  servants 
Run  to  and  fro,  I'd  often  call,  Here,  boy! 
Prithee,  now,  who  had  Chrysis  yesterday? 
The  name  of  this  same  Andrian. 

Sos.  I  take  you. 

Sim.  Pha-drus,  they  said,  Clinia,  or  Niceratus, 
For  all   these   three   then   follow'd  her. — Well, 

well, 

But  what  of  Pamphilus  ? — Of  ?amphilus ! 
Ho  supt,  and  paid  his  reck'ning. — I  was  glad. 
Another  day  I  made  the  like  inquiry, 
But  still  found  nothing  touching  Pamphilus. 
Thus  I  believ'd  his  virtue  prov'd,  and  hence 
Thought  him  a  miracle  of  continence  : 
For  he  who  struggles  with  such  spirits,  yet 
II  ilds  in  that  commerce  an  unshaken  mind,. 
May  well  be  trusted  with  the  governance 
()  '  his  own  conduct.     Nor  was  I  alone 

ited.  with  his  life,  but  all  the  world 
With  one  accord  said  all  good  things,  and  prais'd 
My  happy  fortunes,  who  possest  a  son 
So  good,  so  lib'rally  dispos'd — In  short, 
C  iremes,  seduc'd  by  this  fine  character, 
Came  of  his  own  accord,  to  offer  me 
His  only  daughter  with  a  handsome  portion 
In  marriage  with  my  son.     I  lik'd  the  match  5 
B'^troth'd  my  son  ;  and  this  was  pitch'd  upon, 
By  joint  agreement,  for  the  wedding-day. 

Sos.  And  what  prevents  its  being  so? 

Sim.  I'll  tell  you. 

In  a  few  days,  the  treaty  still  on  foot, 
This  neighbour  Chrysis  dies. 

Sos.  In  happy  hour : 

Happy  for  you!  I  was  afraid  of  Chrysis. 

Sim.  My  son,  on  this  event,  was  often  there 
With  those  who  were  the  late  gallants  of  Chrysis; 
Assisted  to  prepare  the  funeral, 
Ever  condol'd,  and  sometimes  wept  with  them. 
This  pleased  me  then:  for  in  myself  I  thought, 
Since  merely  for  a  small  acquaintance-sake 
He  takes  this  woman's  death  so  nearly,  what 
If  he  himself  had  lov'd  ?  What  would  he  feel 
For  me,  his  father?  All  the-e  things.  I  thought, 
Were  but  the  tokens  and  the  oil 
Of  a  humane  and  tender  disposition. 
In  short,  on  his  account,  e'en  I  myself 
Attend  the  funeral,  suspecting  yet 
No  harm. 

Sos.  Arid  what — 

Sim.  You  shall  hoar  all.  The  corpse 

Borne  forth,  we  follow;  when  among  the  women 
Attending  there.  I  chane'd  to  cast  my  eyes 
Upon  one  girl,  in  form — 

So*i  Not  bad.  perhaps — 

Sim.  And  look,  so  modest,  and  so  beauteous, 

Sosia ! 

That  nothing  could  exceed  it.     As  she  seem'd 
I'M  grieve  heyoi.d  ill--  rest,  :ind  as  her  air 
Appear'd  more  liberal  and  iugcnu<>u-<. 
I  went,  and  ask 'd  her  woman  who  she  was. 
Sister,  they  said,  to  Chrysis :  when  at  once 
50 


It  struck  my  mind;  So!  so!  the  secret's  out; 
Hence  were  those  tears,  and  hence  all  that  com- 
passion ! 

So*.  Alas  !  I  fear  how  this  affair  will  end  ! 

Sim.  Meanwhile    the    funeral    proceeds:    we 

follow ; 

Come  to  the  sepulchre ;  the  body's  plac'd 
Upon  the  pile  ;  lamented  :  whereupon 
This  sister,  I  was  speaking  of,  all  wild, 
Ran  to  the  flames  with  peril  of  her  life. 
Then!  there!  the  frighted  Pamphilus  betrays 
His  well-dissembled  and  long-hidden  love  ; 
Runs  up,  and  takes  her  round  the  waist,  and  cries, 
Oh  my  Glycerium  !  what  is  it  you  do? 
Why,  why  endeavour  to  destroy  yourself? 
Then  she  in  such  a  manner,  that  you  thence 
Might  easily  perceive  their  long,  long  love, 
Threw  herself  back  into  his  arms,  and  wept, 

0  how  familiarly ! 

Sos.  How  say  you ! 

Sim.  I 

Return  in  anger  thence,  and  hurt  at  heart, 
Yet  had  not  cause  sufficient  for  reproof. 
What  have  I  done  ?  he'd  say ;  or  how  deserv'd 
Reproach  ?  or  how  offended,  father  ? — Her, 
Who  meant  to  cast  herself  into  the  flames, 

1  stopt.     A  fair  excuse ! 

Sos.  You're  in  the  right : 

For  him,  who  sav'd  a  life,  if  you  reprove, 
What  will  you  do  to  him  that  offers  wrong? 

Sim.  Chremes  next  day  came  open-mouth'd  to 

me ; 

Oh  monstrous !  he  had  found  that  Pamphilus 
Was  married  to  this- stranger-woman.    I 
Deny  the  fact  most  steadily,  and  he 
As  steadily  insists.     In  short  we  part 
On  such  bad  terms,  as  let  me  understand 
He  would  refuse  his  daughter. 

So*.  Did  not  you 

Then  take  your  son  to  task  ? 

Sim.  Not  even  this 

Appear'd  sufficient  for  reproof. 

Sos.  How  so? 

Sim.  Father,  (he  might  have  said,)  you  have, 

you  know, 

Prescrib'd  a  term  to  all  these  things  yourself. 
The  time  is  near  at  hand,  \vhen  I  must  live 
According  to  the  humour  of  another. 
Meanwhile,  permit  me  now  to  please  my  own ! 

So*.  What  cause  remains  to  chide  him  then  ? 

Sftn.  If  he 

Refuses,  on  account  of  this  amour, 
To  take  a  wife,  such  obstinate  denial 
Must  be  considered  as  his  first  offence. 
Wherefore  I  now,  from  this  mock-nuptial, 
Endeavour  to  draw  real  cause  to  chide: 
And  that  same  ra~<-al  Davus,  if  he's  plotting, 
That  he  may  let  his  counsel  run  to  waste, 
Now,  when  his  knaveries  can  do  no  harm  : 
Who,  I  believe,  with  all  his  might  and  main 
Will  strive  to  cross  my  purposes ;  and  that 
More  to  plague  me,  than  to  oblige  my  son. 

So*.  Why  so  ? 

Sim.  Why  so!  Bad  mind,  bad  heart.  But  if 
I  catch  him  at  his  tricks  ! — But  what  need  words? 
— If,  as  I  wish  it  may,  it  should  appear 


394 


TERENCE. 


That  Pamphilus  objects  not  to  the  match, 

Chremes  remains  to  be  prevail'd  upon, 

And  will,  I  hope,  consent.     'Tis  now  your  place 

To  counterfeit  these  nuptials  cunningly ; 

To  frighten  Davus ;  and  observe  my  son, 

What  he's  about,  what  plots  they  hatch  together. 

Sos.  Enough;   I'll  take  due  care.     Let's  now 
go  in. 

Sim.  Go  first ;  I'll  follow  you.        [Exit  SOSIA. 
Beyond  all  doubt 

My  son's  averse  to  take  a  wife ;  I  saw 
How  frightened  Davus  was,  but  even  now, 
When  he  was  told  a  nuptial  was  preparing—- 
But here  he  comes. 

SCENE  II. 
Enter  DAVUS. 

Dav.  (to  himself.]  I  thought  t'were  wonderful 
If  this  affair  went  off  so  easily; 
And  dreaded  where  my  master's  great  good  hu- 
mour 

Would  end  at  last:  who,  after  he  perceiv'd 
The  lady  was  refus'd,  ne'er  said  a  word 
To  any  of  us,  nor  e'er  took  it  ill. 

Sim.  (behind.)    But  now  he  will ;  to  your  cost, 
too,  I  warrant  you ! 

Dav.  This  was  his  scheme;  to  lead  us  by  the 

nose 

In  a  false  dream  of  joy;  then  all  agape 
With  hope,  even  then  that  we  were  most  secure, 
To  have  o'erwhelm'd  us,  nor  have  given  us  time 
To  cast  about  which  way  to  break  the  match. 
Cunning  old  gentleman ! 

Sim.  What  says  the  rogue  ? 

Dav.  My  master,  and  I  did  not  see  him ! 

Sim.  Davus ! 

Dav.  (pretending  not  to  see  him.)  Well !  what 
now1? 

Sim.  Here  !  this  way ! 

Dav.  (to  himself.)  What  can  he  want  ? 

Sim.  (overhearing.)  What  say  you  ? 

Dav.  Upon  what  ?  sir  ! 

Sim.  Upon  what ! 

The  world  reports  that  my  son  keeps  a  mistress. 

Dav.  Oh,  to  be  sure,  the  world  cares  much  for 
that. 

Sim.  D'ye  mind  what  I  say,  sirrah  ? 

Dav.  Nothing  more,  sir. 

Sim.  But  for  me  now  to  dive  into  these  matters 
May  seem  perhaps  like  too  severe  a  father  : 
For  all  his  youthful  pranks  concern  not  me. 
While  'twas  in  season,  he  had  my  free  leave 
To  take  his  swing  of  pleasure.     But  to-day 
Brings  on  another  stage  of  life,  and  asks 
For  other  manners  :  wherefore  I  desire, 
Or,  if  you  please,  I  do  beseech  you,  Davus, 
To  set  him  right  again. 

Dav.  What  means  all  this  ? 

Sim.  All,  who  are  fond  of  mistresses,  dislike 
The  thoughts  of  matrimony. 

Dav.  So  they  say. 

Sim.  And  then,  if  such  a  person  entertains 
An  evil  counsellor  in  those  affairs, 
He  tampers  with  the  mind,  and  makes  bad  worse. 

Dav.  Troth,  I  don't  comprehend  one  word  of 
this. 


Sim.  No? 

Dav.  No,  I'm  Davus,  and  not  (Edipus. 

Sim.  Then  for  the  rest  I  have  to  say  to  you, 
You  choose  I  should  speak  plainly. 

Dav.  By  all  means. 

Sim.  If  I  discover  then,  that  in  this  match 
You  get  to  your  dog's  tricks  and  break  it  off, 
Or  try  to  show  how  shrewd  a  rogue  you  are, 
I'll  have  you  beat  to  mummy,  and  then  thrown 
In  prison,  sirrah  !  upon  this  condition, 
That  when  I  take  you  out  again,  I  swear 
To  grind  there  in  your  stead.    D'ye  take  me  now? 
Or  don't  you  understand  this  neither  ? 

Dav.  Clearly. 

You've  spoken  out  at  last :  the  very  thing  ! 
Quite  plain  and  home ;  and  nothing  round  about. 

Sim.  I  could  excuse  your  tricks  in  any  thing, 
Rather  than  this. 

Dav.  Goods  words  !  I  beg  of  you. 

Sim.  You  laugh  at  me  :  well,  well ! — I  give 

you  warning. 

That  you  do  nothing  rashly,  nor  pretend 
You  was  not  advertis'd  of  this — Take  heed ! 

[Exit. 

SCENE   III. 
DAVUS  alone. 

Troth,  Davus,  'tis  high  time  to  look  about  you ; 
No  room  for  sloth,  as  far  as  I  can  sound 
The  sentiments  of  our  old  gentleman 
About  this  marriage  ;   which,  if  not  fought  off, 
And  cunningly,  spoils  me,  or  my  poor  master. 
I  know  not  what  to  do ;  nor  can  resolve 
To  help  the  son,  or  to  obey  the  father. 
If  I  desert  poor  Pamphilus,  alas  ! 
I  tremble  for  his  life  ;  if  I  assist  him, 
I  dread  his  father's  threats :  a  shrewd  old  cuff, 
Not  easily  deceiv'd.     For  first  of  all, 
He  knows  of  this  arnour ;  and  watches  me 
With  jealous  eyes,  lest  I  devise  some  trick 
To  break  the  match.     If  he  discovers  it, 
Woe  to  poor  Davus!  nay,  if  he's  inclin'd 
To  punish  me,  he'll  seize  on  some  pretence 
To  throw  me  into  prison,  right  or  wrong. 
Another  mischief  is,  this  Andrian, 
Mistress  or  wife,  's  with  child  by  Pamphilus. 
And  do  but  mark  their  confidence !  'tis  sure 
The  dotage  of  mad  people,  not  of  lovers. 
Whate'er  she  shall  bring  forth,  they  have  resolv'd 
To  educate  :*  and  have  among  themselves 
Devis'd  the  strangest  story!  that  Glycerium 
Is  an  Athenian  citizen.     "There  was 
Once  on  a  time  a  certain  merchant,  shipwreck'd 
Upon  the  isle  of  Andros;  there  he  died: 
And  Chrysis'  father  took  this  orphan-wreck, 
Then  but  an  infant,  under  his  protection." 
Ridiculous !  'tis  all  romance  to  me  : 
And  yet  the  story  pleases  them.     And  see  ! 
Mysis  comes  forth.     But  I  must  to  the  Forum 
To  look  for  Pamphilus,  for  fear  his  father 
Should  find  him  first,  and  take  him  unawares. 

[Exit. 


*  To  educate.  Decreverunt  tollere.  The  word  tollerr 
strictly  signifies  to  take  up,  and  alludes  to  the  custom  of 
those  times. — Dacier. 

See  note  on  this  custom,  p.  296. 


TERENCE. 


395 


SCEXE  IV. 

Enter  MYSIS,   (speaking  to  a  Servant  within.") 
I  1  car,  Archillis;   I  hear  what  you  say: 
You  beg  me  to  bring  Lesbia.     By  my  troth 
Tl  at  Lesbia  is  a  drunken  wretch,  hot-headed, 
Nor  worthy  to  be  trusted  with  a  woman 
In  her  first  labour. — Well,  well!  she  shall  come. 
— Observe  how  earnest  the  old  gossip  is,  (coming 

forward.} 

Because  this  Lesbia  is  her  pot  companion. 
— 0  grant  my  mistress,  Heaven,  a  safe  delivery, 
And  let  the  mid  wile  trespass  any  where 
Rather  than  here! — But  what  is  it  I  see? 
Pcimphilus  all  disorder'd  :  How  I  fear 
The  cause !  I'll  wait  awhile,  that  I  may  know 
If  this  commotion  means  us  any  ill. 

SCXNE  V. 
Enter  PAMPHILUS,  MTSIS  behind. 

Pam.  Is  this  well  done?  or  like  a  man? — Is  this 
The  action  of  a  father  ? 

Mys.  What's  the  matter  ? 

Pam.  Oh  all  ye  Pow'rs  of  heaven  and  earth, 

what's  wrong 

If  this  is  not  so? — If  he  was  determin'd 
That  I  to-day  should  marry,  should  I  not 
Have  had  some  previous  notice.? — ought  not  he 
To  have  inform'd  me  of  it  long  ago? 

Mys.  Alas!  what's  this  I  hear? 

Ptnn.  And  Chremes  too, 

Who  had  refus'd  to  trust  me  with  his  daughter, 
Changes  his  mind,  because  I  change  not  mine. 
Can  he  then  be  so  obstinately  bent 
To  tear  me  from  Glycerium  ?     To  lose  her 
I-  losing  life. — Was  ever  man  so  crost, 
Si  curst  as  I? — Oh  Pow'rs  of  heaven  and  earth! 

I  by  no  means  fly  from  this  alliance 
\Vith  Chremes'  family? — so  oft  contemn'd 
And  held  in  scorn! — all  done,  concluded  all! — 
Rejected,  then  recall'd  : — and  why? — unless, 
For  so  I  must  suspect,  they  breed  some  monster: 
Whom  as  they  can  obtrude  on  no  one  else, 
They  bring  to  me. 

Mys.  Alas,  alas !  this  speech 

Has  struck  me  almost  dead  with  fear. 

Pam.  And  then 

My  fattier!  what  to  say  of  him  ? — Oh  shame! 

A  thing  of  «o  much  < sequence  to  treat 

S>  negligently! — For  but  even  now 
Pas-ing  me  in  the  Forum,  Pamphilus! 
To-day's  your  wedding-day,  said  lie:   Prepare; 
(Jo,  pet  you  home! — This  sounded  in  my  ears 
A-  it"  he  .-n         '  — I   -tood 

Confounded.    Think  you  I  could  speak  one  word? 
Or  oiler  an  excuse,  how  weak  soe'er? 
X".  I  was  dumb: — and  had  I  been  aware, 
Miould  any  ask  what  I'd  have  done,  I  would, 
Rather  than  this,  do  any  thing. — But  now 
What  to  resolve  upon? — So  many  cares 
•'mangle  me  at  once,  and  rend  my  mind, 
Bulling  it  dilfrent  ways.      My  love,  compassion, 
This  urgent  match,  my  rev'rence  for  my  father, 
AVho  yet  has  ever  been  so  gentle  ; 
And  held  so  slack  a  rein  upon  my  plen- 
— And  I  oppose  him? — Racking  thought! — Ah  me! 
I  know  not  what  to  do. 


Mys.  Alas,  I  fear 

Where  this  uncertainty  will  end.     'Twere  best 
He  should  confer  with  her;  or  I  at  least 
Speak  touching  her  to  him.     For  while  the  mind 
Hangs  in  suspense,  a  trifle  turns  the  scale. 

Pam.  Who's  there?  what,  Mysis!  save  you! 

Mys.  (coming forward.}  Save  you!  sir, 

Pam.  How  does  she  ? 

Mys.  How !  oppress'd  with  wretchedness 

To-day  supremely  wretched,  as  to-day 
Was  formerly  appointed  for  your  wedding. 
And  then  she  fears  lest  you  desert  her. 

Pam.  I! 

Desert  her?  Can  I  think  on't?  or  deceive 
A  wretched  maid,  who  trusted  to  my  care 
Her  life  and  honour !  Her,  whom  I  have  held 
Near  to  my  heart,  and  cherish 'd  as  my  wife  ? 
Or  leave  her  modest  and  well-nurtur'd  mind 
Through  want  to  be  corrupted  ?  Never,  never. 

Mys.  No  doubt,  did  it  depend  on  you  alone 
But  if  constrain'd — 

Pam.  Do  you  think  me  so  vile  ? 

Or  so  ungrateful,  so  inhuman,  savage, 
That  nor  long  intercourse,  nor  love,  nor  shame, 
Can  make  me  keep  my  faith? 

Mys.  I  only  know 

That  she  deserves  you  should  remember  her. 

Pam.  I   should   remember  her  ]     Oh,   Mysis, 

Mysis ! 

The  words  of  Chrysis  touching  my  Glycerium 
Are  written  in  my  heart.     On  her  death-bed 
She  call'd  me.     I  approach'd  her.     You  retir'd. 
We  were  alone ;  and  Chrysis  thus  began. 
•  My  Pamphilus,  you  see  the  youth  and  beauty 
Of  this  unhappy  maid  :  and  well  you  know, 
These  are  but  feeble  guardians  to  preserve 
Her  fortune  or  her  fame.     By  this  right  hand 
I  do  beseech  you,  by  your  better  angel, 
By  your  tried  faith,  by  her  forlorn  condition, 
I  do  conjure  you,  put  her  not  away, 
Nor  leave  her"  to  distress.     If  I  have  ever, 
As  my  own  brother,  lov'd  you ;  or  if  she 
Has  ever  held  you  dear  'bove  all  the  world, 
And  ever  shown  obedience  to  your  will — 
I  do  bequeath  you  to  her  as  a  husband, 
Friend,  guardian,  father :  All  our  little  wealth 
To  you  I  leave,  and  trust  it  to  your  care." — 
She  join'd  our  hands,  and  died. — I  did  receive 

her, 
And  once  receiv'd  will  keep  her.* 

ACT  II.     SCEWE  I. 
Enter  CHAIUXUS  and  BTRRHIA. 

Char.  How,  Byrrhia?  Is  she  to  be  married,  say 

you, 
To  Pamphilus  to-day  ? 

Byr.  'Tis  even  so. 

Char.  How  do  you  know  ? 

Byr.  I  had  it  even  now 

From  Davus  at  the  Forum. 


*  Cicero  has  bestowed  great  praise  on  this  act.  "The 
picture,"  he  observes,  "of  the  manners  of  Pamphilus, — 
the  death  and  funeral  of  Chrysis,— and  the  grief  of  her 
supposed  sister, — are  all  represented  in  the  most  delight- 
ful colours." 


396 


TERENCE. 


Char.  Woe  is  me ! 

Then  I'm  a  wretch  indeed :  till  now  my  mind 
Floated  'twixt  hope  and  fear:  now,  hope  re- 

mov'd, 
Stunn'd,  and  overwhelm'd,  it  sinks  beneath  its 

cares. 
Byr.  Nay,  prithee  master,  since  the  thing  you 

wish 

Cannot  be  had,  e'en  wish  for  that  which  may ! 
Char.  I  wish  for  nothing  but  Philumena. 
Byr.  Ah,  how  much  wiser  were  it,  that  you 

strove, 
To  quench  this  passion,  than,  with  words  like 

these, 
To  fan  the  fire,  and  blow  it  to  a  flame  ? 

Char.  How  readily  do  men  at  ease  prescribe 
To  those  who're  sick  at  heart !    Distrest  like  me, 
You  would  not  talk  thus. 

Byr.  Well,  well,  as  you  please. 

Char.  Ha!  I  see  Pamphilus.     I  can  resolve 
On  any  thing,  e'er  give  up  all  for  lost. 
Byr.  What  now  ? 

Char.        I  will  entreat  him,  beg,  beseech  him, 
Tell  him  our  course  of  love,  and  thus  perhaps, 
At  least  prevail  upon  him  to  defer 
His  marriage  some  few  days  :  meanwhile,  I  hope, 
Something  may  happen. 

Byr.  Ay,  that  something's  nothing. 

Char.  Byrrhia,  what  think  you  ?  Shall  I  speak 

to  him  ? 
Byr.  Why  not?  for  though  you  don't  obtain 

your  suit, 

He  will  at  least  imagine  you're  prepar'd 
To  cuckold  him,  in  case  he  marries  her. 

Char.  Away,  you  hang-dog,   with  your  base 
suspicions ! 

SCEXE  II. 

Enter  PAMPHILUS. 

Pam.  Charinus,  save  you  ! 

Char.  Save  you",  Pamphilus ! 

Imploring  comfort,  safety,  help,  and  counsel, 
You  see  me  now  before  you. 

Pam.    •  I  do  lack 

Myself  both  help  and  counsel — But  what  mean 
you1? 

Char.  Is  this  your  wedding-day? 

Pam.  Ay,  so  they  say. 

Char.  Ah,  Pamphilus,  if  so,  this  very  day 
You  see  the  last  of  me. 

Pam.  How  so? 

Char.  Ah  me ! 

I  dare  not  speak  it :  prithee  tell  him,  Byrrhia. 

Byr.  Ay,  that  I  will. 

Pam.  Whatis't? 

Byr.  He  is  in  love 

With  your  bride,  sir. 

Pam.  T  faith  so  am  not  I. 

Tell  me,  Charinus,  has  aught  further  past 
'Twixt  you  and  her  ? 

Char.  Ah,  no,  no. 

Pam.  Would  there  had  ! 

Char.  Now  by  our  friendship,  by  my  love,  I 

beg 
You  would  not  marry  her. — 

Pam.  I  will  endeavour. 


Char.  If  that's  impossible,  or  if  this  match 
Be  grateful  to  your  heart — 

Pam.  My  heart! 

Char.  At  least 

Defer  it  some  few  days ;  while  I  depart 
That  I  may  not  behold  it. 

Pam.  Hear,  Charinus ; 

It  is,  I  think,  scarce  honesty  in  him 
To  look  for  thanks,  who  means  no  favour.     I 
Abhor  this  marriage  more  than  you  desire  it. 

Char.  You  have  reviv'd  me. 

Pam.  Now  if  you,  or  he, 

Your  Byrrhia  here,  can  do  or  think  of  aught ; 
Act,  plot,  devise,  invent,  strive  all  you  can 
To  make  her  your's ;  and  I'll  do  all  I  can 
That  she  may  not  be  mine. 

Char.  Enough. 

Pam.  I  see 

Davus,  and  in  good  time :  for  he'll  advise 
What's  best  to  do. 

Char,  (to  Byr.")     But  you,  you  sorry  rogue, 
Can  give  me  no  advice,  nor  tell  me  aught, 
But  what  it  is  impertinent  to  know. 
Hence,  sirrah,  get  you  gone ! 

Byr.  With  all  my  heart.  [Exit. 

SCENE  III. 
Enter  DAVUS  hastily. 

Dav.    Good   heaven's,   what   news   I    bring! 

what  joyful  news ! 

But  where  shall  I  find  Pamphilus,  to  drive 
His  fears  away,  and  make  him  full  of  joy  ? 

Char.  There's  something  pleases  him. 

Pam.  No  matter  what. 

He  has  not  heard  of  our  ill  fortune  yet. 

Dav.  And  he,  I  warrant,  if  he  has  been  told 
Of  his  intended  wedding 

Char.  Do  you  hear  ? 

Dav.  Poor  soul,  is  running  all  about  the  town 
In  quest  of  me.     But  whither  shall  I  go  ? 
Or  which  way  run? 

Char.  Why  don't  you  speak  to  him  ? 

Dav.  I'll  go. 

Pam.  Ho !  Davus !  stop,  come  here ! 

Dav.  Who  calls  ? 

0,  Pamphilus !  the  very  man. — Heyday ! 
Charinus  too! — Both  gentlemen,  well  met! 
I've  news  for  both. 

Pam.  I'm  ruin'd,  Davus. 

Dav.  Hear  me ! 

Pam.  Undone ! 

Dav.  I  know  your  fears. 

Char.  My  life's  at  stake. 

Dav.  Your's  I  know  also. 

Pam.  Matrimony  mine. 

Dav.  I  know  it. 

Pam.  But  to-day. 

Dav.  You  stun  me ;  plague ! 

I  tell  you  I  know  ev'ry  thing :  you  fear 

(to  Char.) 

You  should  not  marry  her. — You  fear  you  should. 

(to  Pam.) 

Char.  The  very  thing. 

Pam.  The  same. 

Dav.  And  yet  that  sanie 

Is  nothing.     Mark ! 


TERENCE. 


397 


Pam.  Nay,  rid  me  of  my  fear. 

Dav.  I  will  then.     Chremes 
Won't  give  his  daughter  to  you. 

Pam.  How  d'ye  know  ? 

Dav.  I'm  sure  of  it.     Your  father  but  just  now 
Takes  me  aside,  and  tells  me  'twas  his  will, 
That  you  should  wed  to-dny;  with  much  beside, 
Which  now  I  have  not  leisure  to  repeat. 
I,  on  the  instant,  hastening  to  find  you, 
Run  to  the  Forum  to  inform  you  of  it: 
There,  failing,  climb  an  eminence,  look  round: 
No  Pamphilus:  I  light  by  chance  on  Byrrhia; 
Inquire;  he  hadn't  seen  you.     Vex'd  at  heart, 
What's  to  be  done1?  thought  I.    Returning  thence 
A  doubt  arose  within  me.     H.x  !  bad  cheer, 
The  old  man  melancholy,  and  a  wedding 
Clapt  up  so  suddenly!    This  don't  agree. 

Pam.  Well,  what  then? 

Dav.  I  betook  me  instantly 

Tc  Chremes'  house;  but  thither  when  I  came, 
Before  the  door  all  hush.     This  tickled  me. 

Pam.  You're  in  the  right.    Proceed. 

Dav.  I  watch'd  awhile  : 

M«?an  time  no  soul  went  in,  no  soul  came  out ; 
No  matron  ;  in  the  house  no  ornament ; 
No  note  of  preparation.     I  approach'd, 
Look'd  in — 

Pam.  I  understand  :  a  potent  sign ! 

Dav.  Does  this  seem  like  a  nuptial? 

Pam.  I  think  not, 

Davits. 

Dav.  Tliink  not,  d'ye  say?  you  don't  conceive  : 
The  thing  is  evident.     I  met  beside, 
As  I  departed  thence,  with  Chremes'  boy, 
Bearing  some  potherbs,  and  a  pennyworth 
Ol  little  fishes  for  the  old  man's  dinner. 

Char.  I  am  deliver'd,  Davus,  by  your  means, 
From  all  my  apprehensions  of  to-day. 

Dav.  And  yet  you  are  undone. 

Char.  How  so?  since  Chremes 

Will  not  consent  to  give  Philumena 
To  Pamphilus. 

Dav.  Ridiculous !    As  if, 

Because  the  daughter  is  denied  to  him, 
She  must  of  course  wed  you.     Look  to  it  well ; 
Court  the  old  gentleman  through  friends,  apply, 
Or  el     — 

Char.        You're  right:  I  will  about  it  straight, 
Although  that  hope  has  often  fuil'd.     Farewell. 

[Exit. 

SCEKE    IV. 

PAMPHILCS  and  DAYUS. 

Pam.  What  means  my  father  then?  why  coun- 
terfeit ? 

Day.  That  I'll  explain.    If  he  were  angry  now, 
Merely  that  Chremes  has  refus'd  his  daughter, 
He'd  think  himself  in  fault;  and  justly  too, 
Before  the  bias  of  your  mind  is  known. 
But  granting  you  refuse  her  for  a  wife. 
Then  all  the  blame  devolves  on  you,  and  then 
Comes  all  the  storm. 

Pam.  What  course  then  shall  I  take  ? 

Shall  I  submit — 

Dav.  He  is  your  father.  >ir. 

Whom  to  oppose  were  difficult ;  and  then 


Glycerium's  a  lone  woman ;  and  he'll  find 
Some  course,  no  matter  what,  do  drive  her  hence. 

Pam.  To  drive  her  hence  ? 

Dav.  Directly. 

Pam.  Tell  me  then, 

Oh  tell  me,  Davus,  what  were  best  to  do? 

Dav.  Say  that  you'll  marry. 

Pam.  How ! 

Dav.  And  where's  the  harm  ? 

Pam.  Say  that  I'll  marry! 

Dav.  Why  not? 

Pam.  Never,  never. 

Dav.  Do  not  refuse! 

Pam.  Persuade  not! 

Dav.  Do  but  mark 

The  consequence. 

Pam.  Divorcement  from  Glycerium, 

And  marriage  with  the  other. 

Dav.  No  such  thing. 

Your  father,  I  suppose,  accosts  you  thus : 
:-  I'd  have  you  wed  to-day  ;"  "I  will,"  quoth  you  : 
What  reason  has  he  to  reproach  you  then? 
Thus  shall  you  baffle  all  his  settled  schemes, 
And  put  him  to  confusion ;  all  the  while 
Secure  yourself:  for  'tis  beyond  a  doubt 
That  Chremes  will  refuse  his  daughter  to  youj 
So  obstinately  too,  you  need  not  pause, 
Or  change  these  measures,  lest  he  change  his 

mind : 

Say  to  your  father  then,  that  you  will  wed, 
That,  with  the  will,  he  may  want  cause  to  chide. 
But  if,  deluded  by  fond  hopes,  you  cry, 
"No  one  will  wed  their  daughter  to  a  rake, 
A  libertine." — Alas,  you're  much  deceiv'd : 
For  know,  your  father  will  redeem  some  wretch 
From  rags  and  beggary  to  be  your  wife, 
Rather  than  see  your  ruin  with  Glycerium. 
But  if  he  thinks  you  bear  an  easy  mind, 
He  too  will  grow  indiff'rent,  and  seek  out 
Another  match  at  leisure:  the  mean  while 
Affairs  may  take  a  lucky  turn. 

Pam.  D'ye  think  so? 

Dav.  Beyond  all  doubt. 

Pam.  See,  what  you  lead  me  to. 

Dav.  Nay,  peace ! 

Pam.  I'll  say  so  then.    But  have  a  care 

He  knows  not  of  the  child,  which  I've  agreed 
To  educate. 

Dav.  Oh  confidence ! 

Pam.  She  drew 

This  promise  from  me,  as  a  firm  assurance 
That  I  would  not  forsake  her. 

Dav.  We'll  take  care. 

But  here's  your  father:  let  him  not  perceive 
You're  melancholy. 

SCEXE  V. 

Enter  SIMO  at  a  distance. 
Sim.  I  return  to  see 

What  they're  about,  or  what  they  meditate. 

Dav.  Now  is  he  sure  that  you'll  refuse  to  wed. 
From    some    dark   corner    brooding   o'er    black 

thoughts 

He  comes,  and  fancies  he  has  fram'd  a  speech 
To  disconcert  you.     See,  you  keep  your  ground ! 
Pam.  If  I  can,  Davus. 
21 


398 


TERENCE. 


Dav.  Trust  me,  Pampliilus, 

Your  father  will  not  change  a  single  word 
In  anger  with  you,  do  but  say  you'll  wed. 

SCENE  VI. 
Enter  BYRRHIA  behind. 

Syr.  To-day  my  master  bade  me  leave  all  else 
For  Pampliilus,  and  watch  how  he  proceeds, 
About  his  marriage ;  wherefore  I  have  now 
Follow'd  the  old  man  hither :  yonder  too 
Stands  Pampliilus  himself,  and  with  him  Davus. 
To  business  then ! 

Sim,  I  see  them  both  together. 

Dav.  (apart  to  Pam.)  Now  mind. 

Sim.  Here,  Pamphilus ! 

Dav.  (apart.)  Now  turn  about, 

As  taken  unawares. 

Pam.  Who  calls  ?  my  father  ? 

Dav.  (apart.)  Well  said ! 

Sim.  It  is  my  pleasure  that,  that  to-day, 

As  I  have  told  you  once  before,  you  marry. 

Dav.  (aside.)  Now  on  our  part,  I  fear  what  he'll 
reply. 

Pam.  In  that,  and  all  the  rest  of  your  com- 

mapds, 
I  shall  be  ready  to  obey  you,  sir ! 

Syr.  (overhearing.)  How's  that! 

Dav.  (aside.)  Struck  dumb. 

Syr.  (listening.)  What  said  he  ? 

Sim.  You  perform 

Your  duty,  when  you  cheerfully  comply 
With  my  desires. 

Dav.  (apart  to  Pam.)  There!   said  I  not  the 
truth? 

Syr.  My  master  then,  so  far  as  I  can  find, 
May  whistle  for  a  wife. 

Sim.  Now  then  go  in, 

That  when  you're  wanted  you  be  found. 

Pam.  I  go. 

[Exit. 

Syr.  Is  there  no  faith  in  the  affairs  of  men  ? 
'Tis  an  old  saying,  and  a  true  one  too, 
"Of  all  mankind  each  loves  himself  the  best.'1 
I've  seen  the  lady ;  know  her  beautiful ; 
And  therefore  sooner  pardon  Pamphilus, 
If  he  had  rather  win  her  to  his  arms, 
Than  yield  her  to  the  embraces  of  my  master. 
I  will  go  bear  these  tidings,  and  receive 
Much  evil  treatment  for  my  evil  news.       [Exit. 

SCENE  VII. 
SIMO  and  DAVUS. 

Dav.  Now  he  supposes  I've  some  trick  in  hand 
And  loiter  here  to  practise  it  on  him. 

Sim.  Well,  what  now,  Davus? 

Dav.  Nothing. 

Sim.  Nothing,  say  you  ? 

Dav.  Nothing  at  all. 

Sim.  And  yet  I  look'd  for  something. 

Dav.  So,  I  perceive,  you  did: — (aside.)  This 
nettles  him. 

Sim.  Can  you  speak  truth  ? 

Dav.  Most  easily. 

Sim.  Say  then, 

Is  not  this  wedding  most  irksome  to  my  son, 
From  his  adventure  with  the  Andrian  ? 


Dav.  No,  faith  :  or  if  at  all,  'twill  only  be 
Two  or  three  days'  anxiety,  you  know  : 
Then  'twill  be  over;  for  he  sees  the  thing 
In  its  true  light. 

Sim.  I  praise  him  for't. 

Dav.  While  you 

Restrain'd  him  not;  and  while  his  youth  allow'd, 
'Tis  true  he  lov'd  ;  and  even  then  by  stealth, 
As  wise  men  ought,  and  careful  of  his  fame. 
Now  his  age  calls  for  matrimony,  now 
To  matrimony  he  inclines  his  mind. 

Sim.  Yet,  in  my  eyes,  he  seem'd  a  little  sad. 

Dav.  Not  upon  that  account.  He  has,  he  thinks, 
Another  reason  to  complain  of  you. 

Sim.  For  what? 

Dav.  A  trifle. 

Sim.  Well,  what  is't? 

Dav.  Nay,  nothing. 

Sim.  Tell  me,  what  is't  ? 

Dav.  You  are  then,  he  complains, 
Somewhat  too  sparing  of  expense. 

Sim.  I  ? 

Dav.  You. 

A  feast  of  scarce  ten  drachms!  Does  this,  says  he, 
Look  like  a  wedding-supper  for  his  son? 
What  friends  can  I  invite  ? — especially 
At  such  a  time  as  this  ? — and,  truly,  sir, 
You  have  been  very  frugal ;  much  too  sparing. 
I  can't  commend  you  for  it. 

Sim.  Hold  your  peace. 

Dav.  (aside.)  I've  ruffled  him. 

Sim.  I'll  look  to  that.    Away! 

[Exit  DAVTTS. 
What  now?  what  means  the  varlet?    Precious 

rogue, 

For  if  there's  any  knavery  on  foot, 
He,  I  am  sure,  is  the  contriver  on't.  [Exit. 

ACT  III.     SCENE  I. 
SIMO,  DAVUS,  coming  out  of  Simo's  house — MTSIS, 

LESBIA,  going  toivards  the  house  of  Gly cerium. 

Mys.  Ay,  marry,  'tis  as  you  say,  Lesbia ; 
Women  scarce  ever  find  a  constant  man. 

Sim.  The  Andrian's  maid-servant!  Is't  not? 

Dav.  Ay. 

Mys.  But  Pamphilus — 

Sim.  (overhearing.)  What  says  she  ? 

Mys.  Has  been  true. 

Sim.  (overhearing.)        How's  that? 

Dav.  (aside.)  Would  he  were  deaf,  or  she  were 
dumb. 

Mys.  For  the  child,  boy  or  girl,  he  has  resolv'd 
To  educate. 

Sim.  0  Jupiter !  what's  this 

I  hear  ?  If  this  be  true,  I'm  lost  indeed. 

Les.  A  good  young  gentleman ! 

Mys.  Oh,  very  good. 

But  in,  in,  lest  you  make  her  wait. 

Les.  I  follow. 

[Exeunt  MTSIS  and  LESBIA. 

SCENE  II. 
SIMO  and  DAVUS. 

Dav.  (aside.)  Unfortunate!  What  remedy! 
Sim.  (to  himself.)  How's  this? 

And  can  he  be  so  mad  ?  What !  educate 


TERENCE 


399 


A  harlot's  child  ! — Ah,  now  I  know  their  drift ; 
Fool  that  I  was,  scarce  smelt  it  out  at  last. 

Dav.  (listening.)  What's  this  he  says  he   has 
smelt  out? 

Sim.  (to  himself.}  Imprimis, 

'Tis  this  rogue's  trick  upon  me.     All  a  sham : 
A  counterfeit  deliv'ry,  and  mock  labour, 
lYvis'd  to  frighten  Chremes  from  the  match. 

Glyc.  (within.}  Juno  Lucina,  save  me!  help,  I 
pray  tliee. 

Sim.  Hey  day!  already?  Oh  ridiculous! 
Soon  as  she  heard  that  I  was  at  the  door 
She  hastens  to  cry  out.     Your  incidents 
Are  ill-tim'd,  Davus. 

Dav.  Mine,  sir? 

Sim.  Are  you  players 

Unmindful  of  their  cues,  and  want  a  prompter? 

Dav.  I  do  not  comprehend  you. 

Sim.  (apart.)  If  this  knave 

Had,  in  the  real  nuptial  of  my  son, 
Come  thus  upon  me  unprepar'd,  what  sport, 
What  scorn  he'd  have  expos'd  me  to !     But  now 
At  his  own  peril  be  it.     I'm  secure. 

SCE*E    III. 

lie-enter  LESBIA. — ARCHTLLIS  appears  at  the  door. 
Les.  to  Arch,  (irithin.)  As  yet,  Archyllis,  all  the 

symptoms  seem 

As  good  as  might  be  wish'd  in  her  condition ; 
First,  let  her  make  ablution :  after  that, 
Drink  what  I've  order'd  her,  and  just  so  much : 
And  presently  I  will  be  here  again. 

( coming  forward. ) 

Now,  by  this  good  day,  Master  Pamphilus 
Has  got  a  chopping  boy :  Heaven  grant  it  live ! 
For  he's  a  worthy  gentleman,  and  scorn'd 
To  do  a  wrong  to  this  young  innocent.         [Exit. 

SCE*E  IV. 

SIMO  and  DAVUS. 
Sim.  This   too,   where's   he    that   knows   you 

would  not  swear, 
Was  your  contrivance  ? 

Dav.  My  contrivance  !  what,  sir  ? 

Sim.  While  in  the  house,  forsooth,  the  midwife 

gave 

No  orders  for  the  lady  in  the  straw : 
But  having  issued  forth  into  the  street, 
Bawls  out  most  lustily  to  those  within. 
— Oh  Davus.  am  I  then  so  much  your  scorn? 

I  so  proper  to  be  play'd  upon, 
With  such  a  shallow,  ban-fac'd.  imposition? 
You  might  at  least,  in  reverence,  have  used 
Some  spice  of  art.  wer't  only  to  pretend 
You  fcar'd  my  anger,  should  I  find  you  nut. 
Dav.  ((isiilf.)   I'  faith  now  he  deceives  himself, 

not  I. 
Sim.  Did  not  I  give  you  warning?  threaten  too, 

you  play'd  me  false?  But  all  in  vain: 
For  what  car'd  you? — What!  think  you  I  believe 
This  story  of  a  child  by  Pamphi! 

Dav.  (aside.}  I  see  his  error :  Now  I  know  my 

game. 

Sim.  Why  don't  you  answer? 
Dav.  (archly.)         What!  you  don't  believe  it? 
As  if  you  had  not  been  inform'd  of  this  ? 


Sim.  I  been  inform'd? 

Dav.  (archly.)        What  then  you  found  it  out? 

Siin.  D'ye  laugh  at  me  ? 

Dav.  You  must  have  been  inform'd : 

Or  whence  this  shrewd  suspicion  ? 

Sim.  Whence !  from  you : 

Because  I  know  you. 

Dav.  Meaning,  this  was  done 

By  my  advice. 

Sim.  Beyond  all  doubt:  I  know  it. 

Dav.  You  do  not  know  me,  Simo. — 

Sim.  I  not  know  you? 

Dav.  For  if  I  do  but  speak,  immediately 
You  think  yourself  impos'd  on. — 

Sim.  Falsely,  hey  ? 

Dav.  So  that  I  dare  not  ope  my  lips  before  you. 

Sim*  All  that  I  know  is  this;  that  nobody 
Has  been  deliver'd  here. 

Dav.  You've  found  it  out? 

Yet  by  and  by  they'll  bring  the  bantling  here, 
And  lay  it  at  our  door.     Remember,  sir, 
I  give  you  warning  that  will  be  the  case ; 
That  you  may  stand  prepar'd,  nor  after  say, 
'Twas  done  by  Davus'  advice,  his  tricks! 
I  would  fain  cure  your  ill  opinion  of  me. 

Si?n.  But  how  d'ye  know  ? 

Dav.  I've  heard  so,  and  believe  so. 

Besides,  a  thousand  things  concur  to  lead 
To  this  conjecture.     In  the  first  place,  she 
Profess'd  herself  with  child  by  Pamphilus : 
That  proves  a  falsehood.  Now  that  she  perceives 
A  nuptial  preparation  at  our  house, 
A  maid's  despatch'd  immediately  to  bring 
A  midwife  to  her,  and  withal  a  child  ; 
You  too  they  will  contrive  shall  see  the  child, 
Or  else  the  wedding  must  proceed. 

Sim.  How's  this  ? 

Having  disco ver'd  such  a  plot  on  foot, 
Why  did  you  not  directly  tell  my  son? 

Dav.  Who  then  has  drawn  him  from  her  but 

myself? 

For  we  all  know  how  much  he  doated  on  her : 
But  now  he  wishes  for  a  wife.     In  fine, 
Leave  that  affair  to  me ;  and  you  meanwhile 
Pursue,  as  you've  begun,  the  nuptials ;  which 
The  gods,  I  hope,  will  prosper ! 

Sim.  Get  you  in. 

Wait  for  me  there,  and  see  that  you  prepare 
What's  requisite.  [Exit  DAVITS. 

He  has  not  wrought  upon  me 
To  yield  implicit  credit  to  his  tale, 
Nor  do  I  know  if  all  he  said  be  true. 
But,  true  or  false  it  matters  not :  to  me 
My  son's  own  promise  is  the  main  concern. 
Now  to  meet  Chremes,  and  to  beg  his  dayghter 
In  marriage  with  my  son  :  If  I  succeed, 
What  can  I  rather  wish  than  to  behold 
Their  marriage  rites  to-day  ?  For  since  my  son 
Has  given  me  his  word,  I've  not  a  doubt, 
Should  he  refuse,  but  I  may  force  him  to  it: 
And  to  my  wishes  see  where  Chremes  comes. 

SCEXE  V. 
Enter  CHREMES. 
St'm.  Chremes,  good  day ! 
Chrcm.  The  very  man  I  look'd  for. 


400 


TERENCE. 


Sim.  And  I  for  you. 

Chrem.  Well  met. — Some  persons  came 

To  tell  me  you  inform'd  them,  that  my  daughter 
Was  to  be  married  to  your  son  to-day: 
And  therefore  came  I  here,  and  fain  would  know 
Whether  'tis  you  or  they  have  lost  their  wits. 

Sim.  A   moment's   hearing;   you   shall  be  in- 
form'd, 
What  I  request,  and  what  you  wish  to  know. 

Chrem.  I  hear ;  what  would  you  ?  speak. 

Sim.  Now  by  the  gods ; 

Now  by  our  friendship,  Chremes,  which,  begun 
In  infancy,  has  still  increas'd  with  age ; 
Now  by  your  only  daughter,  and  my  son, 
Whose  preservation  wholly  rests  on  you  ; 
Let  me  entreat  this  boon :  and  let  the  match 
Which  should  have  been,  still  be. 

Chrem.  Why,  why  entreat? 

Knowing  you  ought  not  to  beseech  this  of  me. 
Think  you,  that  I  am  other  than  I  was, 
When  first  I  gave  my  promise  ?  If  the  match 
Be  good  for  both,  e'en  call  them  forth  to  wed, 
But  if  their  union  promises  more  harm 
Than  good  to  both,  you  also,  I  beseech  you, 
Consult  our  common  interest,  as  if 
You  were  her  father,  Pamphilus  my  son. 

Sim,  E'en  in  that  spirit,  I  desire  it,  Chremes, 
Entreat  it  may  be  done ;  nor  would  entreat, 
But  that  occasion  urges. 

Chrem.  What  occasion? 

Sim.  A  difference  'twixt  Glycerium  and  my 
son. 

Chrem.  (ironically.)  I  hear. 

Sim.          A  breach  so  wide  as  gives  me  hopes 
To  sep'rate  them  for  ever. 

Chrem.  Idle  tales! 

Sim.  Indeed  'tis  thus. 

Chrem.  Ay  marry,  thus  it  is. 

Quarrels  of  lovers  but  renew  their  love. 

Sim.  Prevent  we  then,  I  pray,  this   mischief 

now ; 

While  time  permits,  while  yet  his  passion's  sore 
From  contumelies ;  ere  these  women's  wiles, 
Their  wicked  arts,  and  tears  made  up  of  fraud 
Shake  his  weak  mind,  and  melt  it  to  compassion, 
Give  him  a  wife :  by  intercourse  with  her, 
Knit  by  the  bonds  of  wedlock,  soon,  I  hope, 
He'll  rise  above  the  guilt  that  sinks  him  now. 

Chrem.  So  you  believe :  for  me,  I  cannot  think 
That  he'll  be  constant,  or  that  I  can  bear  it. 

Sim.  How   can  you  know,  unless  you  make 
the  trial  ? 

Chrem.  Ay,  but  to  make  that  trial  on  a  daughter 
Is  hard  indeed. 

Sim.  The  mischief,  should  he  fail, 

Is  only  this :  divorce,  which  heaven  forbid ! 
But  mark  what  benefits  if  he  amend  ! 
First,  to  your  friend  you  will  restore  a  son ; 
Gain  to  yourself  a  son-in-law,  and  match 
Your  daughter  to  an  honest  husband. 

Chrem.  Well ! 

Since  you're  so  thoroughly  convinc'd  'tis  right, 
I  can  deny  you  naught  that  lies  in  me. 

Sim.  I  see  I  ever  lov'd  you  justly,  Chremes. 

Chrem.  But  then — 

Sim.  But  what  ? 


Chrem.  Whence  is't  you  know 

That  there's  a  difference  between  them  ? 

Sim.  Davus, 

Davus,  in  all  their  secrets,  told  me  so  ; 
Advis'd  me  too,  to  hasten  on  the  match 
As  fast  as  possible.     Would  he,  d'ye  think, 
Do  that,  unless  he  were  full  well  assur'd 
My  son  desir'd  it  too  ? — Hear  what  he  says. 
Ho  there !  call  Davus  forth. — But  here  he  comes. 

SCENE  VI. 
Enter  DAVUS. 

Dav.  I  was  about  to  seek  you. 

Sim.  What's  the  matter  ? 

Dav.  Why  is  not  the  bride  sent  for  ?  it  grows 
late. 

Sim.  D'ye  hear  him? — Davus,  I  for  some  time 

past 

Was  fearful  of  you;  lest,  like  other  slaves, 
As  slaves  go  now,  you  should  put  tricks  upon  me, 
And  baffle  me,  to  favour  my  son's  love. 

Dav.  I,  sir? 

Sim.  I  thought  so:  and  in  fear  of  that 

Conceal'd  a  secret  which  I'll  now  disclose. 

Dav.  What  secret,  sir  ? 

Sim.  I'll  tell  you  :  for  I  now 

Almost  begin  to  think  you  may  be  trusted. 

Dav.  You've  found  what  sort  of  man  I  am  at 
last. 

Sim.  No  marriage  was  intended. 

Dav.  How !  none ! 

Sim.  None. 

All  counterfeit,  to  sound  my  son  and  you. 

Dav.  How  say  you  ? 

Sim.  Even  so. 

Dav.  Alack,  alack! 

I  never  could  have  thought  it. — (archly.)  Ah,  what 
art! 

Sim.  Hear  me.    No  sooner  had  I  sent  you  in, 
But  opportunely  I  encounter'd  Chremes. 

Dav.  (aside.)  How!  are  we  ruiri'd  then? 

Sim.  I  told  him  all, 

That  you  had  just  told  me, — 

Dav.  (aside.)  Confusion!  how? 

Sim.  Begg'd  him  to  grant  his  daughter,  and  at 

length, 
With  much  ado  prevail'd. 

Dav.  (aside.)  Undone ! 

Sim.  (overhearing.)  How's  that? 

Dav.  Well  done!  I  said. 

Sim.  My  good  friend  Chremes  then 

Is  now  no  obstacle. 

Chrem.  I'll  home  awhile, 

Order  due  preparations,  and  return.  [Exit. 

Sim.  Prithee,  now,  Davus,  seeing  you  alone 
Have  brought  about  this  match — 

Dav.  Yes,  I  alone. 

Sim.  Endeavour  farther  to  amend  my  son. 

Dav.  Most  diligently. 

Sim.  It  were  easy  now, 

While  his  mind's  irritated. 

Dav.  Be  at  peace. 

Sim.  Do  then :  where  is  he  ? 

Dav.  Probably  at  home. 

Sim.  I'll  in,  and  tell  him,  what  I've  now  told 
you.  [Emt. 


TERENCE. 


401 


SCEXE  VII. 

DAVUS  alone. 

Lost  and  undone !  To  prison  with  me  straight ! 
No  prayer,  no  play :  for  I  have  ruin'd  all : 
Deceiv'd  the  old  man,  hamperd  Pamphilus 
With  marriage;  marriage,  brought  about  to-day 
By  my  sole  means ;  beyond  the  hopes  of  one  5 
Against  the  other's  will. — Oh  cunning  fool! 
Had  I  been  quiet,  all  had  yet  been  well. 
But  see,  he's  coming.     Would   my  neck  were 
broken!  (retires.) 

SCEXE  VIII. 
Enter  PAMPHILUS;  DAVUS  behind. 

Pam.  Where  is  this  villain  that  has  ruin'd  me  ? 

Dav.  I'm  a  lost  man. 

Pam.  And  yet  I  must  confess, 

That  I  deserv'd  this,  being  such  a  dolt, 
A  very  idiot,  to  commit  my  fortunes 
To  a  vile  slave.     I  suffer  for  my  folly, 
But  will  at  least  take  vengeance  upon  him. 

Dav.  If  I  can  but  escape  this  mischief  now, 
I'll  answer  for  hereafter. 

Pam.  To  my  father 

What  shall  I  say? — And  can  I  then  refuse, 
Who  have  but  now  consented  ?  with  what  face  ? 
I  know  not  what  to  do. 

Dav.  T  faith  nor  I ; 

A  nd  yet  it  takes  up  all  my  thoughts.     I'll  tell  him 
I've  hit  on  something  to  delay  the  match. 

Pam.  (seeing  Dav.}  Oh  ! 

Dav.  I  am  seen. 

Pam.  So,  good  sir !  what  say  you  ? 
See,  how  I'm  hamperd  with  your  fine  advice. 

Dav.  (coming  forward.)  But  I'll  deliver  you. 

Pam.  Deliver  me? 

Dav.  Certainly,  sir. 

Pam.  What,  as  you  did  just  now  ? 

Dav.  Better,  I  hope. 

Pam.  And  can  you  then  believe 
That  I  would  trust  you,  rascal  ?  You  amend 
My  broken  fortunes,  or  redeem  them  lost? 
You,  who  to-day,  from  the  most  happy  state, 
Have  thrown  me  upon  marriage. — Did  not  I 
Foretell  it  would  be  thus  ? 

Dav.  You  did  indeed. 

Puni.  And  what  do  you  deserve  for  this? 

Dav.  The  gallows. — 

Yin  sutler  me  to  take  a  little  breath, 
I'll  devise  something  presently. 

Pam.  Alas, 

!i  have  not  leisure  for  your  punishment. 
The  time  demands  attention  to  myself, 
Nor  will  be  wasted  in  revenge  on  you. 

ACT  IV.     SCKXE  I. 

Enter  CHARIN  i 

Is  this  to  be  belie v'd,  or  to  be  told  ? 
Can  then  such  inbred  malice  live  in  man, 
To  joy  in  ill.  and  from  another's  woes 
To  draw  his  nVn  delight  ? — Ah,  is't  then  so? — 

~ui'h  there  are,  the  meanest  of  mankind, 
Who,  from  a  sneaking  bashfulnos.  at  lirst 

:  l)iit  when  the  time  comes  on 
To  make  the  promise  good,  then  force  perforce 
II 


Open  themselves  and  fear  :  yet  must  deny. 
Then  too,  oh  shameless  impudence,  they  cry, 
"  Who  then  are  you  ?  and  what  are  you  to  me  ? 
Why  should  I  render  up  my  love  to  you  ? 
Faith,  neighbour,  charity  begins  at  home."— 
Speak  of  their  broken  faith,  they  blush  not,  they, 
Now  throwing  off  that  shame  they  ought  to  wear, 
Which  they  before  assum'd  without  a  cause. — 
What  shall  I  do?  go  to  him?  on  my  wrongs 
Expostulate,  and  throw  reproaches  on  him  ? 
What  will  that  profit,  say  you? — very  much. 
I  shall  at  least  embitter  his  delight, 
And  gratify  my  anger. 

SCEXE   II. 

Enter  PAMPHILUS  and  DAVUS. 

Pam.  Oh,  Charinus, 

By  my  imprudence,  unless  heaven  forefend, 
Ive  ruin'd  both  myself  and  you. 

Char.  Imprudence ! 

Paltry  evasion!    You  have  broke  your  faith. 

Pam.  What  now  ? 

Char.  And  do  you  think  that  words  like  these 
Can  baffle  me  again? 

Pam.  What  means  all  this? 

Char.  Soon  as  I  told  you  of  my  passion  for  her, 
Then  she  had  charms  for  you. — Ah,  senseless 

fool, 
To  judge  your  disposition  by  my  own. 

Pam.  You  are  mistaken. 

Char.  Was  your  joy  no  joy, 

Without  abusing  a  fond  lover's  mind, 
Fool'd  on  with  idle  hopes? — Well,  take  her. 

Pam.  Take  her? 

Alas,  you  know  not  what  a  wretch  I  am : 
How  many  cares  this  slave  has  brought  upon  me, 
My  rascal  here. 

Char.  No  wonder,  if  he  takes 

Example  from  his  master. 

Pam.  Ah.  you  know  not 

Me,  or  my  love,  or  else  you  would  not  talk  thus. 

Char,  (ironically.]  Oh  yes,  I  know  it  all.    You 

had  but  now 

A  dreadful  altercation  with  your  father: 
And  therefore  he's  enraged,  nor  could  prevail 
On  you,  forsooth,  to  wed. 

Pam.  To  show  you  then 

How  little  you  conceive  of  my  distress, 
These  nuptials  were  mere  semblance,  mockery 

all, 
Nor  was  a  wife  intended  me. 

Char.  I  know  it : 

Ynii  are  constrained,  poor  man,  by  inclination. 

Pam.    Nay,   but   have    patience !    you    don't 
know — 

Char.  I  know 

That  you're  to  marry  her. 

Pam.  Why  rack  me  thus? 

Nay  hear !    He  never  ceas'd  to  importune 
That  t  would  tell  my  father  I  would  wed  ; 
So  press'd,  and  urg'd,  that  he  at  length  prevail'd. 

Char.   Who  did  this? 

Pam.  Davus. 

Char.  Davus! 

Pam.  Davus  all. 

Char.  Wherefore? 


402 


TERENCE. 


Pam.  I  know  not:  but  I  know  the  gods 

Meant  in  their  anger  I  should  listen  to  him. 

Char.  Is  it  so,  Davus  ? 

Dav.  Even  so. 

Char.  How,  villain? 

The  gods  confound  you  for  it! — Tell  me,  wretch, 
Had  all  his  most  inveterate  foes  desir'd 
To  throw  him  on  this  marriage,  what  advice 
Could  they  have  given  else  ? 

Dav.  I  am  deceiv'd, 

But  not  dishearten'd. 

Char,  (ironically.')       True. 

Dav.  This  way  has  fail'd  5 

We'll  try  another  way:  unless  you  think, 
Because  the  business  has  gone  ill  at  first, 
We  cannot  graft  advantage  on  misfortune. 

Pam.  Oh  ay,  I  warrant  you,  if  you  look  to't, 
Out  of  one  wedding  you  can  work  me  two. 

Dav.  Pamphilus,  'tis  my  duty,  as  your  slave, 
To  strive  with  might  and  main,  by  day  and  night, 
With  hazard  of  my  life,  to  do  you  service : 
'Tis  yours,  if  I  am  cross'd,  to  pardon  me. 
My  undertakings  fail  indeed,  but  then 
I  spare  no  pains.     Do  better  if  you  can, 
And  send  me  packing. 

Pam.  Ay,  with  all  my  heart : 

Place  me  but  where  you  found  me  first. 

Dav.  I  will. 

Pam.  But  do  it  instantly. 

Dav.  Hist!  hold  awhile: 

I  hear  the  creaking  of  Glycerium's  door. 

Pam.  Nothing  to  you. 

Dav.  I'm  thinking. 

Pam.  What,  at  last? 

Dav.   Your  business  shall  be  done,  and  pre- 
sently. 

SCENE  III. 
Enter  MTSTS. 

Mys.  to  Gly.  (within.}  Be  where  he  will,  I'll  find 

your  Pamphilus, 
And  bring  him  with  me.    Meanwhile,  you,  my 

soul, 
Forbear  to  vex  yourself. 

Pam.  Mysis ! 

Mys.  Who's  there? 

Oh  Pamphilus,  well  met,  sir ! 

Pam.  What's  the  matter? 

Mys.  My  mistress,  by  the  love  you  bear  her,  begs 
Your  presence  instantly.     She  longs  to  see  you. 

Pam.  Ah,  I'm   undone : — (to  Dav.)  This  sore 

breaks  out  afresh. 

Unhappy  that  we  are,  through  your  curst  means, 
To  be  tormented  thus! — She  has  been  told 
A  nuptial  is  prepar'd,  and  therefore  sends. 

Char,  (pointing  to  Dav.)  From  which  how  safe 
you  were,  had  he  been  quiet ! 

Dav.  (to  Char.)  Aye,  if  he  raves  not  of  him- 
self, enough. 
Do,  irritate  him. 

Mys.  Truly  that's  the  cause  ; 

And  therefore  'tis,  poor  soul,  she  sorrows  thus. 

Pam.  My  si?,  I  swear  to  thee  by  all  the  gods, 
I  never  will  desert  her;  though  assur'd 
That  I  for  her  make  all  mankind  my  foes. 
I  sought  her,  carried  her :  our  hearts  are  one, 


And  farewell  they  that  wish  TIS  put  asunder! 
Death,  nought  but  death  shall  part  us. 

Mys.  I  revive. 

Pam.  Apollo's  oracles  are  not  more  true. 
If  that  my  father  may  be  wrought  upon, 
To  think  I  hinder'd  not  the  match,  'tis  well : 
But  if  that  cannot  be,  come  what  come  may, 
Why  let  him  know,  'twas  I  .  .  .  (to  Char.)  What 
think  you  now  ? 

Char.  That  we  are  wretches  both. 

Dav.  My  brain's  at  work. 

Char.  0  brave ! 

Pam.  I  know  what  you'd  attempt. 

Dav.  Well,  well : 

I  will  effect  it  for  you. 

Pam.  Ay,  but  now. 

Dav.  E'en  now. 

Char.  What  is't ! 

Dav.  For  him,  sir,  not  for  you. 

Be  not  mistaken. 

Char.  I  am  satisfied. 

Pam.  Say,  what  do  you  propose  ? 

Dav.  This  day,  I  fear, 

Is  scarce  sufficient  for  the  execution, 
So  think  not  I  have  leisure  to  relate. 
Hence  then !    You  hinder  me :  hence,  hence,  I 
say ! 

Pam.  I'll  to  Glycerium.  [Exit. 

.    Dav.  Well,  and  what  mean  you  ? 

Whither  will  you,  sir  ? 

Char.  Shall  I  speak  the  truth? 

Dav.  Oh  to  be  sure  :  now  for  a  tedious  tale ! 

Char.  What  will  become  of  me  ? 

Dav.  How  !  not  content ! 

Is  it  not  then  sufficient,  if  I  give  you 
The  respite  of  a  day,  a  little  day, 
By  putting  off  his  wedding? 

Char.  Ay,  but  Davus, — 

Dav.  But  what? 

Char.  That  I  may  wed — 

Dav.  Ridiculous ! 

Char.  If  you  succeed,  come  to  me. 

Dav.  Wherefore  come  ? 

I  can't  assist  you. 

Char.  Should  it  so  fall  out — 

Dav.  Well,  well,  I'll  come. 

Char.  If  aught  I  am  at  home. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  IV. 
DAVUS  and  Mrsis. 

Dav.  Mysis,  wait  here  till  I  come  forth. 
Mys.  For  what? 

Dav.  It  must,  be  so. 

Mys.  Make  haste,  then. 

Dav.  In  a  moment.         [Exit  to  GLTCERIUM'S. 

SCENE  V. 
MYSIS  alone. 

Can  we  securely  then  count  nothing  our's? 
01)  all  ye  gods!  I  thought  this  Pamphilus 
The  greatest  good  my  mistress  coflld  obtain, 
Friend,  lover,  husband,  ev'ry  way  a  blessing: 
And  yet  what  woe,  poor  wretch,  endures  she  not 
On  his  account?  Alas,  more  ill  than  good. 
But  here  comes  Davus. 


TERENCE. 


403 


SCENE  VI. 
Re-enter  DAVUS  with  the  child. 
Mys.  Prithee,  man,  what  now  ? 

Where  are  you  carrying  the  child  ? 

.Dav.  Oh,  Mysis, 

Now  have  I  need  of  all  your  ready  wit, 
Ai;d  all  your  cunning. 

.Mys.  What  are  you  about  ? 

Dav.  Quick,  take  the  boy,  and  lay  him  at  our 

door. 

Mys.  What,  on  the  bare  ground  ? 
Dav.  From  the  altar  then* 

Take  herbs  and  strew  them  underneath. 

Mys.  And  why 

Can't  you  do  that  yourself? 

Dav.  Because,  that  if 

My  master  chance  to  put  me  to  my  oath 
That  :twas  not  I  who  laid  it  there,  I  may 
With  a  safe  conscience  swear,  (gives  her  the  child.) 

Mys.  I  understand. 

But  pray  how   came   this   sudden   qualm  upon 

you  ? 

Dav.  Nay,  but  be  quick,  that  you  may  compre- 
hend 
What  I  propose. — (Mysis  lays  the  child  at  Simo's 

door.)  O  Jupiter!  (looking  out.) 
Mys.  What  now  ? 
Dav.  Here  conies  the  father  of  the   bride! — I 

change 
JNIy  first  intended  purpose. 

Mys.  What  you  mean 

I  i/a n't  imagine. 

Dav.  This  way  from  the  right, 

I'll  counterfeit  to  come: — And  be't  your  care 
To  throw  in  aptly  now  and  then  a  word, 
To  help  out  the  discourse  as  need  requires. 
Mys.  Still   what  you're  at,  I  cannot  compre- 
hend. 

But  if  I  can  as-ist.  as  you  know  best, 
A  to  obstruct  your  purposes,  I'll  stay. 

(Davus  retires.) 

SCEXF.  VII. 

Enter  CHREMES,  going  towards  Simons. 
Chrem.  Having  provided  all  things  necessary, 
I  now  return  to  bid  them  call  the  bride. 
What's   hen-  {    (wing  the  child.)   by  Hercules,  a 

child  !   Ha,  woman, 
Was't  you  that  laid  it  here? 

l\Iy*.   (longing  after  Dav.)      Where  is  he  gone? 
Chrt'in.    What,  won't  you  answer  me? 
My*.  (l<n>/:in<;  nlioiit.)  Not  here:  Ah  me! 

The  fellow's  gone,  and   left  UK'  in  the  lurch. 

(Dav.  coming  forward  and  J»TI, -minis  nut 
to  see  than.) 

Dav.  Good  heavens,  what  confusion  at  the  Fo- 
rum ! 

The  people  all  disputing  with  eaeh  other! 
(loud.)  The  market  price  is  so  confounded  high. 
.)  What  to  say  d-c  I  know  not. 


*  At  Athens  ovcrv  house  had  an  altar  at  the  street 
door;  (which  street-altars  are  also  otVn  mentioned  in 
JMautus.)  These  altars  were  covered  with  fresh  herbs 
rvi-ry  day,  and  it  is  one  of  these  altars,  to  which  Terence 
'iere  alludes. 


Mys.  (to  Dav.)  What  d'ye  mean 

(Chrem.  retires,  and  listens  to  their  conversation.) 
By  leaving  me  alone? 

Dav.  What  farce  is  this  ? 

Ha,  Mysis,  whence  this  child  ?  Who  brought  it  here? 
Mys.  Have  you  your  wits,  to  ask  me  such  a 

question  1 
Dav.  Whom  should  I  ask,  when  no  one  else  is 

here  ? 
Chrem.  (behind,  to  himself.)  I  wonder  whence 

it  comes. 

Dav.  (loud.)   Wilt  answer  me? 
Mys.   (confused.)  Ah! 

Dav.   (apart  to  Mysis.)  This  way,  to  the  right! 
Mys.  You're  raving  mad. 

Was't  not  yourself? 

Dav.  (apart  to  Mysis.)  I  charge  you  not  a  word, 
But  what  I  ask  you. 

Mys.  Do  you  threaten  me? 

Dav.  (loud.)  Whence  comes  this  child? 
Mys.  From  our  house. 
Dav.  Ha!  ha!  ha! 

No  wonder  that  a  harlot  has  assurance. 

Chrem.  This  is  the  Andrian's  servant-maid,  I 

take  it. 
Dav.  (loud  to  Mysis.)  Do  we  then  seem  to  you 

such  proper  folks 
To  play  these  tricks  upon? 

Chrem.  (to  himself.)  I  came  in  time. 

Dav.  (loud.)  Make  haste,  and  take  your  bant- 
ling from  our  door. 
(softly.)  Hold !  do  not  stir  from  where  you  are, 

be  sure. 

Mys.  A  plague  upon  you  :  you  so  terrify  me  ! 
Dav.  (loud.)  Wench,  did  I  speak  to  you  or  no  ? 
Mys.  What  would  you  ? 

Dav.  (loud.)  What  would  I  ?  Say,  whose  child 

have  you  laid  here  ? 
Tell  me. 

Mys.         You  don't  know? 
Dav.  (softly.)  Plague  of  what  I  know  : 

Tell  what  I  ask. 

Mys.  Your's. 

Dav.   (loud.)  Ours?  Whose? 

Mys.  Pamphilus'. 

Dav.  (loud.)  How  say  you?  Pamphilus'! 
Mys.  Why,  is't  not  ? 

Chrem.   (to  himself.)   I  had  good  cause  to  be 

against  this  match. 

Dav.  (bawling.)  0  monstrous  impudence! 
Mys.  Why  all  this  noise? 

Dav.  Did   not  I  see  this  child  convey'd  by 

stealth 
Into  your  house  last  night? 

Mys.  Oh  rogue ! 

Dnr.  'Tis  true. 

I  saw  old  Canthara  stuff'd  out? 

Mys.  Thank  heaven, 

Some  free  women*  were  present  at  her  labour. 

Dav.   (to  himself.)  Troth,   she  don't  know  the 

gentleman,  for  whom 
She  plays  this  yame.  She  thinks,  should  Chremes 

see 
The  child  lie  here, he  would  notgranthisdaughter. 

*  Free  women  :  For  in  Greece  as  well  as  in  Italy,  slaves 
were  not  admitted  to  give  evidence. 


404 


TERENCE. 


Faith,  he  would  grant  her  the  more  willingly. 

Chrem.  Not  he  indeed. 

Dav.  But  now  one  word  for  all, 

Take  up  the  child  ;  or  I  shall  trundle  him 
Into  the  middle  of  the  street,  and  roll 
You,  madam,  in  the  mire. 

Mys.  The  fellow's  drunk. 

Dav.  One  piece  of  knavery  begets  another : — 
(loud.)  Now  I  am  told,  'tis  whisper'd  all  about, 
That  she's  a  citizen  of  Athens — 

Chrem.  How ! 

Dav.  And  that  by  law*  he  will  be  forc'd  to 
wed  her. 

Mys.  Why  prithee  is  she  not  a  citizen  ? 

Chrem.  (to  himself.)  What  a  fine  scrape  was  I 

within  a  hair 
Of  being  drawn  into ! 

Dav.   (turning  about.)    What  voice  is  that  ? — 
Oh  Chremes!  you  are  come  in  time.     Attend  ! 

Chrem.  I  have  heard  all  already. 

Dav.  You've  heard  all  ? 

Chrem.  Yes,  all,  I  say,  from  first  to  last. 

Dav.  Indeed! 

Good  lack,  what  knaveries  !  This  lying  jade 
Should  be  dragg'd  hence  to  torture — (to  Mysis.) 

This  is  he ! 
Think  not  'twas  Davus  you  imposed  upon. 

Mys.  Ah  me ! — Good  sir,  \  spoke  the  truth  in- 
deed. 

Chrem.  I  know  the   whole. — Is   Simo  in  the 
house  ? 

Dav.  Yes  sir.  [Exit  CHREMKS. 

SCE*E  VIII. 
DAVUS  and  MTSIS,  (Davus  runs  up  to  her.) 

Mys.  Don't  offer  to  touch  me,  you  villain! 
If  I  don't  tell  my  mistress  every  word — 

Dav.  Why  you  don't  know,  you  fool,  what  good 
we've  done ! 

Mys.  How  should  I  ? 

Dav.  This  is  father  to  the  bride : 

Nor  could  it  otherwise  have  been  contrived 
That  he  should  know  what  we  would  have  him 

Mys.  Well, 

You  should  have  given  me  notice. 

Dav.  Is  there  then 

No  difference,  think  you,  whether  all  you  say 
Falls  naturally  from  the  heart,  or  comes 
From  dull  premeditation  ? 

ScEtfE    IX. 

Enter  CRITO. 

Cri.  In  this  street 

They  say  that  Chrysis  liv'd  :  who  rather  chose 
To  heap  up  riches  here  by  wanton  ways, 
Than  to  live  poor  and  honestly  at  home  : 
She  dead,  her  fortune  comes  by  law  to  me. 
But  I  see  persons  to  inquire  of.  (goes  up.)     Save 

you! 
Mys.  Good  now,  who's  that  I  see!   is  it  not 

Crito, 
Chrysis'  kinsman?  Ay,  the  very  same. 

*  Among  the  laws  of  Athens  was  that  equitable  one, 
which  compelled  the  man  to  marry  her  whom  he  had 
debauched,  if  she  was  a  free  woman. 


Cri.  0  Mysis,  save  you!  . 

Mys.  Save  you,  Crito! 

Cri.  Chrysis 

Is  then — ha? 

Mys.  Ay,  she  has  left  us,  poor  soul ! 

Cri.  And   ye ;    how  go  ye  on  here  ? — pretty 
well  ? 

Mys.  We  ?  as  we  can,  as  the  old  saying  goes, 
When  as  we  would  we  cannot. 

Cri.  And  Glycerium, 

Has  she  found  out  her  parents  ? 

Mys.  Would  she  had !    I 

Cri.  Not  yet !  an  ill  wind  blew  me  hither  then. 
For  truly,  had  I  been  appris'd  of  that, 
I'd  ne'er  have  set  foot  here  :  for  this  Glycerium 
Was  always  call'd  and  thought  to  be  her  sister. 
What  Chrysis  left,  she  takes  possession  of: 
And  now  for  me,  a  stranger,  to  commence 
A  law-suit  here,  how  good  and  wise  it  were, 
Other  examples  teach  me.     She,  I  warrant, 
Has  got  her  some  gallant  too,  some  defender: 
For  she  was  growing  up  a  jolly  girl 
When  first  she  journeyed  hither.    They  will  cry 
That  I'm  a  pettifogger.  fortune-huriter; 
A  beagar. — And  besides  it  were  not  well 
To  leave  her  in  distress. 

Mys.  Good  soul !  troth,  Crito, 

You  have  the  good  old-fashion'd  honesty. 

Cri.  Well,  since  I  am  arriv'd  here,  bring  me 

to  her, 
That  I  may  see  her. 

Mys.  Ay,  with  all  my  heart. 

Dav.  I  will  in  with  them :  for  I  would  not  choose 
That  our  old  gentleman  should  see  me  now. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  V.     SCEXK  I. 
Enter  CHHEMES  and  SIMO. 

Chrem.  Encmirh  already,  Simo,  and  enough 
I've  shown  my  friendship  for  you;  hazarded 
Enough  of  peril  :  urge  me  then  no  more  ! 
Wishing  to  please  you,  I  had  near  destroy 'd 
My  daughter's  peace  and  happiness  for  ever. 

Sim.  Ah,  Chremes,  I   must  now   entreat  the 

more, 
More  urge  you  to  confirm  the  promis'd  boon. 

Chrem.  Mark  how  unjust  you  are  through  wil- 
ful ness! 

So  you  obtain  what  you  demand,  you  set 
No  bounds  to  my  compliance,  nor  consider 
What  you  request;   for  if  you  did  consider 
You'd  cease  to  load  me  with  these  injuries. 

Sim.  What  injuries  ? 

Chrem.  Is  that  a  question  now  ? 

Have  you  not  driven  me  to  plight  rny  child 
To  one  possest  with  other  love,  averse 
To  marriage  ;  to  expose  her  to  divorce, 
And  crazy  nuptials;  by  her  woe  and  bane 
To  work  a  cure  for  your  distemper'd  son  ? 
You  had  prevaifd  ;  I  travel  I'd  in  the  match, 
While  circumstances  would  admit;  but  now 
The  case  is  chang'd,  content  you: — It  is  said, 
That  she's  a  citizen  ;  a  child  is  born  : 
Prithee  excuse  us! 

Sim.  Now,  for  heaven's  sake, 
Believe  not  them,  whose  interest  it  is 


TERENCE. 


405 


To  make  him  vile  and  abject  as  themselves. 
These  stories  are  all  feigu'd,  concerted  all, 
To  break  the  match:  when  the  occasion's  past, 
That  urges  them  to  this,  they  will  desist. 

Chrem.  Oh,  you  mistake :  E'en  now  I  saw  the 

maid 
Wrangling  with  Davus. 

Artifice !  mere  trick. 
irem.  Ay,  but  in  earnest ;   and  when  neither 

knew 
That  I  was  there. 

Sim.  It  may  be  so :  and  Davus 
Told  me  before-hand  they'd  attempt  all  this ; 
Though  I,  I  know  not  how,  forgot  to  tell  you. 

SCEXE  II. 

Enter  DAVUS  from  Glycerium's  house. 
Dav.  (to  himself.)   He  may  be  easy  now  I  war- 
rant him — 

'hrem.  See  yonder's  Davus. 
Sim.  Ha!  whence  comes  the  rogue? 

Dav.  (to  himself.')   By  my  assistance,  and  this 

P  stranger's  safe. 

Sim.   (listening.)   What  mischief's  this? 
Dav.  (to  himself.)       A  more  commodious  man, 
Arriving  just  in  season,  at  a  time 
So  critical,  I  never  knew. 

Sim.  (listening.)  A  knave ! 

Who's  that  he  praises? 

Dav.  (to  himself.)  All  is  now  secure. 

Sim.  Why  don't  I  speak  to  him  ? 
Dav.  (turning  about.)  My  master  here! 

(/«>  himself.)  What  shall  I  do? 

Sim.  (sneering.)  Good  sir,  your  humble  servant ! 
Dav.  Oli  Simo !  and  our  Chremes ! — All  is  now 
Prrpar'd  within. 

Sim.  (ironically.)  You've  taken  special  care. 
Dav.  E'en  call  them  when  you  please. 
Sim.  Oh,  mighty  fine! 

That  to  be  sure  is  all  that's  wanting  now. 
— But  tell  me,  sir!  what  business  had  you  there? 
(pointing  to  Glycerium's.) 
Dav.  (confused.)   I? 
Sim.  You. 

Dav.  (stammering.)  I ? 

Sim.   You.  sir. 

Dav.  (disordered.)  I  wont  in  but  now. 

.\-ifl  ;isk'd,  how  long  it  was  ago. 
•/•.   With  Pamphilus. 

Is  Pamphilus  within? 

— ()!i  torture  ! — Did  not  you  assure  me,  sirrah, 
They  were  at  variance? 

Dav.  So  they  are. 

Why  then 
Is  Pamphilus  within  ? 

Chrem.  (sneering.)        Oh  why  d'ye  think? 

to  quarrel  with  her. 

Udt\  Xay  but,  Chremes, 

There's  more  in  this,  and  you  shall  hear  strange 

news. 

There's  an  old  countryman,  I  know  not  who, 
Is  just  arriv'd  here  ;  confident  and  shrewd; 
His  look  bespeaks  him  of  some  consequence. 
A  grave  seven! v  is  in  \i\*  I  • 
And  credit  in  his  words. 

Sim.  What  story  now? 


Dav.  Nay,  nothing,  sir,  but  what  I  heard  him  say 
Sim.  And  what  says  he,  then? 
Dav.  That  he's  well  assur'd 

Glycerium's  an  Athenian  citizen. 

Sim.  (calling.)  Ho,  Dromo!  Dromo! 

Dav.  What  now  ? 

Sim.  Dromo ! 

Dav.  Hear  me. 

Sim.  Speak  but  a  word  more — Dromo  ! 

Dav.  Pray,  sir,  hear ! 

SCENE  III. 
Enter  DHOMO. 

Drom.  Your  pleasure,  sir  ? 

Sim.  Here  drag  him  headlong  in, 

And  truss  the  rascal  up  immediately. 

Drom.  Whom  ? 

Sim.  Davus. 

Dav.  Why? 

Sim.  Because  I'll  have  it  so. 

Take  him,  I  say. 

Dav.  For  what  offence  ? 

Sim.  Off  with  him! 

Dav.  If  it  appear  that  I've  said  aught  but  truth, 
Put  me  to  death. 

Sim.  I  will  not  hear.     I'll  trounce  you. 

Dav.  But  though  it  should  prove  true,  sir ! 

Sim.  True  or  false, 

See  that  you  keep  him  bound:  and  do  you  hear? 
Bind  the  slave  hand  and  foot.     Away ! 

[Exeunt  DROMO  and  DAVUS. 

SCENE  IV. 
SIMO  and  CHHEMES. 

Sim.  By  heaven, 

As  I  do  live,  I'll  make  you  know  this  day 
What  peril  lies  in  trifling  with  a  master, 
And  make  him  know  what  'tis  to  plague  a  father. 
Chrem.  Ah,  be  not  in  such  rage. 
Sim.  Oh  Chremes,  Chrome^' 

Filial  unkindness ! — Don't  you  pity  me  ? 
To  feel  all  this  for  such  a  thankless  son! — 
(calling  at  Glycerium's  door.)    Here,  Pamphilus, 

come  forth  !  ho,  Pamphilus ! 
Have  you  no  shame ! 

SCENE  V. 
Enter  PAMPHILUS. 

Pam.  Who  calls? — Undone!  my  father' 

Sim.  What  say  you  ?  Most — 

Chrem.  Ah,  rather  speak  at  onco 

Your  purpose,  Simo,  and  forbear  reproach. 

Sit/i.   As  if  'twere  possible  to  utter  aught 
Severer  than  he  merits ! — (to  Pam.)  Tell  me  then, 
Glycerium  is  a  citizen? 

Pam.  They  say  so. 

Sim.  They  say  so! — Oh  amazing  impudence! — 
Does  he  consider  what  he  says?  does  he 
Repent  the  deed  ?  or  does  his  colour  take 
The  hue  of  shame? — To  be  so  weak  of  soul, 
Airainst  the  custom  of  our  citizens, 
Against  the  law.  against  his  father's  will, 
To  wed  himself  to  shame  and  this  vile  woman. 

Pam.  Wretch  that  I  am  ! 

Ah,  Pamphilus!  d'ye  feel 

Your  wretchedness  at  last?    Then,  then,  when 
first 


406 


TERENCE. 


You  wrought  upon  your  mind  at  any  rate 
To  gratify  your  passion ;  from  that  hour 
Well   might   you    feel  your  state  of  wretched- 
ness.— 

But  why  give  in  to  this?  Why  torture  thus, 
Why  vex  my  spirit  ?  Why  afflict  my  age 
For  his  distemp'rature?  Why  rue  his  sins? — 
No ;  let  him  have  her,  joy  in  her,  live  with  her. 

Pam.  My  father ! 

Sim.  How,  my  father! — can  I  think 

You  want  this  father?  You  that  for  yourself 
A  home,  a  wife,  and  children  have  acquir'd 
Against  your  father's  will?  And  witnesses 
Suborn'd,  to  prove  that  she's  a  citizen  ? — 
You've  gain'd  your  point. 

Pam.  My  father,  but  one  word ! 

Sim.  What  would  you  say  ? 

Chrem.  Nay,  hear  him,  Sirno. 

Sim.  Hear  him  ? 
What  must  I  hear  then,  Chremes? 

Chrem.  Let  him  speak. 

Sim.  Well,  let  him  speak:  I  hear  him. 

Pam.  I  confess 

I  love  Glycerium  :  if  it  be  a  fault, 
That  too  I  do  confess.    To  you,  my  father, 
I  yield  myself;  dispose  me  as  you  please! 
Command  me  !  say,  that  I  shall  take  a  wife ; 
Leave  her ; — I  will  endure  it,  as  I  may. — 
This  only  I  beseech  you,  think  not  I 
Suborn'd  this  old  man  hither. — Suffer  me 
To  clear  myself,  and  bring  him  here  before  you. 

Sim.  Bring  him  here  ! 

Pam.  Let  me,  father! 

Chrem.  'Tis  but  just : 

Permit  him ! 

Pam.  Grant  ine  this ! 

Sim.  Well,  be  it  so. 

[Exit  PAMPHILUS. 

I  could  bear  all  this  bravely,  Chremes ;  more, 
Much  more,  to  know  that  he  deceiv'd  me  not. 

Chrem.  For  a  great  fault  a  little  punishment 
Suffices  to  a  father. 

SCEKE  VI. 
Re-enter  PAMPHILUS  with  CHITO. 

Cri.  Say  no  more  ! 

Any  of  these  inducements  would  prevail : 
Or  your  entreaty,  or  that  it  is  truth, 
Or  that  I  wish  it  for  Glycerium's  sake. 

Chrem.  Whom  do  I  see?  Crito,  the  Andrian  ? 
Nay  certainly  'tis  Crito. 

Cri.  Save  you,  Chremes! 

Chrem.  What  has  brought  you  to  Athens? 

Cri.  Accident. 

But  is  this  Simo? 

Chrem.  Ay. 

Sim.  Asks  he  for  me? 

So,  sir,  you  say  that  this  Glycerium 
Is  an  Athenian  citizen  ? 

Cri.  Do  you 

Deny  it. 

Sim.        What  then,  are  you  come  prepar'd  ? 

Cri.  Prepar'd!  for  what? 

Sim,  And  dare  you  ask  for  what? 

Shall  you  go  on  thus  with  impunity? 
Lay  snares  for  inexperienc'd,  lib'ral,  youth, 


With  fraud,  temptation,  and  fair  promises, 
Soothing  their  minds  ? — 

Cri.  Have  you  your  wits? 

Sim.  — Arid  then 

With  marriage  solder  up  their  harlot  loves  ? 

Pam.  (aside.)  Alas,  I  fear  the  stranger  will  not 
bear  this. 

Chrem.  Knew  you  this  person,  Sirno,  you'd  not 

think  thus ; 
He's  a  good  man. 

Sim.  A  good  man  he? — To  come, 

Although  at  Athens  never  seen  till  now, 
So  opportunely  on  the  wedding-day! — 
Is  such  a  fellow  to  be  trusted,  Chremes? 

Pam.  (asic/e.)  But  that  I  fear  my  father,  I  could 

make 
That  matter  clear  to  him. 

Sim.  A  sharper. 

Cri.  How  ? 

Chrem.  It  is  his  humour,  Crito;   do  not  heed 
him. 

Cri.  Let  him  look  to't.    If  he  persists  in  saying 
Whate'er  he  pleases,  I  shall  make  him  hear 
Something  that  may  displease  him. — Do  I  stir 
In  these  affairs,  or  make  them  my  concern  ? 
Bear  your  misfortunes  patiently!  For  me, 
If  I  speak  true  or  false,  shall  now  be  known. 
— "A  man  of  Athens  once  upon  a  time 
Was  shipwreck'd  on  the  coast  of  Andros :  with 

him 

This  very  woman  then  an  infant.     He 
In  this  distress  applied,  it  so  fell  out, 
For  help  to  Chrysis'  father" — 

Sim.  All  romance. 

Chrem.  Let  him  alone. 

Cri.  And  will  he  interrupt  me  ? 

Chrem.  Go  on. 

Cri.  "Now  Chrysis'  father,  who  receiv'd  him, 
Was  my  relation.    There  I've  often  heard 
The  man  himself  declare,  he  was  of  Athens. 
There  too  he  died." 

Chrem.  His  name  ? 

Cri.  His  name,  so  quickly  ? — Phania. 

Chrem.  Amazement! 

Cri.  By  my  troth,  I  think  'twas  Phania ; 
But  this  I'm  sure,  he  said  he  was  of  Rhamnus. 

Chrem.  Oh  Jupiter ! 

Cri.  These  circumstances,  Chremes, 

Were  known  to  many  others,  then  in  Andros. 

Chrem.  Heaven  grant  it  may  be  as  I  wish ! — 

Inform  me, 
Whose  daughter,  said  he,  was  the  child  ?  his  own  ? 

Cri.  No,  not  his  own. 

Chrem.  Whose  then  ? 

Cri.  His  brother's  daughter. 

Chrem.  Mine,  mine  undoubtedly. 

Cri.  What  say  you  ? 

Sim.  How ! 

Pam.   Hark,  Pamphilus ! 

Sim.  But  why  believe  you  this? 

Chrem.  That  Phania  was  my  brother. 

Sim.  True.    I  knew  hirr . 

Ckrem.  He,  to  avoid  the  war,  departed  hence  ; 
And  fearing  'twere  unsafe  to  leave  the  child, 
Embark'd  with  her  in  quest  of  me  for  Asia; 
Since  when  I've  heard  no  news  of  him  till  now. 


TERENCE. 


407 


Pam.  I'm  scarce  myself,  my  mind  is  so  enrapt 
With  fear,  hope,  joy,  and  wonder  of  so  great, 
So  sudden  happiness. 

Sim.  Indeed,  my  Chremes, 

I  heartily  rejoice  she's  found  your  daughter. 

Pam.  I  do  believe  you,  father. 

Chrem.  But  one  doubt 

There  still  remains,  which  gives  me  pain. 

Pam.  (aside.)  Away 

With  all  your  doubts!  You  puzzle  a  plain  cause. 

Cri.  What  is  that  doubt? 

Chretn.  The  name  does  not  agree. 

Cri.  She  had  another,  when  a  child. 

Chrcm.  What,  Crito? 

C;in  you  remember  ? 

Cri.  I  am  hunting  for  it. 

Pam.    Shall    then    his    memory   oppose    my 

bliss, 

When  I  can  minister  the  cure  myself? 
No,  I  will  not  permit  it. — Hark  you,  Chremes, 
The  name  is  Pasibula. 

Cri.  True. 

Chrem.  The  same. 

Pam.  I've  heard  it  from  herself  a  thousand 
times. 

Sim.  Chremes,  I  trust  you  will  belieye,  we  all 
E.ejoice  at  this. 

Chrem.  'Fore  heaven  I  believe  so. 

Pam.   And  now,  my  father — 

Sim.  Peace,  son!  the  event 

Has  reconcil'd  me. 

Pam.  0  thou  best  of  fathers ! 

Does  Chremes  too  confirm  Glycerium  mine  ? 

Chrem.  And  with  good  cause  if  Simo  hinder 
not. 

Pam.  (to  Sim.)  Sir  ! 

Sim.  Be  it  so. 

Chrem.  My  daughter's  portion  is 

Ten  talents,  Pamphilus. 

Pam.  I  am  content. 

Chrem.  I'll  to  her  instantly:  and  prithee,  Crito, 
Along  with  me !  for  sure  she  knows  me  not. 

[Exeunt  CHHKMES  and  CRITO. 

Siwi.  Why  do  you  not  give  orders  instantly 
To  bring  her  to  our  house  ? 

Pam.  The  advice  is  good, 

I'll  irive  that  charge  to  Davus. 

>'(//;.  It  can't  be. 

Pam.  Why? 

Sim.  He  has  other  business  of  his  own, 
Of  nearer  import  to  himself. 

Pam.  What  business? 

Sim.  He's  bound. 

Pam.  Bound!  how,  sir! 

Sim.  How  sir  ? — neck  and  heels. 

Pam.  Ah,  let  him  be  enlarg'd  ! 

It  shall  be  done. 

Pam.  But  instantly. 

Sim.  I'll  in,  and  order  it.      [Exit. 

Pam.  0  what  a  happy,  happy  day  is  this ! 

SCEXK  V1H. 
Enter  CHABINCS  behind. 

Char.  I  come  to  see  what  Pamphilus  is  doing : 
And  there  he  is. 


Pam.  And  is  this  true  ? — Yes,  yes, 

I  know  'tis  true,  because  I  wish  it  so. 
Therefore  I  think  the  life  of  gods  eternal, 
For  that  their  joys  are  permanent ;  and  now, 
My  soul  hath  her  content  so  absolute, 
That  I  too  am  immortal,  if  no  ill 
Step  in  betwixt  rne  and  this  happiness. 
Oh,  for  a  bosom-friend  now  to  pour  out 
My  ecstacies  before  him! 

Char,  (listening.)  What's  this  rapture  ? 

Paw.  Oh,  yonder's  Davus :  nobody  more  wel- 
come : 
For  he,  I  know,  will  join  in  transport  with  me. 

SCEXE  the  last. 
Enter  DAVCS.. 

Dav.  (entering.')  Where's  Pamphilus? 
Pam.  O  Davus ! 

Dav.  Who's  there  ? 

Pam.  I. 

Dav.  Oh  Pamphilus ! 

Pam.  You  know  not  my  good  fortune. 

Dav.  Do  you  know  my  ill  fortune  ? 
Pam.  To  a  tittle. 

Dav.  ;Tis  after  the  old  fashion,  that  my  ills 
Should  reach  your  ears,  before  your  joys  reach 

mine. 

Pam.  Glycerium  has  discover'd  her  relation 
Dav.  Oh  excellent! 


CAar.  (listening.') 
Pam. 

Our  most  dear  friend. 
Dav. 
Pam. 
Dav. 


How's  that  ? 

Her  father  is 


Who? 

Chremes. 
Charming  news. 

Pam.  And  I'm  to  marry  her  immediately. 

C/iar.  (listening.)  Is   this   man   talking   in   his 

sleep,  and  dreams 
On  what  he  wishes  waking  ? 

Pam.  And  moreove^P 

For  the  child  Davus— 

Dav.  Ah,  sir,  say  no  more. 

You're  the  only  fav'rite  of  the  gods. 

Char.  I'm  made, 

If  this  be  true.  I'll  speak  to  them,  (comes  forward.) 

Pam.  Who's  there  ? 

Charinus!  oh,  well  met. 

Char.  I  give  you  joy. 

Pam.  You've  hoard  then — 

CAcrr.     .  Ev'ry  word  :  and  prithee  now, 

In  your  good  fortune,  think  upon  your  friend. 
Chremes  is  now  your  own;  and  will  perform 
Whatever  you  shall  ask. 

Pam.  I  shall  remember. 

'Twere  tedious  to  expect  his  coming  forth : 
Along  with  me  then  to  Glycerium  ! 
Davus.  do  you  go  home,  and  hasten  them 
To  fetch  her  hence.     Away,  away! 

Dav.  I  go. 

[Exeunt  PAMPHILUS  and  CHARIICCS. 

Davus  addressing  the  audience. 

Wait  not  till  they  come  forth:  Within 
She'll  be  betroth'd  ;  within,  if  aught  remains 
Undone,  'twill  be  concluded — Clap  your  hands! 


408 


TERENCE. 


FROM  THE  PHORMIO. 

DOCTORS  DIFFER,  OR  THE   GLORIOUS  UNCERTAIN- 
TY OF   LAW. 

DEMIPHO  in  consultation  with  his  lawyers,  CRATI- 
NUS, HEGIO,  and  CRITO. 

Dem.  You  see,  sirs,  how  this  matter  stands. 
What  shall  I  do  ?  Say,  Hegio ! 

Heg.  Meaning  me  ? 

Cratinus,  please  you,  should  speak  first. 

Dem.  Say  then, 

Cratinus ! 

Cra.         Me  d'ye  question? 

Dem.  You. 

Cra.  Then  I, 

Whatever  steps  are  best  I'd  have  you  take. 
Thus  it  appears  to  me.     Whate'er  your  son 
Has  in  your  absence  done,  is  null  and  void 
In  law  and  equity. — And  so  you'll  find. 
That's  my  opinion. 

Dem.  Say  now,  Hegio ! 

Heg.  He  has,  I  think,  pronounc'd  most  learnedly. 
But  so  'tis:  many  men,  and  many  minds! 
Each  has  his  fancy:  Now,  in  my  opinion, 
Whate'er  is  done  by  law,  can't  be  undone. 
'Tis  shameful  to  attempt  it. 

Dem.  Say  you,  Crito ! 

Cri.  The  case,  I  think,  asks  more  deliberation. 
'Tis  a  nice  point. 

Heg.  Would  you  ought  else  with  us  ? 

Dem.  You've  utter 'd  oracles.  [Exeunt  lawyers.) 
I'm  more  uncertain 
Now  than  I  was  before. 

NEVER    HOPE,  AND    YOU   WILL    NEVER    BE    DISAP- 
POINTED. 

DEMIPHO,  GETA,  and  PHJEDRIA. 

Dem.  I  know  not  what  to  do : 

This  stroke  has  come  so  unawares  upon  me, 
Beyond  all  expectation,  past  belief. 
— I'm  so  enrag'd,  I  can't  compose  my  mind 
To  think  upon  it. — Wherefore  every  man. 
When  his  affairs  go  on  most  swimmingly, 
Ev'n  then  it  most  behoves  to  arm  himself 
Against  the  coming  storm :  loss,  danger,  exile, 
Returning  ever  let  him  look  to  meet ; 
His  son  in  fault,  wife  dead,  or  daughter  sick — 
All  common  accidents,  and  may  have  happen'd  ; 
That  nothing  should  seem  new  or  strange.  But  if 
Audit  has  fall'n  out  beyond  his  hopes,  all  that 
Let  him  account  clear  gain. 

Get.  Oh,  Phcedria, 

'Tis  wonderful  how  much  a  wiser  man 
I  am  than  my  old  master.     My  misfortunes 
I  have  consider'd  well. — At  his  return 
Doom'd  to  grind  ever  in  the  mill,  beat,  chain'd, 
Or  set  to  labour  in  the  fields;  of  these 
Nothing  will  happen  new.     If  aught  falls  out 
Beyond  my  hopes,  all  that  I'll  count  clear  gain. 


FROM  THE  EUNUCH. 

THE   ILLS   OF  LOVE. 

IN  love  are  all  these  ills;  suspicions,  quarrels, 
Wrongs,  reconcilements,  war,  and  peace  again ! 


Things  thus  uncertain,  if  by  reason's  rules 
You'd  certain  make,  it  were  as  wise  a  task 
To  try  with  reason  to  run  mad.* 

A  LOVER  TAKING  LEAVE  OF  HIS  MISTRESS. 

Thais.  Would  you  aught  else  with  me? 

Phcedria.  Aught  else,  my  Thais? 

All  night  and  day  still  love  me ;  long  for  me ; 
Dream,  ponder  still  of  me  ;  wish,  hope  for  me  ; 
Delight  in  me ;  be  all  in  all  with  me; 
Give  your  whole  heart,  for  mine's  all  your's,  to 
me. 

THE  PARASITE. 

THERE  is 

A  kind  of  men,  who  wish  to  be  the  head 
Of  every  thing,  but  are  not.     These  I  follow  ; 
Not  for  their  sport  and  laughter,  but  for  gain, 
To  laugh  with  them  and  wonder  at  their  parts: 
Whate'er  they  say,  I  praise  it ;  if  again 
They  contradict,  I  praise  that  too :  Does  any 
Deny  ?  I  too  deny  :  affirm  ?  I  too 
Affirm :  and,  in  a  word,  I've  brought  myself 
To  say,  unsay,  swear,  and  unswear  at  pleasure. 


FROM  THE  SELF-TORMENTOR. 

KIND  FEELING  FOR  OTHERS. 

Menedemus.  Have  you  such  leisure  from  your 

own  affairs 
To    think    of    those    that    don't    concern    you, 

Chremes? 
Chremes.  I  am  a  man,  and  feel  for  all  man- 

kind.f 

THE   MIND   IS  ITS   OWN   PLACE. 

Clitipho.  They  say  that  he  is  miserable. 

Chremes.  Miserable ! 

Who  needs  be  less  so  ?  For  what  earthly  good 
Can  man  possess  which  he  may  not  enjoy  ? 
Parents,    a   prosperous    country,    friends,   birth, 

riches, — 

Yet  these  all  take  their  value  from  the  mind 
Of  the  possessor:  He,  that  knows  their  use, 
To  him  they're  blessings;  he  that  knows  it  not, 
To  him  misuse  converts  them  into  curses. 

PROFITTING  BY  THE  FAULTS  OF  OTHERS. 

RKMEMBER  then  this  maxim,  Clitipho, 

A  wise  one  'tis,  to  draw  from  others*  faults 

A  profitable  lesson  for  yourself. 

WIVES  AND   MISTRESSES. 

Bacchis.  Well,  I  commend  you,  my  Antiphila ; 
Happy  in  having  made  it  still  your  care 
That  virtue  should  seem  fair  as  beauty  in  you ! 
Nor,  gracious  heaven  so  help  me,  do  I  wonder 
If  every  man  should  wish  you  for  his  own; 


-To  he  wise  and  love 


Exceeds  man's  might  and  dwells  with  pods  above. 

Truibus  and  Crcssida 

f  Homo  sum  ;  humani  nihil  a  me  telienum  puto. — It  is 
said  that  at  the  delivery  of  this  sentiment,  the  whole 
theatre,  though  full  of  foolish  and  ignorant  people,  re- 
sounded with  applause. — St.  Augustine. 


TERENCE. 


409 


For  your  discourse  bespeaks  a  worthy  mind, 
Ar.d  when  I  ponder  with  myself  and  \v 
Your  course  of  life  and  all  the  rest  of  those 
Who  live  not  on  the  common,  'tis  not  strange 
Ycur  morals  should  bo  different  from  ours. 
Virtue's  your  interest ;  those,  with  whom  ice  deal. 
Fcrbid  it  to  be  ours;  for  our  gallants. 
Cl  arm'd  by  our  beauty,  court  us  but  for  that, 
Which  fading,  they  transfer  their  love  to  others. 
If  then  meanwhile  we  look  not  to  ourselves, 
We  live  forlorn,  deserted,  and  distrest. 
You,  when  you've  once  agreed  to  pass  your  life 
Bound    to  one    man,  whose   temper  suits  with 

yours, 

He,  too,  attaches  his  whole  heart  to  you : 
Thus  mutual  friendship  draws  you  each  to  each ; 
Nothing  can  part  you,  nothing  shake  your  love. 
JLntiphila.  I   know  not  others;    for   myself   I 

know, 
From  his  content  I  ever  drew  mine  own. 

JTS   STMXA    TXJURIA. 

IT  is  a  common  saying  and  a  true, 

That  strictest  Law  is  oft  the  highest  Wrong.* 


How  oft  unjust  and  absolute  is  custom ! 


LIKE  PARENT,  LIKE   CHILD. 

His  manners  are  so  very  like  your  own, 
They  are  convincing  proof,  that  he's  your  son. 
He  is  quite  like  you  ;  not  a  vice,  whereof 
He's  the  inheritor,  but. dwells  in  you, 
And  such  a  son  no  mother  but  yourself 
Could  have  engendered. 


FROM  THE  STEP-MOTHER. 

WOMKV. 

OH  heaven  and  earth,  what  animals  are  women! 
What  a  conspiracy  between  them  all 
To  do  or  not,  to  hate  or  love  alike ! 
Not  one  but  has  the  sex  so  strong  within  her, 
She  differs  nothing  from  the  rest.      Step-mothers 
All  hate  their  step-daughters :  and  every  wife 
Studies  alike  to  conlradiet  her  hu<band. 
The  same  perverseiiess  running  through  them  all. 
Each  seems  train'd  up  in  the  same  school  of  mis- 
chief; 

And  of  that  school,  if  any  such  there  be, 
My  wife,  I  think,  is  schoolmistr. 

K;\OH  \VTK  OF  APPROACH  INC;  KVIL. 

Foil  even  though 
Mischance  befall  us  still  the  interval 
Between  its  happening  and  our  knowledge  of  it 
May  be  esteemed  clear  gain.f 


*  So  ton  Menander  :  — 

"The  l;i\v,  'ti«i  trur,  is  cood  and  excellent; 
Hut  he,  who  takes  the  leitcr  of  thr  law 
Too  strictly,  i>-  a  prttifnueini:  knave." 
f  --  He  not  over  c.\<nii-iii- 
To  cast  the  fashion  of  uncertain  evil-. 
What  need  a  man  forestall  his  date  «>f  -rrien 


52 


dCARRELLIXG   AHOUT  TRIFLES.. 

THE  greatest  quarrels  do  not  always  rise 
From  deepest  injuries.     We  often  see 
That,  what  would  never  move  another's  spleen, 
Renders  the  choleric  your  worst  of  foes. 
Observe  how  lightly  children  squabble — Why? 
Because  they're  govern'd  by  a  feeble  mind. 


FROM  THE  BROTHERS. 

CHARACTERS    OF    THE    BROTHERS,    AS    GIVE2T     BT 
MICIO. 

I.  FRO>T  youth  upward  even  to  this  day, 

Have  led  a  quiet  and  serene  town-life  ; 

And,  as  some  reckon  fortunate,  ne'er  married. 

He,  in  all  points  the  opposite  of  this, 

Has  past  his  days  entirely  in  the  country 

With  thrift  and  labour ;  married ;  had  two  sons. 

The  elder  boy  is  by  adoption  mine ; 

I've  brought  him  up;  kept;  lov'd  him   as  my 

own; 

Made  him  my  joy,  and  all  my  soul  holds  dear, 
Striving  to  make  myself  as  dear  to  him. 
I  give,  o'erlook,  nor  think  it  requisite 
That  all  his  deeds  should  be  controll'd  by  me, 
Giving  him  scope  to  act  as  of  himself; 
So  that  the  pranks  of  youth,  which  other  children 
Hide  from  their  fathers,  I  have  us'd  my  son 
Not  to  conceal  from  me.     For  whosoe'er 
Hath  won  upon  himself  to  play  the  false  one, 
And  practise  impositions  on  a  father, 
Will  do  the  same  with  less  remorse  to  others ; 
And  'tis,  in  my  opinion,  better  far 
To  bind  your  children  to  you  by  the  ties 
Of  gentleness  and  modesty,  than  fear. 
And  yet  my  brother  don't  accord  in  this, 
Nor  do  these  notions,  nor  this  conduct  please  huaa. 
Oft  he  comes  open-mouth 'd — Why  how    now, 

Micio  ? 

Why  do  you  ruin  this  young  lad  of  our's? 
Why  does  he  wench1  why  drink?  and  why  do 

you 

Allow  him  money  to  afford  all  this? 
You  let  him  dress  too  fine.     'Tis  idle  in  you. 
— Tis  hard  in  him,  unjust,  and  out  of  reason. 
And  he,  I  think,  deceives  himself  indeed, 
Who  fancies  that  authority  more  firm 
Founded  on  force,  than  what  is  built  on  friend- 
ship; 

For  thus  I  reason,  thus  persuade  myself: 
He  who  performs  his  duty,  driven  to't 
By  fear  of  punishment,  while  he  believes 
His  actions  are  observed,  so  long  he's  wary; 
But  if  he  hopes  for  secrecy,  returns 
To  his  own  ways  again  :   But  he  whom  kindness, 
Him  also  inclination  makes  your  own 
He  burns  to  make  a  due  return,  and  acts, 
Present  or  absent,  evermore  the  same. 
'Tis  this  then  is  the  duty  of  a  father. 
To  make  a  son  embrace  a  life  of  virtue. 
Rather  from  choice,  than  terror  or  constraint. 
Here  lies  the  mighty  difference  between 
A  father  and  a  master.     He  who  knows  not 
How  t<>  do  this,  let  him  confess  he  knows  not 
How  to  rule  children. 

2K 


410 


LUCRETIUS. 

L. 


The  Same  as  given  by  Demea. 

NEVER  did  man  lay  down  so  fair  a  plan, 

So  wise  a  rule  of  life,  but  fortune,  age, 

Or  long  experience  made  some  change  in  it; 

And  taught  him,  that  those  things  he  thought  he 

knew, 

He  did  not  know,  and  what  he  held  as  best, 
In  practice  he  threw  by.     The  very  thing 
That  happens  to  myself.     For  that  hard  life 
Which  I  have  ever  led,  my  race  near  run, 
Now  in  the  last  stage,  I  renounce :  and  why? 
But  that  by  dear  experience  I've  been  told, 
There's  nothing  so  advantages  a  man, 
As  mildness  and  complacency.     Of  this 
My  brother  and  myself  are  living  proofs  : — 
He  always  led  an  easy,  cheerful  life : 
Good-humour'd,  mild,  offending  nobody, 
Smiling  on  all  ;  a  jovial  bachelor, 
His  whole  expenses  centred  in  himself. 
I,  on  the  contrary,  rough,  rigid,  cross, 
Saving,  morose,  and  thrifty,  took  a  wife: 
— What  miseries  did  marriage  bring! — had  chil- 
dren 5 

— A  new  uneasiness ! — and  then  besides, 
Striving  all  ways  to  make  a  fortune  for  them, 
I  have  worn  out  my  prime  of  life  and  health : 
And  now,  my  course  near  finish'd,  what  return 
Do  I  receive  for  all  my  toil  ?     Their  hate. 
Meanwhile  my  brother,  without  any  care, 
Reaps  all  a  father's  comforts.     Him  they  love, 
Me  they  avoid :  to  him  they  open  all 


Their  secret  counsels  ;  doat  on  him  ;  and  both 
Repair  to  him ;  while  I  am  quite  forsaken. 
His  life  they  pray  for,  but  expect  my  death. 
Thus  those,  brought  up  by  my  exceeding  labour, 
He,  at  a  small  expense,  has  made  his  own : 
The  care  all  mine,  and  all  the  pleasure  his. — 
— Well  then,  let  me  endeavour  in  my  turn 
To  teach  my  tongue  civility,  to  give 
With  openhanded  generosity, 
Since  I  am  challeng'd  to't! — and  let  me  too 
Obtain  the  love  and  reverence  of  my  children! 
And  if  'tis  bought  by  bounty  and  indulgence, 
I  will  not  be  behind-hand. — Cash  will  fail  : 
What's  that  to  me,  who  am  the  eldest  born  ? 

OLD  MEN   WORLDLY-MINDED. 

IT  is  the  common  failing  of  old  men 

To  be  too  much  intent  on  worldly  interests. 

O  my  dear  Demea,  in  all  matters  else 

Increase  of  years  increases  wisdom  in  us : 

This  only  vice  age  brings  along  with  it; 

"  We're  all  more  worldly-minded  than  there's  need!" 

Which  passion  age,  that  kills  all  passions  else, 

Will  ripen  in  your  sons. 

THE     UNFORTUN ATE    TOO    APT    TO  THINK    THEM- 
SELVES   NEGLECTED. 

FOR  they,  whose  fortunes  are  less  prosperous, 
Are  all,  I  know  not  how,  the  more  suspicious; 
And  think  themselves  neglected  and  contemn'd, 
Because  of  their  distress  and  poverty. 


TITUS   LUCRETIUS   CARUS. 


[Born  95,— Died  52,  B.  C.] 


OF  this  poet  nothing  more  is  known  than  that ' 
he  was  born  in  Rome  and  studied  at  Athens; — 
that  he  lived  a  retired  life,  and  died,  at  the  age 
of  forty-four,  by  his  own  hand,  in  a  paroxysm  of 
insanity,  occasioned,  as  some  have  supposed  by 
grief  for  the  banishment  of  his  friend,  Memmius, 
or,  as  others  assert,  by  the  operation  of  a  love- 
philtre  administered  to  him  by  his  mistress. 

Lucretius  was  a  man  of  high  genius,  but  his 
Work  (for  it  is  only  by  his  one  great  work,  that 
he  is  known  to  us),  is,  from  the  very  nature  of 
its  subject,  extremely  and  necessarily  unequal,— 
being,  in  many  places,  as  tedious  and  revolting, 
as  it  is,  in  others,  tender,  fanciful,  and  sublime. 
His  diction  is  almost  uniformly  pure,  elegant,  and 
impressive,  with  a  certain  mixture  of  the  an- 
tique, which,  far  from  diminishing,  adds  strength 
to,  the  grace  and  beauty  of  its  accompaniments. 
Whoever  doubts  the  powers  and  genius  of  Lu- 
cretius, has  only  to  follow  the  advice  of  Dr.  War- 
ton  and  cast  his  eye  on  some  of  the  great  pic- 
tures which  the  poet  has  left  us, — on  that  of 
Venus  with  her  lover  Mars,  beautiful  to  the  last 


degree,  and  glowing  as  any  picture  of  Titian's ; 
—on  that  of  the  Dsemon  of  Superstition,  terrible, 
gigantic,  and  worthy  the  energetic  pencil  of  Mi- 
chael Angelo; — on  that  of  the  Sacrifice  of  Iphi- 
geneia,  not  excelled  by  that  famous  picture  of 
Timanthes,  of  which  Pliny  speaks  so  highly,  in 
the  Thirty-fifth  Book  of  his  Natural  History ;— or 
on  the  following  allegorical  group,  which  no 
piece  by  the  hand  of  Guido  has  exceeded,  and  to 
which  translation  must  despair  of  being  ever 
able  to  render  justice  : — 

"It  Ver,  et  Venus  ;  et,  Veris  praenuncius,  ante 
Pennatus  graditur  Zephyrus,  vestigia  propter, 
Flora  quibus  Mater,  prrespargens  ante  viiii, 
Cuncta  coloribus  egregiis  et  odoribus  opplet."* 

I  might  refer  to  various  other  passages  (did  the 
nature  and  limits  of  the  present  work  allow  it) 
in  proof  of  Lucretius'  powers,  as  a  poet,  and  of  his 


*  I  scarcely  know  of  more  than  two  descriptions  in  the 
whole  range  of  poetry  that  exceed  the  above,  viz.  in 
Book  IV.  1.  265— 69,— and  in  Book  VII.  1.  370—75,  of  the 
Paradise  Lost. 


LUCRETIUS. 


411 


merits,  (as  Dr.  Warton  observes.)  having  never 

-nfliciently  acknowledged.* 
As  for  the  philosophy  of  Lucretius,  there  can 
exist,  amongst  Christians,  but  one  sentiment  re- 
garding it.  Nay,  Cicero,  a  brother  heathen,  in 
speaking  of  its  doctrines,  cannot  forbear  from  in- 
dignantly protesting  against  the  foolish  arrogance 
of  the  man,  who,  while  presuming  on  his  own 
understanding,  could  contend  that  there  was  no 
s-.ich  thing  in  the  whole  universe  beside,  or.  that 
those  things,  which,  by  the  utmost  stretch  of 
his  own  reason,  he  could  scarcely  comprehend, 
s.iould  be  moved  and  managed  without  any  rea- 
son at  all! — Sad  however  a?  the  philosophy  of 
Lucretius  might  be,  one  apoiogy,  or  extenuation, 
may  be  found  for  it,  which  cannot  be  pleaded  by 
modern  infidelity,  namely,  the  superstitions  of 
t'-ie  age,  the  partial,  unjust,  sensual,  and  godless 
characters  of  the  deities  then  worshipped  in  the 
I  agan  world.  -1  If  I  am  not  mistaken"  says  Dry- 
the  distinguishing  character  of  Lucretius  is 
a.  certain  kind  of  noble  pride  and  positive  asser- 
tion of  his  opinions.  He  is  everywhere  confi- 
(,ent  of  his  own  reason,  and  assumes  an  absolute 
command  not  only  over  his  vulgar  reader,  but 
even  his  patron  Memmius.  For  lie  is  always  bid- 
ding him  attend,  as  if  he  had  the  rod  over  him, 
;.nd  using  a  magisterial  authority,  while  he  in- 
structs him.  From  his  time  to  ours,  I  know 
none  so  like  him  as  our  poet  and  philosopher  of 

'  One  passage  more  I  must  cite,— namely,  that  exqui- 
t  ite  one  which  has  given  rise  to  such  a  variety  of  imita- 
tions in  our  language  : — 

Non  domus  adcipiet  te  laeta,  neque  uxor 
Optuma,  nee  dulces  obcurrent  oscula  natei 
Prseripere,  et  tacita  pectus  dulcedine  tangent. 


Malmsbury.  This  is  that  perpetual  dictatorship, 
which  is  exercised  by  Lucretius;  who,  though  so 
often  in  the  wrong,  yet  seems  to  deal  bond  fide 
with  his  reader  and  tells  him  nothing  but  what 
he  thinks,  disdaining  all  manner  of  replies,  urg- 
ing beforehand  for  his  antagonists  whatever  he 
imagined  they  could  say,  and  leaving  them,  as  he 
supposes,  without  an  objection  for  the  future ;  all 
this  too  with  so  much  scorn  and  indignation,  as 
if  he  were  assured  of  the  triumph,  before  he 
entered  into  the  lists.  From  the  same  fiery  tem- 
per proceeds  the  loftiness  of  his  expressions,  and 
the  perpetual  torrent  of  his  verse,  where  the 
barrenness  of  the  subject  does  not  too  much  con- 
strain the  quickness  of  his  fancy.  For  there  is  no 
doubt  to  be  made,  but  that  he  could  have  been 
everywhere  as  poetical,  as  he  is  in  his  descrip- 
tions and  in  the  moral  part  of  his  philosophy,  if 
he  had  not  aimed  more  to  instruct,  in  his  system 
of  Nature,  than  to  delight.  But  he  was  bent  on 
making  Memmius  a  materialist,  and  teaching 
him  to  defy  an  invisible  power.  In  short,  he  was 
so  much  an  atheist,  that  he  forgot  sometimes  to 
be  a  poet!:' 

The  doctrines  of  Lucretius,  particularly  those 
impugning  the  superintendentcare  of  Providence, 
were  first  formally  opposed  by  the  stoic  Mani- 
lius,  in  his  Astronomic  Poem.  In  modern  times, 
his  whole  philosophical  system  has  been  refuted 
in  the  long  and  elaborate,  but  occasionally  beau- 
ful  poem  of  the  Cardinal  Polignac,  entitled  "  Anti- 
Lucretius,  sive  de  Deo  et  Natura.''* 


*  For  a  clear  and  accurate  summary  of  the  Atomical 
Philosophy  as  taught  by  Epicurus  and  followed  by  Lu- 
cretius, see  the  Appendix  to  Good's  Lucretiust  Vol.  I.  p. 
cviii— cxi. 


FROM  "THE  NATURE  OF  THINGS." 
Book  I. 

ADDRESS    TO   V> 

DELIGHT  of  human  kind,  and  gods  above, 
Parent  of  Rome,  propitious  Queen  of  Love, 
Whose  vital  jwAver,  air.  earth,  rind  sea  supplies, 
And  breeds  whate'er  is  born  beneath  the  skies: 
For  every  kind,  by  thy  prolific  might, 

-.  and  beholds  t!i  !'  the  light. 

The.     •  -'.ee  the  clouds  and  tempests  fear, 

And  at  thy  plea-ing  presence  disappear: 
For  tliee  the  earth  in  fragrant  Mowers  is  dress'd; 
Forthee  the  ocean  smiles,  and  smooths  her  wavy 

breast ; 
The  heaven  itself  with  more  serene  and  purer 

IL'ht  is  blest. 

For  when  tl.--  !..rns  the  mead, 

And  a  of  nature  stands  displny'd. 

When  teernitm  buds,  and  cheerful  irreens  appear, 
And  western  .ales  unlock  the  laxy  year; 
The  joyous  birds  thy  welcome  first  express, 
Whose  native  BOtlgfl  thy  irenial  tip 
Then  savage  beasts  bound  o'er  their  slighted  food. 
Struck  with  thy  darts,  and  tempt  the  raging  flood. 
All  nature  is  thy  i:i!t:   earth,  air,  and  sea: 
Of  all  that  breathes,  the  various  progeny, 
Strong  with  delight,  is  goaded  on  by  thee. 


O'er  barren  mountains,  o'er  the  flowery  plain, 
The  leafy  forest,  and  the  liquid  main, 
Extends  thy  uncontroll'd  and  boundless  reign. 
Through  all  the  living  regions  dost  thou  move. 
And  scatter'st  where  thou  goest,  the  kindly  seeds 

of  love. 

Since,  then,  the  race  of  every  living  thing 
Obeys  thy  power;  since  nothing  new  can  spring 
Without  thy  warmth,  without  thy  influence  bear, 
Or  beautiful,  or  lovesome  can  appear; 
Be  thou  my  aid,  my  tuneful  song  inspire, 
And  kindle  with  thy  own  productive  fire; 
While  all  thy  province,  Nature,  I  survey, 
And  sing  to  Memniius  an  immortal  lay 
Of  heaven  and  earth,  and  everywhere  thy  won- 
drous pou-er  display: 

To  Memmius.  under  thy  sweet  influence  born, 
Whom   thou  with  all   thy   gifts  and  graces  dost 

adorn. 

The  rather,  then,  assist  my  Muse  and  me, 
Infusing  verses  worthy  him  and  the,-. 
Meantime  on  land  and  sea  let  discord  cease, 
And  lull  the  listening  world  in  universal  peace. 
To  thee  mankind  their  soft  repose  must  owe; 
For  thou  alone  that  bles-in_r  canst  bestow; 
Because  the  brutal  business  of  the  war 
Is  manag'd  by  thy  dreadful  servant's  care ; 


414 


LUCRETIUS. 


If  after  death  'tis  painful  to  be  torn 

By  birds,  and  beasts,  then  why  not  so  to  burn, 

Or  drench'd  in  floods  of  honey  to  be  soak'd, 

Embalm'd  to  be  at  once  preserved  and  choak'd ; 

Or  on  an  airy  mountain's  top  to  lie, 

Expos'd  to  cold  and  heaven's  inclemency, 

Or,  crowded  in  a  tomb,  to  be  oppress'd 

With  monumental  marble  on  thy  breast? 

But  to  be  snatch'd  from  all  the  household  joys, 

From   thy  chaste   wife,  and  thy  dear  prattling 

boys, 

Whose  little  arms  about  thy  legs  are  cast, 
And  climbing  for  a  kiss  prevent  their  mother's 

haste, 

Inspiring  secret  pleasure  through  thy  breast; 
Ah !    these   shall   be   no  more :  thy  friends  op- 
press'd 

Thy  care  and  courage  now  no  more  shall  free ; 
Ah  !  wretch,  thou  criest,  ah  !  miserable  me  ! 
One  woful  day  sweeps  children,   friends,   and 

wife, 

And  all  the  brittle  blessings  of  my  life! 
Add  one  thing  more,  and  all  thou  say'st  is  true ; 
Thy  want  and  wish  of  them  is  vanished  too  : 
Which,  well  considered,  were  a  quick  relief 
To  all  thy  vain  imaginary  grief. 
For  thou  shalt  sleep,  and  never  wake  again, 
And,  quitting  life,  shall  quit  thy  living  pain. 
But  me,  thy  friend,  shall  all  thy  sorrows  find, 
Which  in  forgetful  death  thou  leav'st  behind ; 
No  time  shall  dry  our  tears,  or  drive  thee   from 

our  mind. 

The  worst  that  can  befall  thee,  measur'd  right, 
Is  a  sound  slumber  and  a  long  good  night. 
Yet  thus  the  fools,  that  would  be  thought  the 

wits, 

Disturb  their  mirth  with  melancholy  fits : 
When  healths  go  round,  and  kindly  brimmers 

flow, 

Till  the  fresh  garlands  on  their  foreheads  glow, 
They  whine,  and  cry,  Let  us  make  haste  to  live, 
Short  are  the  joys  that  human  bliss  can  give, 
Eternal  preachers  that  corrupt  the  draught, 
And  pall  the  God,  that  never  thinks,  with  thought; 
Idiots  with  all  that  thought,  to  whom  the  worst 
Of  death  is  want  of  drink,  and  endless  thirst, 
Or  any  fond  desire  as  vain  as  these. 
For,  e'en  in  sleep,  the  body,  wrapt  in  ease, 
Supinely  lies,  as  in  the  peaceful  grave ; 
And,  nothing  wanting,  nothing  can  it  crave. 
Were  that  sound  sleep  eternal,  it  were  death ; 
Yet  the  first  atoms  then,  the  seeds  of  breath, 
Are  moving  near  to  sense ;  we  do  but  shake 
And  rouse  that  sense,  and  straight  we  are  awake. 
Then  death  to  us,  and  death's  anxiety, 
Is  less  than  nothing,  if  a  less  could  be. 
For  then  our  atoms,  which  in  order  lay, 
Are  scatter'd  from  their  heap,  and  puff'd  away, 
And  never  can  return  into  their  place, 
Which  once  the  pause  of  life  has  left  an  empty 

space. 

And  last,  suppose  great  Nature's  voice  should  call 
To  thee,  or  me,  or  any  of  us  all ; 
"  What  dost  thou  mean,  ungrateful  wretch,  thou 

vain, 
Thou  mortal  thing,  thus  idly  to  complain, 


And  sigh  and  sob,  that  thou  shalt  be  no  more  ? 
For  if  thy  life  were  pleasant  heretofore; 
If  all  the  bounteous  blessings  I  could  give 
Thou  hast  enjoy'd,  if  thou  hast  known  to  live, 
And    pleasure    not  leak'd    through   thee   like  a 

sieve ; 

Why  not  give  thanks  as  at  a  plenteous  feast, 
Cramm'd  to  the  throat  with  life,  and  rise  and 

take  thy  rest? 

But  if  my  blessings  thou  hast  thrown  away, 
If  indigested  joys  pass'd  through,  and  would  not 

stay, 

Why  dost  thou  wish  for  more  to  squander  still? 
If  life  be  grown  a  load,  a  real  ill, 
And  I  would  all  rny  cares  and  labours  end, 
Lay    down    thy   burden,    fool,    and    know    thy 

friend. 

To  please  thee,  I  have  emptied  all  my  store, 
I  can  invent,  and  can  supply  no  more ; 
But  run  the  round  again,  the  round  I  ran  before. 
Suppose  thou  art  not  broken  yet  with  years, 
Yet  still  the  self-same  scene  of  things  appears, 
And  would  be  ever,  couldst  thou  ever  live ; 
For  life  is  still  but  life,  there's  nothing  new  to 

give." 

What  can  we  plead  against  so  just  a  bill? 
We  stand  convicted,  and  our  cause  goes  ill. 
But  if  a  wretch,  a  man  oppress'd  by  fate, 
Should  beg  of  Nature  to  prolong  his  date, 
She  speaks  aloud  to  him,  with  more  disdain  ; 
"Be    still,  thou    martyr   fool,    thou    covetous    of 

pain." 

But  if  an  old  decripit  sot  lament; 
"What  thou,"  she  cries,  "who  hast  outlived  con- 
tent! 

Dost  thou  complain,  who  hast  enjoy'd  my  store  ? 
But  this  is  still  the  effect  of  wishing  more. 
Unsatisfied  with  all  that  Nature  brings ; 
Loathing  the  present,  liking  absent  things; 
From  hence  it  comes,  thy  vain  desires,  at  strife 
Within  themselves,  have  tantaliz'd  thy  life ; 
And  ghastly  Death  appeard  before  thy  sight, 
Ere  thou  hadst  gorg'd  thy  soul  and  senses  with 

delight. 

Now,  leave  those  joys,  unsuiting  to  thy  age, 
To  a  fresh  comer,  and  resign  the  stage." 

Is  Nature  to  be  blam'd  if  thus  she  chide  ? 
No  sure ;  for  'tis  her  business  to  provide 
Against  this  ever-changing  frame's  decay 
New  things  to  come,  and  old  to  pass  away. 
Our  being,  soon,  another  being  makes ; 
Chang'd,  but  not  lost ;  for  Nature  gives  and  takes : 
New  matter  must  be  found  for  things  to  corne, 
And  these   must  waste   like  those,  and   follow 

Nature's  doom. 

All  things,  like  thee,  have  time  to  rise  and  rot, 
And  from  each  other's  ruin  are  begot : 
For  life  is  not  confin'd  to  him  or  thee; 
'Tis  given  to  all  for  use,  to  none  for  property. 
Consider  former  ages  past  and  gone, 
Whose  circles  ended  long  ere  thine  begun, 
Then   tell    me,   fool,    what   part    in    them    thou 

hast? 

Thus  may'st  thou  judge  the  future  by  the  past. 
What  horror  seest  thou  in  that  quiet  state, 
What  bugbear  dreams  to  fright  thee  after  fate  ? 


LUCRETIUS. 


415 


No  ghost,  no  goblinst  that  still  presage  keep, 

But  all  is  there  serene  in  that  eternal  sleep. 

For  all  the  dismal  tales  that  poets  tell, 

Are  verified  on  earth,  and  not  in  hell. 

No  Tantalus  looks  up  with  fearful  eye, 

Or  dreads  the  impending  rock  to  crush  him  from 

on  high  : 

But  fear  of  chance  disturbs  our  easy  hours, 
Or  vain  imagin'd  wrath  of  vain  imagin'd  pow- 
ers. 

No  Tityus  torn  by  vultures  lies  in  hell ; 
Nor  could  the  lobes  of  his  rank  liver  swell 
To  that  prodigious  mass,  for  their  eternal  meal ; 
Not  though  his  monstrous  bulk  had  cover'd  o'er 
Nine  spreading  acres,  or  nine  thousand  more; 
Not  though  the  globe  of  earth  had  been  the  giant's 

floor. 

Ncr  in  eternal  torments  could  he  lie; 
Ncr  could  his  corpse  sufficient  food  supply. 
But  he's  the  Tityus,  who  by  love  opprest, 
Or  tyrant  passion  preying  on  his  breast, 
Ard  ever-anxious  thoughts,  is  robb'd  of  rest. 
The  Sisyphus  is  he,  whom  noise  and  strife 
Seduce  from  all  the  soft  retreats  of  life, 
To  vex  the  government,  disturb  the  laws : 
Drunk  with  the  fumes  of  popular  applause, 
He  courts  the  giddy  crowd  to  make  him  great, 
Ai.d  sweats  and  toils  in  vain,  to  mount  the  so- 
vereign seat. 

For  still  to  aim  at  power,  and  still  to  fail, 
Ever  to  strive,  and  never  to  prevail, 
What  is  it,  but,  in  reason's  true  account, 
To  heave  the  stone  against  the  rising  mount? 
W'lich  urg'd,  and   labour'd,  and   fdrc'd   up   with 

pain, 
Recoils,  and  rolls  impetuous  down,  and  smokes 

along  the  plain. 

Then,  still  to  treat  thy  ever-craving  mind 
With  every  1  id  of  every  kind, 

Yet  never  fill  thy  ravening  appetite; 
Though  years  and  seasons  vary  thy  delight, 
Yet  nothing  to  be  seen  of  all  the  store, 
But  still  the  wolf  within  thee  barks  for  more  ; 
This  is  the  fable's  moral,  which  they  tell 
Of  fifty  foolisti  virgins  damn'd,  in  hell. 
To  leaky  vessels,  which  the  liquor  spill, 
Ard  which  their  cheated   labour  ne'er  could  fill. 
As  for  the  dou.  the  furies,  and  th 
The  gi  ma,  and  the  burning  lakes, 

And  all  the  vain  infernal  trumpery, 
They  neither  are,  nor  were,  nor  e'er  can  be. 
But  here  on  earth  the  guilty  have  in  view 
The  mighty  pains  to  mighty  mischiefs  due; 
pri-ons.  poison-,  the  Tarpeian  rock, 
Stripes,  hangmen,  pitch,  and  su:  ;oke  ; 

And    last,  and    mo-t.  if  th  i-t    behind, 

The  avenging  horror  of  a  eon--iou-  mind, 
Whose  deadly  ;  the  blow. 

And  sees  no  end  of  punishment  and   v, 
Bu:  looks  for  more,  at  the  ['breath: 

This  makes  a  hell  on  earth,  and  lit'.-  a  death. 
Meantime,  v.'hcn  thoughts  of  death  disturb  thy 
bead, 

;t  and  good,  is  dead; 

Ai  ens,  thy  better  tar.   >vas  born  to  die; 
Ai  d  thou,  dost  them  bewail  mortality? 


So  many  monarchs  with  their  mighty  state, 
Who  rul'd  the  world,  were  overrul'd  by  fafe, 
That  mighty  king,  who  lorded  o'er  the  main, 
And    whose    stupendous    bridge    did    the    wild 

waves  restrain, 

Him  death,  a  greater  monarch  overcame ; 
Nor  spar'd  his  guards  the  more,  for  their  immor- 
tal name. 

The  Roman  chief,  the  Carthagenian  dread, 
Scipio,  the  thunderbolt  of  war,  is  dead, 
And,  like  a  common  slave,  by  fate  in  triumph 

led. 

The  founders  of  invented  arts  are  lost; 
And  wits  who  made  eternity  their  boast. 
Where  now  is  Homer,  who  possessed  the  throne? 
The  immortal  work  remains,  the  immortal  au- 
thor's gone. 

Democritus,  perceiving  age  invade, 
His  body  weaken'd,  and  his  mind  decay'd, 
Obey'd  the  summons  with  a  cheerful  face ; 
Made  haste  to  welcome  death,  and  met  him  half 

the  race. 

That  stroke  e'en  Epicurus  could  not  bar, 
Though  he  in  wit  surpassed  mankind,  as  far 
As  does  the  midday  sun  the  midnight  star. 
And  thou,  dost  thou  disdain  to  yield  thy  breath, 
Whose  very  life  is  little  more  tlian  death  ? 
More  than  one-half  by  lazy  sleep  possess'd, 
And  when  awake  thy  soul  but  nods  at  best, 
Day-dreams  and  sickly  thoughts  revolving  in  thy 

breast. 

Eternal  troubles  haunt  thy  anxious  mind, 
Whose  cause  and  cure  thou  never  hop'st  to  find; 
But  still  uncertain,  with  thyself  at  strife, 
Thou  wanderest  in  the  labyrinth  of  life. 
O,  if  the  foolish  race  of  man,  who  find 
A  weight  of  care  still  pressing  on  their  mind, 
Could  find  as  well  the  cause  of  this  unrest, 
And  all  this  burden  lodg'd  within  the  breast; 
Sure  they  would  change  their  course,  nor  live,  as 

now, 

Uncertain  what  to  wish,  or  what  to  vow ! 
Uneasy  both  in  country  and  in  town, 
They  search  a  place  to  lay  their  burden  down. 
One,  restless  in  his  palace,  walks  abroad, 
And  vainly  thinks  to  leave  behind  the  load: 
But  straight  returns ;  for  he's  as  restless  there, 
And  finds  there's  no  relief  in  open  air. 
Another  to  his  villa  would  retire, 
And  spurs  as  hard  as  if  it  were  on  fire  ; 
No  sooner  enter 'd  at  his  country  door, 
Than  he  begins  to  stretch,  and  yawn,  and  snore; 

.s  the  city  which  he  left  before. 
Tim-  every  man  o'erworks  his  weary  will, 
To  shun  himself,  and  to  .-hake  oil  his  ill; 
The  -haking  lit  returns,  and  hangs  upon  him  still. 

No  prospect  of  repose,  or  hope  oft 

The  wretch  is  ignorant  of  his  di.-.- 

Which    known    would    all    his    fruitless  trouble 

ire ; 
For   he  would   know   the   world    not  worth   his 

care. 

Then  would  he  search  more  deeply  for  the  cause, 
And  study  Nature's  will,  and  Nature's  laws: 
For  in  this  moment  lies  not  the  debate, 
But  on  our  future,  fix'd,  eternal  state ; 


416 


LUCRETIUS. 


That  never-changing  state,  which  all  must  keep, 
Whom  death  has  doom'd  to  everlasting  sleep. 
Why  are  we,  then,  so  fond  of  mortal  life, 
Beset  with  dangers  and  maintained  with  strife? 
A  life,  which  all  our  care  can  never  save  : 
One  fate  attends  us,  and  one  common  grave. 
Besides,  we  tread  but  a  perpetual  round 
We  ne'er  strike  out,  but  beat  the  former  ground, 
And  the  same  mawkish  joys  in  the  same  track 

are  found. 

For  still  we  think  our  absent  blessing  best, 
Which  clogs,  and  is  no  blessing  when  possest ; 
A  new  arising  wish  expeh  it  from  the  breast. 
The  feverish  thirst  of  life  increases  still  ; 
We  call  for  more  and  more,  and  never  have  our 

fill; 

Yet  know  not  what  to-morrow  we  shall  try, 
What  dregs  of  life  in  the  last  draught  may  lie : 
Nor  by  the  longest  life  we  can  attain, 
One  moment  from  the  length  of  death  we  gain  ; 
For  all  behind  belongs  to  his  eternal  reign. 
When  once  the  Fates  have  cut  the  mortal  thread, 
The  man  as  much  to  all  intents  is  dead, 
Who  dies  to-day,  and  will  as  long  be  so, 
As  he  who  died  a  thousand  years  ago. 


Hook  IV. 

RUSTIC  DEITIES   AND   SUPERSTITIONS. 

HERE  haunt  the  goat-foot  Satyrs,  and  the  Nymphs, 
As  rustics  tell,  and  Fauns,  whose  frolic  dance 
And  midnight  revels  oft,  they  say,  are  heard 
Breaking  the  noiseless  silence;  while  soft  strains 
Melodious  issue,  and  the  vocal  band 
Strike  to  their  madrigals  the  plaintive  lyre. 
Such,  feign  they,  sees  the  shepherd,  obvious  oft, 
Led  on  by  PAN,  with  pine-lea v'd  garland  crown'd, 
And  seven-mouth'd  reed,  his  labouring  lip  be- 
neath, 

Waking  the  woodland  MUSE  with  ceaseless  song. 
These,  and  a  thousand  legends  wilder  still, 
Recount  they ;  haply  lest  their  desert  homes 
Seem  of  the  gods  abandon'd,  boastful  hence 
Of  sights  prodigious  ;  or  by  cause,  perchance, 
More  trivial  urg'd,  for  ne'er  was  tale  so  wild, 
Feign'd,  but  the  crowd  would  drink  with  greedy 


FRUITS   OF  ILLICIT  LOVE. 

THEN,  too,  his  form  consumes,  the  cares  of  love 
Waste  all  his  vigour,  and  his  days  roll  on 
In  vilest  bondage.     Amply  though  endow'd, 
His  wealth  decays,  his  debts  with  speed  augment, 
The  post  of  duty  never  fills  he  more, 
And  all  his  sick'ning  reputation  dies. 
Meanwhile  rich  unguents  from  his  mistress  laugh ; 
Laugh  from  her  feet  soft  Sicyon's  shoes  superb : 
The  green-ray 'd  emerald  o'er  her,  dropp'd  in  gold, 
Gleams  large  and  numerous ;  and  the  sea-blue 

silk, 

Deep-worn,  enclasps  her,  with  the  moisture  drunk 
Of  constant  revels.     All  his  sires  amass'd 
Now  flaunts  in  ribands,  in  tiaras  flames 
Full  o'er  her  front,  and  now  to  robes  converts 
Of  Chian  loose,  or  Alitlonian  mould  : 
While  feasts,  and  festivals  of  boundless  pomp, 


And  costliest  viands,  garlands,  odours,  wines, 
And  scatter'd  roses  ceaseless  are  renew'd. 
But  fruitless  every  act:  some  bitter  still 
Wells  forth  perpetual  from  his  fount  of  bliss, 
And  poisons  every  flowret.    Keen  remorse 
Goads  him,  perchance,  for  dissipated  time, 
And  months  on  months  destroy'd ;  or  from  the  fair 
Haply  some  phrase  of  doubtful  import  darts, 
That,  like  a  living  coal,  his  heart  corrodes : 
Or  oft  her  eyes  wide  wander,  as  he  deems, 
And  seek  some  happier  rival,  while  the  smile 
Of  smotherd  love  half  dimples  o'er  her  cheeks. 

Book  V. 

THE   NEW-BORN    BABE. 

THUS,  like  a  sailor  by  a  tempest  hurl'd 
Ashore,  the  babe  is  shipwreck'd  on  the  world : 
Naked  he  lies,  and  ready  to  expire  ; 
Helpless  of  all  that  human  wants  require; 
Expos'd  upon  inhospitable  earth, 
From  the  first  moment  of  his  hapless  birth. 
Straight  with  foreboding  cries  he  fills  the  room; 
Too  true  a  presage  of  his  future  doom. 
But  flocks  and  herds,  and  every  savage  beast, 
By  more  indulgent  Nature  are  increased : 
They  want  no  rattles  for  their  froward  mood, 
Nor  nurse  to  reconcile  them  to  their  food 
With  broken  words ;  nor  winter  blasts  they  fear, 
Nor  change  their  habits  with  the  changing  year ; 
Nor,  for  their  safety,  citadels  prepare, 
Nor  forge  the  wicked  instruments  of  war : 
Unlabour'd  Earth  her  bounteous  treasure  grants, 
And  Nature's  lavish  hand  supplies  their  common 
wants.  x 

PRIMEVAL  LIFE   AND   MANNERS. 

YET  man's  first  sons,  as  o'er  the  fields  they  trod, 
Rear'd  from  the  hardy  earth,  were  hardier  far ; 
Strong  built,  with  ampler  bones,  with  muscles 

nerv'd 

Broad  and  substantial ;  to  the  power  of  heat, 
Of  cold,  of  varying  viands,  and  disease, 
Each  hour  superior;  the  wild  lives  of  beasts 
Leading,  while  many  a  lustre  o'er  them  roll'd. 
Nor  crooked  ploughshare  knew  they,  nor  to  drive, 
Deep  through  the  soil,  the  rich-returning  spade; 
Nor  how  the  tender  seedling  to  replant, 
Nor  from  the  fruit-tree  prune  the  wither'd  branch. 
What  showers  bestow'd,  what  earth  spontaneous 

bore, 

And  suns  matur'd,  their  craving  breasts  appeas'd. 
But  acorn-meals  chief  cull'd  they  from  the  shade 
Of  forest-oaks  ;  and,  in  their  wintry  months, 
The  wild  wood-whortle  with  its  purple  fruit 
Fed  them,  then  larger  and  more  amply  pour'd. 
And  many  a  boon  besides,  now  long  extinct, 
The  fuesh-form'd  earth  her  hapless  offspring  dealt. 
Then  floods,  and  fountains,  too,  their  thirst  to 

slake, 

Call'd  them,  as  now  the  cataract  abrupt 
Calls,  when  athirst,  the  desert's  savage  tribes. 
And,  through  the  night  still  wand'ring,  they  ;he 

caves 

Throng'd  of  the  wood-nymphs,  whence  the  bab- 
bling well 


LUCRETIUS. 


417 


Gush'd  oft  profuse,  and  down  its  pebbly  sides, 
Its  pebbly  sides  with  verdant  moss  o'erspread, 
Oo;ied  slow,  or  sought,  redundant  sought,  the 

plains. 

******* 
And  in  their  keen  rapidity  of  hand 
And  foot  confiding,  oft  the  savage  train 
With  missile  stones  they  hunted,  or  the  force 
Of  clubs  enormous ;  many  a  tribe  they  fell'd, 
Ye ;  some  in  caves  shunn'd,  cautious ;  where,  at 

night, 
Throng'd  they,  like  bristly  swine;  their  naked 

limbs 

With  herbs  and  leaves  entwining.    Nought  of  fear 
Urg'd  them  to  quit  the  darkness,  and  recall, 
With  clam'rous  cries,  the  sunshine  and  the  day: 
Bui  sound  they  sunk  in  deep,  oblivious  sleep, 
Till  o'er  the  mountains  blush'd  the  roseate  dawn. 
Yet  then  scarce  more  of  mortal  race  than  now 
Left  the  sweet  lustre  of  the  liquid  day. 
Some,  doubtless,  oft  the  prowling  monsters  gaunt 
Gr.-isp'd  in  their  jaws,  abrupt;  whence,  through 

the  groves, 
The    woods,    the    mountains,    they    vociferous 

groan 'd, 

Destin'd  thus  living  to  a  living  tomb. 
And  some,  by  flight  though  sav'd  from  present 

fate, 

C<> /ring  their  fetid  ulcers  with  their  hands, 
Prone  o'er  the  ground  death  still,  with  horrid 

voice, 

Caird,till  vile  worms  devour'd  them,  void  of  aid, 
And  aU-unskill'd  their  deadly  pangs  t'  appease. 
But  thousands,  then,  the  pomps  of  war  beneath, 
Fell  not  at  once  ;  nor  ocean's  boist'rous  waves 
W-eck'd,   o'er    rough   rocks,    whole    fleets   and 

countless  crews. 

Ncr  ocean  then,  though  oft  to  frenzy  wrought, 
Could  aught  indulge  but  ineffectual  ire: 

liiU'd  to  calms,  could  e'er  his  traitor  face 
.  o'er  the  laughing  waves,  mistrustful  man, 
j'ut  the  dangerous  science  of  the  seas. 
Tl  en  want  consum'd  their  languid  members,  now 
Full-gorg'd  excess  devours  us:  they  themselves 
!          heedless,  oft  with  poisons;  ofter  still 
Men  now  for  others  mix  the  fatal  cup. 
Ytt  when,  at  length,  nidi*  huts  they  first  devis'd, 
And  tires  and  ^arments,  and,  in  union  sweet, 
Man  wedded  woman,  the  pure  joys  imlulu'd 
Ol  chaste  connubial  love,  and  children  rose, 
Tl.e  rough  barbarians  soften'd. — 

FALSE   AM)   Tliri:   PIETT. 

No  : — it  ran  ne'er  be  piety  to  turn 

To  stocks  and  stones  with  deep-veil'd  visage;  light 

O'er  every  altar  incense;  o'er  the  «ln>t 

Fall  .  <1,  with  outstretch'd  arms,  invoke, 

Through  every  temple,  every  god  that  rei:: 

Soothe  them  with  blood,  and  lavish  vows  on  vows. 

This  rather  thou  term  piety,  to  mark 

With  calm,  untrembliiiL'  BOO  :ieordain'd. 

Fcr  when  we.  doubtful,  heaven's  high  arch  survey, 

T        i inn,  lix'd  ether,  star-emboss'd.  and  p:- 

the  sun's  path,  and  pale,  meand'ring  moon, 
Then  superstition- 

By  cares  more  potent,  lift  their  hydra-head. 
53 


OF  MUSIC. 

from  the  liquid  warblings  of  the  birds 
Learn'd  they  their  first  rude  notes,  ere  music  yet 
To  the  rapt  ear  had  tun'd  the  measur'd  verse; 
And  Zephyr,  whisp'ring  through  the  hollow  reeds, 
Taught  the  first  swains  the  hollow  reeds  to  sound  : 
Whence  woke  they  soon  those  tender-trembling 

tones 
Which  the  sweet   pipe,  when   by  the    fingers 

press'd, 
Pours  o'er  the  hills,  the  vales,  and  woodlands 

wild, 

Haunts  of  lone  shepherds,  and  the  rural  gods. 
So  growing  time  points,  ceaseless,  something  new, 
And  human  skill  evolves  it  into  day. 

Thus  sooth'd  they  every  care,  with  music,  thus 
Clos'd  every  meal,  for  rests  the  bosom  then. 
And  oft  they  threw  them  on  the  velvet  grass, 
Near   gliding  streams,   by  shadowy  trees  o'er- 

arch'd, 

And  void  of  costly  wealth  found  still  the  means 
To  gladden  life.    But  chief  when  genial  Spring 
Led  forth  her  laughing  train,  and  the  young  Year 
Painted  the  meads  with  roseate  flowers  profuse — 
Then  mirth,  and  wit,  and  wiles,  and  frolic,  chief, 
Flow'd  from  the  heart;  for  then  the  rustic  Muse 
Warmest  inspir'd  them :  then  lascivious  sport 
Taught  round  their  heads,  their  shoulders,  taught 

to  twine 

Foliage,  and  flowers,  and  garlands  richly  dight ; 
To  loose,  innum'rous  time  their  limbs  to  move, 
And  beat,  with  sturdy  foot,  maternal  earth ; 
While  many  a  smile,  and  many  a  laughter  loud, 
Told  all  was  new,  and  wond'rous  much  esteem'd. 
Thus  wakeful  liv'd  they,  cheating  of  its  rest 
The  drowsy  midnight;  with  the  jocund  dance 
Mixing  gay  converse,  madrigals,  and  strains 
Run  o'er  the  reeds  with  broad  recumbent  lip : 
As,  wakeful  still,  our  revellers  through  night 
Lead  on  their  defter  dance  to  time  precise ; 
Yet  cull  not  costlier  sweets,  with  all  their  art, 
Than  the  rude  offspring  earth  in  woodlands  bore. 

GUILTT  CONSCIENCE. 

Ann  oh !  how  deep  our  shuddering  spirits  feel 
A  dread  of  heaven  through  every  member  steal, 
When  the  strong  lightning  strikes   the   blasted 

ground. 

And  thunder  rolls  the  murmuring  clouds  around. 
Shake  not  the  nations?  And  the  monarch's  nod, 
Bows  it  not  low  before  the  present  God, 
Lest  for  foul  deeds,  or  haughty  words,  be  sent 
His  hurried  hour  of  awful  punishment? 

Book  VI. 

THE   PLAGUE  AT  ATHENS.* 

A  PLAGUE  like  this,  a  tempest  big  with  fate 
Once  ravaged  Athens,  and  her  sad  domains : 
Unpeopled  all  her  city,  and  her  paths 
Swept  with  destruction.    For  amid  the  realms 

*  This  plague  occurred  in  the  first  year  of  the  Pclopon- 
nesian  \var.  It  had  tnk'-ii  it^  ri>-'.  according  to  Thucy- 
dides,  in  that  part  of  Ethiopia  which  borders  on  Euypt, 
and,  spriMdiiic  from  thence  over  Egypt  and  Lybia,  at 
length  invaded  Athens. 


418 


LUCRETIUS. 


Begot  of  Egypt,  many  a  mighty  tract 
Of  ether  traversal,  many  a  flood  o'erpass'd, 
At  length,  here  fix'd  it:  o'er  the  hapless  realm 
Of  Cecrops  hovering,  and  the  astonish'd  race 
Dooming  by  thousands  to  disease  and  death. 
The  head  first  flam'd  with  inward  heat ;  the  eyes 
Reddened  with  fire  suffus'd :  the  purple  jaws 
Sweated  with  bloody  ichor :  ulcers  foul 
Crept  o'er  the  vocal  path,  obstructing  close ; 
And  the  prompt  tongue,  expounder  of  the  mind, 
Overflowed  with  gore,  enfeebled  in  its  post, 
Hoarse  in  its  accent,  harsh  beneath  its  touch. 
And  when    the  morbid   effluence   through    the 

throat 
Had  reach'd  the  lungs,  and  filled    the    faltering 

heart, 

Then  all  the  powers  of  life  were  loosen'd;  forth 
Crept  the  spent  breath  most  fetid  from  the  mouth, 
As  steams  the  putrid  carcass :  every  power 
Fail'd  through  the  soul — the  body — and  alike 
Lay  they  liquescent  at  the  gates  of  death, 
While  with  these  dread,  insufferable  ills 
A  restless  anguish  join'd,  companion  close, 
And  sighs  commix'd  with  groans;  and  hiccough 

deep, 

And  keen,  convulsive  twitchings  ceaseless  urged, 
Day  after  day,  o'er  every  tortur'd  limb, 
The  wearied  wretch  still  wearying  with  assault. 
Yet  ne'er  too  hot  the  system  could'st  thou  mark 
Outwards,  but  rather  tepid  to  the  touch : 
Ting'd  still  with  purple-dye,  and  brandish'd  o'er 
With  trails  of  caustic  ulcers,  like  the  blaze 
Of  erysipelas.     But  all  within 
Burn'd  to    the    bone ;    the  bosom   heav'd   with 

flames 

Fierce  as  a  furnace,  nor  would  once  endure 
The  lightest  vest  thrown  loosely  o'er  the  limbs. 
All  to  the  winds,  and  many  to  the  waves, 
Careless,  resign'd  them  ;  in  the  gelid  stream 
Plunging  their  fiery  bodies,  to  be  cool'd : 
While  some,  wide-grasping,  into  wells  profound 
Rush'd  all  abrupt ;  and  such  the  red-hot  thirst 
Unquenchable  that  parch'd  them,  amplest  show- 
ers 

Seem'd  but  as  dewdrops  to  the  unsated  tongue. 
Nor  e'er  relax'd  the  sickness ;  the  rack'd  frame 
Lay  all-exhausted,  and,  in  silence  dread, 
Appall'd  and  doubtful,  mused  the  HEALING  ART. 
For  the  broad  eyeballs,  burning  with  disease, 
Roll'd  in  full  stare,  for  ever  void  of  sleep, 
And  told  the  pressing  danger ;  nor  alone 
Told  it,  for  many  a  kindred  symptom  throng'd. 
The  mind's  pure  spirit,  all-despondent,  raved ; 
The  brow  severe ;  the  visage  fierce  and  wild  ; 
The  ears  distracted,  fill'd  with  ceaseless  sounds; 
Frequent  the  breath  ;  or  ponderous,  oft.  and  rare; 
The    neck   with    pearls    bedew'd   of  glistening 

sweat ; 

Scanty  the  spittle,  thin,  of  saffron  dye, 
Salt,  with  hoarse  cough  scarce  labour'd  from  the 

throat. 

The  limbs  each  trembled ;  every  tendon  twitch'd, 
Spread  o'er  the  hands  ;  and  from  the  foot  extreme 
O'er  all  the  frame  a  gradual  coldness  crept. 
Then,   towards   the   last,  the   nostrils  close  col- 

laps'd } 


The  nose  acute ;  eyes  hollow  ;  temples  scoop'd  ; 
Frigid  the  skin,  retracted ;  o'er  the  mouth 
A  ghastly  grin ;  the  shrivell'd  forehead  tense; 
The   limbs  outstretched,  for  instant  death  pre- 

par'd ; 

'Till,  with  the  eighth  descending  sun,  for  few 
Reach'd  his  ninth  lustre,  life  for  ever  ceas'd. 
And  though,  at  times,  the  infected  death  es- 

cap'd 

From  sanious  organs,  or  the  lapse  profuse 
Of  black-ting'd  feces,  fate  pursued  them  still. 
Hectic  and  void  of  strength,  consumption  pale 
Prey'd  on  their  vitals  ;  or,  with  headache  keen, 
Oft  from  the  nostrils  tides  of  blood  corrupt 
Pour'd  unrestrain'd,  and  wasted  them  to  shades. 
And,  e'en  o'er  these  triumphant,  frequent  still 
Fix'd  the  morbific  matter  on  the  limbs, 
Or  seiz'd  the  genial  organs ;  and  to  some 
The  grave  so  hideous,  they  consented  life, 
E'en  with  the  excision  of  their  sexual  powers, 
Dearly  to  ransom ;  some  their  being  bought 
By  loss  of  feet  or  hands ,-  and  some  escap'd 
Void  of  all  vision;  such  their  dread  of  death. 
And  in  oblivion  some  so  deep  were  drown'd 
Themselves    they   knew    not,    nor    their    lives 

elaps'd. 
And   though,  unburied,  corse   o'er  corse   the 

streets 

Oft  throng'd  promiscuous,  still  the  plumy  tribes, 
The  forest-monsters,  either  far  aloof 
Kept,  the  foul  stench  repulsing,  or,  if  once 
Dared  they  the  plunder,  instant  fate  pursued. 
Nor  feathery  flocks  at  noon,  nor  beasts  at  night 
Their  native  woods  deserted ;  with  the  pest 
Remote  they  languish'd,  and  full  frequent  died. 
But  chief  the  dog  his  generous  strength  resign'd, 
Tainting  the  highways,  while  the  ruthless  bane 
Through  every  limb  his  sickening  spirit  drove. 
With    eager    strife    the    enormous    grave    was 

snatch'd, 

By  friends  untended  :  nor  was  aught  of  cure 
Discern'd  specific;  for,  what  here  recall'd 
To  day's  bright  regions  the  vanescent  soul, 
Prov'd  poison  there,  and  tenfold  stamp'd  their  fate. 
But  this  the  direst  horror,  that  when  once 
Man  felt  the  infection,  as  though  full  forewarn'd 
Of  sure  destruction,  melancholy  deep 
Preyed  o'er  his  heart,  his  total  courage  fail'd, 
Death    sole  he    look'd   for,   and   his  doom  was 

death. 

Thus  seiz'd  the  dread,  unmitigated  pest 
Man  after  man,  and  day  succeeding  day, 
With  taint  voracious :  like  the  herds  they  fell 
Of  bellowing  beeves,  or  flocks  of  timorous  sheep: 
On  funeral, funeral  hence  for  ever  piled. 
E'en  he,  who  fled  the  afflicted,  urged  by  love 
Of  life  too  fond,  arid  trembling  for  his  fate, 
Repented  soon  severely,  and  himself 
Sunk  in  his  guilty  solitude,  devoid 
Of  friends,  of  succour,  hopeless,  and  forlorn. 
While  those,  who  nurs'd  them,  to  the  pious  task 
Rous'd  by  their    prayers,    with    piteous    moans 

commixt, 

Fell  irretrievable  :  the  best  by  far, 
The    worthiest,   thus    most   frequent   met  their 

doom. 


CATULLUS. 


419 


From  ceaseless  sepultures,  where  each  with 

each 

Vied  in  the  duteous  labour,  they  return'd 
Faint,  sad,  and  weeping:  and  from  grief  alone 
Oft  to  their  beds  resistless  were  they  driven. 
X  >r  liv'd  the  mortal  then,  who  ne'er  was  tried 
With  death,  with  sickness,  or  severest  woe. 
T  icn  the  rude  herdsman,  shepherd,  and  the  man 
Oj"  sturdiest    strength,    who    drove    the    plough 

a-field, 

Languish  *d  remote;  and  in  their  wretched  cots 
Sunk,  the  sad  victims  of  disease  and  want : 
0  er  breathless  sires  their  breathless  offspring  lay, 
O:  r-iret  and  mothers  o'er  the  race  they  bore. 

Nor  small  the  misery  through  the  city  oft 
That  pour'd  from  distant  hamlets;  for  in  throngs 
F.ill  Jlock'd  the  sickening  peasants  for  relief 
From  every  point  di~e\>'d  :  and  every  space, 
And  every  building,  crowded  ;   heightening  here 
The  rage  of  death,  the  hillocks  of  the  dead. 

Some,  pareh'd  with  thirst,  beneath  the  eternal 

spoilt 

Dropp'd  of  the  public  conduits;  in  the  stream 
Wallowing  unwearied,  and  its  dulcet  draught 
Deep-drinking  'till  they  bursted.  Staggering, 

some 
Threw  o'er  the  highways,  and  the  streets  they  trod, 


Their  languid  limbs;  already  half-extinct, 
Horrid  with  fetor,  stiff  with  blotches  foul, 
With  rags  obscene  scarce  cover'd  ;  o'er  the  bones 
Skin  only,  nought  but  skin ;  and  drown'd  alike 
Within  and  outwards,  with  putrescerit  grume. 

At  length  the  temples  of  the  gods  themselves 
Chang'd  into  charnels,  and  their  sacred  shrines 
Throng'd  with  the  dead:  for  Superstition  now, 
And  power  of  altars,  half  their  sway  had  lost, 
Whelm'd  in  the  pressure  of  the  present  woe. 

Nor  longer  now  the  costly  rites  prevail'd 
Of  ancient  burial,  erst  punctilious  kept; 
For  all  roved  restless,  with  distracted  mind, 
From  scene  to  scene ;  and,  worn  with  grief  and 

toil, 

Gave  to  their  friends  the  interment  chance  al- 
low '<  I. 

And  direst  exigence  impell'd  them,  oft, 
Headlong,  to  deeds  most  impious;  for  the  pyres 
Funereal  seiz'd  they,  rear'd  not  by  themselves, 
And  with  loud  dirge,  and   wailing   wild,   o'er 

these 
Plac'd  their  own  dead;   amid  the  unhallowed 

blaze 

With  blood  contending,  rather  than  resign 
The  tomb  thus  gained,  or  quit  the  enkindling 
corse. 


CAIUS  VALERIUS  CATULLUS. 


[Born  87,-Died  — ,  B.  C.] 


THIS  elegant  poet  was  born,  of  a  respectable 
family,  in   or    near  Verona;  but  went   early  to 

Rome,  on  the  invitation  and.  probably,  under  the 

•  >(  Manlius  Torquatus.    He  afterwards 

vi.-ited    Dit'iynia  in    company  with   Caius  Mem- 

iiiius.  the  Pnctor  of  that  province,  and  the  friend 

to  whom  Lucretius  had    inscribed    his    poem  on 

The    Nature    of  Things;   but    having   quai 

with  his  new  patron,  and   !  at  the 

•    i    brother,  who  had  died  on  the 

expedition,  he    returned  to   Italy,  and.  from    that 

]  criod  until  hi-  >   divide  his 

t  me  bctw.  -apital  and 

-••litudes   of   hi-  -  irmio.*      In    the 


'  latter  a  vault  is  still  pointed  out  to  the  traveller, 
as  having  been  the  grotto  of  Catullus. 

Catullus  was  a  man  of  pleasure,  or,  in  plainer 
Engli>h,  an  idler  and  debauchee.     By  his  genius 

'  and  accomplishments  he  had  early  won  his  way 
into  the  great  world,  and  lived  on  terms  of  inti- 
macy not  only  with  many  of  the  most  dissipated, 
but  with  some  also  of  the  most  distinguished 
literary  and  political,  characters  of  the  day. 
Amongst  the  latter  may  be  enumerated  Corne- 
lius Nepos.  Cicero,  Asinius  Pollio,  and  even  Julius 


*  Sinnio,  the  site  of  Catullus'  favourite  villa,  is  a  pe- 
ninsular promontory,  projecting  into  the  Itetiacus,  (now 
I  -iL'o  iii-  (Jard  i)— a  lake  celebrated  by  Yin-il.  as  well  as 
hy  subsequent  poets.  <«ne  of  wimp  .,  u-|,o 

dwelt  in  Hi.'  vicinity,  while  lamenting  ihe  untimely  death 
of  the  poet  Flaminiiis.  represents  tin  c    iiullus 

as  still  nightly  wandering  amidst  the.  scenes  he  \>  \ 
"Te  ripn-  t' 

Audits  per  noctem  mnbnr  m  <     -uilj, 

F.t  pat r ins  mnlrere  nova  dulredine  lucos." 
Vestisies  of  the  house,  supposed   to    have   heli.i 
C.itullus,  are  yet  shown    on   this    peninsula,  an  ' 
^  i-ited  hy  Huonaparte   in  IT'.C  afterwards. 

<Jeneral  St.  Michel  gave  a  brilliant  fete  there,  which 


was  attended  by  the  officers  of  the  French  army  and 
many  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  neighbourhood,— particu- 
larly the  dramatic  poet  Anelli.  who  joined  with  lu- 
in  sini-iiiL'  and  reciting  verses  in  honour  of  the  pl.t. 
of  its  ancient  owner.     Amoi)i:>t  the  toa^t-,  on  tin 
sion,  \vert — "The  memory  of  Catullus,  the  most  elegant 
of  I/itin  poet* .'•  —  "Huonaparte.  who  honours  »reat  men 
amid.-t    llie   tumult  of  arms— who   celebrated    VirL'il  at 
Mantua,  rind   paid   homage    to   Catullus,    hy  visiting  tlie 
iila  of  Sinnio."— "  (General  Miollis,  the  protector 
of  the  sciences,  and  the  fine  arts,  in  Italy."— The  enthu- 
siasm  of  the  party  was  HO   L'reat,  that,  some  inhabitants 
of  the  neighbourhood,  happening  luckily  for  themselves 

i  to  arrive  at  that  moment,  with  a  petition  for  the  removal 
of  the  troops  then  quartered  on  them,  at  once  obtained 
thoir  request. —  See  Heni.  Jour.  Ilitftirique  des  Operat. 

,  du  Siege  de  Pesckicra,  and  Dunlop's  Roman  Literature,  &.c. 


420 


CATULLUS. 


Caesar,  notwithstanding  his  satires  on  that  illus- 
trious general,  whose  only  revenge,  according  to 
Suetonius,  was  to  invite  his  satirist  to  supper. 
His  favourite  mistress,  whom  he  immortalises, 
in  such  exquisite  verses,  under  the  name  of  Les- 
bia,  is  supposed  to  have  been  Clodia,  the  daugh- 
ter or  wife  of  Q.  Metellus  Celer,  a  beautiful  but 


shameless  woman, — who  could  weep  for  a  spar- 
row, but  poison  her  husband  ! 

The  period  of  his  death  has  not  been  posi- 
tively ascertained,  but  occurred  most  probably 
somewhere  between  the  years  58  and  48  B.  C., 
and  at  the  early  age  of  thirty  or  forty. — See  Clin- 
ton's Fasti  Helleniri,  Vol.  II.  p.  185. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  LESBIA'S  SPARROW. 

MOURX,  all  ye  Loves  and  Graces !  mourn, 

Ye  wits,  ye  gallants,  and  ye  gay ! 
Death  from  my  fair  her  bird  has  torn, 

Her  much-lov'd  sparrow's  snatch'd  away. 
Her  very  eyes  she  priz'd  not  so, 

For  he  was  fond  and  knew  my  fair 
Well  as  young  girls  their  mothers  know, 

And  sought  her  breast  and  nestled  there. 

Once  fluttering  round,  from  place  to  place, 

He  gaily  chirp'd  to  her  alone ; 
But  now  that  gloomy  path  must  trace, 

Whence  Fate  permits  return  to  none. 

Accursed  Shades,  o'er  hell  that  lower, 
Oh,  be  my  curses  on  you  heard ! 

Ye,  that  all  pretty  things  devour. 
Have  torn  from  me  my  pretty  bird. 

Oh  evil  deed !  Oh  sparrow  dead ! 

Oh  what  a  wretch,  if  thou  canst  see 
My  fair-one's  eyes  with  weeping  red, 

And  know  how  much  she  grieves  for  thee ! 

UPON  MAMURRA.* 

ADDRESSED     TO    CJESAR. 

WHO  can  behold,  or  who  endure, 

Save  rakes  devoid  of  truth  and  shame, 
Or  gambling  cheats,  or  gluttons  tame, 
That  base  Mamurra  should  procure 
And  squander  free  the  spoil  and  products  all 
Of  farthest  Britain's  isle,  and  rich  Transalpine 
Gaul. 

Miscreant  Romulus !  canst  thou  see 

And  suffer  this? — Then  thine  the  shame. 
The  rake's,  the  cheat's,  the  glutton's  name. 
Some  proud  and  all-abounding  he 
Through  all  our  marriage  beds  shall  rove 
Gay  as  Adonis,  soft  as  Venus'  dove. 

Canst  thou  still  see  and  bear  this  thing, 
Miscreant  Romulus? — Thine  the  shame. 
The  rake's,  the  cheat's,  the  glutton's  name. 
And  for  this  name,  unrivall'd  king, 
Proud  didst  thou  bear  afar  thy  conquering  crest 
E'en  to  the  farthest  isle  that  gems  the  distant 
west.f 


*  A  profligate  Roman  knight,  who,  by  the  favour  of 
Ceesar,  amassed  an  immense  fortune  in  the  Gallic  wars. 
This  probably  is  the  poem  which  (according  to  Sueto- 
nius) was  read  to  Csesar,  while  on  a  visit  at  Cicero's 
villa,  and  "at  which,"  says  the  latter  in  a  letter  to  Atti- 
cus,  "he  never  changed  countenance." 

f  Britain. 


That  he,  thy  lustful  friend,  should  prey 
On  all  the  spoil,  thy  valour's  prize! 
"What  matters  it?''  thy  bounty  cries,* 
"A  little  wealth  he  throws  away." 
And  has  he  then  but  little  wealth  devour'd  ? 
First  he  his  father's  hoards  on  low  companions 
shower'd ; 

Then  by  the  spoil  of  Pontus  fed, 
And  then  by  all  Iberia  gave, 
And  Tagus  from  its  golden  wave. 
Him  justly  Gaul  and  Britain  dread  ; 
Justly  his  grasping  sway  may  cause  alarms, 
More  than  his  emperor's  name  and  all-victorious 

arms. 

Oh !  why  so  base  a  favourite  choose, 
Who  has  not  wit,  nor  use,  nor  power, 
Save  all  thy  riches  to  devour  ? 
Didst  thou,  Oh  son-in-law  !*  then  lose, 
Didst  thou,  Oh  conquering  father!  then  obtain, 
The   empire   oA  the  world  to  be  this   minion's 
gain. 


TO  LESBIA. 

LET  us,  my  Lesbia,  live  and  love, 
And,  though  sour  Cynics  disapprove, 

Heed  not  their  frowns  a  stiver ; 
Suns  set,  and  suns  again  may  rise, 
But  we,  when  once  our  daylight  dies, 

Must  sleep,  sleep  on,  for  ever. 
Give  me  then  a  thousand  kisses, 
Then  a  hundred  of  like  blisses, 
Hundreds  then  to  thousands  add, 
And,  when  thousands  more  we've  had, 
We'll  blend,  confuse  them  all,  that  so 
Nor  you  nor  I  their  sum  may  know, — 
No;  nor  even  Envy's  self  e'er  guess 
Our  half  amount  of  happiness. 


A  MESSAGE  TO  HIS  MISTRESS. 
COMRADES  and  friends !  with  whom,  where'er 

The  Fates  had  will'd,  through  life  I  rov'd, 
Now  speed  ye  home,  and  with  you  bear 

These  bitter  words  to  her  I've  lov'd. 
Tell  her  from  fool  to  fool  to  run, 

Where'er  her  vain  caprice  may  call ; 
Of  all  her  dupes  not  loving  one, 

But  ruining  and  maddening  all. 
Bid  her  forget — what  now  is  past — 

Our  once  dear  love,  whose  ruin  lies 
Like  a  fair  flower,  the  meadow's  last, 

Which  feels  the  plougshare's  edge  and  dies. 
*  Pompey,  who  married  Caesar's  daughter,  Julia. 


CATULLUS. 


421 


TO  THE  PENINSULA  OF  SIRMIO. 

SWEET  Sirmio!  Thou,  the  very  eye 

Of  all  peninsulas  and  isles, 
That  in  our  lakes  of  silver  lie, 

Or  sleep,  enwreath'd  by  Neptune's  smiles. 

How  gladly  back  to  thee  I  fly! 

Still  doubting,  asking, — Can  it  be 
That  I  have  left  Bithynia's  sky, 

And  gaze  in  safety  upon  thee  ? 

Oh  !  what  is  happier  than  to  find 
Our  hearts  at  ease,  our  perils  past; 

When  anxious  long,  the  1'ghten'd  mind 
Lays  down  its  load  of  care  at  last ; 

When  tired  with  toil,  o'er  land  and  deep, 
Again  we  tread  the  welcome  floor 

Of  our  own  home,  and  sink  to  sleep 
On  the  long  wished-for  bed  once  more. 

This,  this  it  is,  that  pays  alone 
The  ills  of  all  life's  former  track; 

Shine  out,  my  beautiful,  mine  own 
Sweet  Sirmio,  greet  thy  master  back. 

And  thou  fair  latce,  whose  water  quaffs 
The  light  of  heaven,  like  Lydia's  sea, 

Rejoice,  rejoice — let  all  that  laughs 
Abroad,  at  home,  laugh  out  with  me ! 


HYMENEAL, 

OU  THE   NUPTIALS   OF   JULIA  AND   MANLIUS. 
A  YOUTH. 

VESPER  ascends:  Ye  youths!  together  rise: 
Eve's  long-expected  star  has  gilt  the  skies : 
Rise,  leave  the  feast ;  the  bride  will  soon  appear 
The  bridal  song  be  sung :    Oh  Hymen,  Hymen 
hear ! 

A  VIRGIN. 

Mark  ye  the  youths?  to  face  them,  maidens,  rise 
Night-shedding  Hesper  lights  the  spangled  skies 
Look  up  :  'tis  so :  and  saw  ye  how  their  throng 
Sprang  forth?  nor  idly;  soon  to  raise  the  song: 
L.-t  us  in  rivnl  strains  surpass  the  lay: 
Oh  Hymen,  Hymen,  bless  the  wedding-day. 

A  YOUTH. 

Arduous   the   palm    of  strife:     Oh!  friends  be 

strong: 

For  see.  yon  middens  muse  some  mutter'd  song 
Nor  idly  muse:  some  memorable  lay; 
While   we  our  ears  and  thoughts  have  turn'c! 

away : 

We  merit  shame,  since  victory  favours  care : 
Yet  now  y<uir  parts  with  emulation  bear: 
'Tis  theirs  to  spenk  :  l«-t  us  responses  frame: 
Oh  Hymen,  Hymen,  bless  the  marriage  flame ! 

VI  II M  V  I, 

Hespor!  knows  heaven  a  star  like  thee  severe, 
That  tear'st  the  maiden  from  her  mother  dear  < 
The  lingering  maiden  from  her  mother's  arms, 
And  yield'st  some  fervid  youth  her  spotles 

charms; 
What  wronirs  more  fierce  can  cities  storm'd  dis 

play? 
Come,  Hymen,  hither!  Hymen,  grace  the  day! 


rlesper !  what  star  more  joyous  shines  above  ? 
Thy  flames  confirm  the  plighted  troth  of  love  : 
3y  covenants  of  men,  of  parents,  seal'd, 
Thy  dawn  alone  the  wish'd  embrace  can  yield : 
What  hour  can  gods  bestow  more  wish'd  than 

this? 
Come,  Hymen,  come ;  and  crown  the  hour  of 

bliss! 

VIRGINS. 

As  in  fenc'd  gardens  blows  some  floweret  rare, 
Safe  from  the  nibbling  flock  or  griding  share : 
Which  gales  refresh,  suns  strengthen,  rain-drops 

rear, 

To  many  a  youth  and  many  a  maiden  dear : 
Clipt  by  the  nail  it  bends  the  stem  and  fades, 
No  more  by  youths  admir'd,or  wish'd  by  maids; 
So  loved  the  unpolluted  virgin  blooms ; 
But  when  the  blighting  touch  her  flower  con- 
sumes, 
No  more  she  charms  the  youth,  or  charms  the 

maid  : 
Come,  Hymen,  Hymen,  give  the  nuptials  aid. 

YOUTHS. 

As  on  the  naked  field  the  lonely  vine 

Yields  no  sweet  grape,  nor  lifts  its  tendril  twine: 

Droops  with  its  weight  and  winds   its   tender 

shoots 

With  earthward  bend  around  their  twisted  roots: 
Nor  herds  nor  peasants,  in  the  noon-day  heat, 
Beneath  its  chequer'd,  bowery  shade  retreat: 
But,  if  it  clasp  some  elm  with  married  leaves, 
Its  shade  the  peasant  and  the  herd  receives: 
Such  is  the  virgin,  who  untouch'd  remains, 
While  still  un wooed  her  useless  beauty  wanes, 
But  wedded  in  her  bloom,  those  charms  delight 
Her   husband's   eyes,    nor    shame   her  parent's 

sight. 

YOUTHS  AND  VIRGINS. 

Resist  not  fiercely,  virgin  ; — but  obey 
Thy  mother,  father;  thy  betrothers  they: 
Not  thine  the  virgin  flower  :  a  part  is  theirs  : 
Thy  sire  a  third,  a  third  thy  mother,  shares: 
A  third  thine  own:  then  struggle  not,  coy  maid! 
For  in  thy  bridegroom  both  are  disobey'd  : 
They,  with  thy  dower,  have  yielded  every  right: 
Come,  Hymen,  Hymen,  bless  the  marriage-night! 


TO  M.  T.  CICERO, 

WHO   HAD   PLEADED  SUCCESSFULLY  FOR  CATULLUS. 

TULLY,  most  eloquent,  most  sage, 

Of  all  the  Roman  race, 
That  deck  the  past  or  present  age, 

Or  future  days  may  grace. 

Oh!  may  Catullus  thus  declare 

An  overflowing  heart; 
And,  though  the  worst  of  poets,  dare 

A  grateful  lay  impart? 

Twill  teach  thee  how  thou  hast  surpast 

AH  others  in  thy  line; 
Far.  far  as  he  in  his  is  last, 

Art  thou  the  first  in  thine. 
2L 


420 


CATULLUS. 


Csesar,  notwithstanding  his  satires  on  that  illus- 
trious general,  whose  only  revenge,  according  to 
Suetonius,  was  to  invite  his  satirist  to  supper. 
His  favourite  mistress,  whom  he  immortalises, 
in  such  exquisite  verses,  under  the  name  of  Les- 
bia,  is  supposed  to  have  been  Clodia,  the  daugh- 


ter or  wife  of  Q.  Metellus  Celer,  a  beautiful  but    ton's  Fasti  Hellenici,  Vol.  II.  p.  185. 


shameless  woman, — who  could  weep  for  a  spar- 
row, but  poison  her  husband  ! 

The  period  of  his  death  has  not  been  posi- 
tively ascertained,  but  occurred  most  probably 
somewhere  between  the  years  58  and  48  B.  C., 
and  at  the  early  age  of  thirty  or  forty. — See  Clin- 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  LESBIA'S  SPARROW. 

MOURN-,  all  ye  Loves  and  Graces !  mourn, 

Ye  wits,  ye  gallants,  and  ye  gay! 
Death  from  my  fair  her  bird  has  torn, 

Her  much-lov'd  sparrow's  snatch'd  away. 
Her  very  eyes  she  priz'd  not  so, 

For  he  was  fond  and  knew  my  fair 
Well  as  young  girls  their  mothers  know, 

And  sought  her  breast  and  nestled  there. 

Once  fluttering  round,  from  place  to  place, 

He  gaily  chirp'd  to  her  alone ; 
But  now  that  gloomy  path  must  trace, 

Whence  Fate  permits  return  to  none. 

Accursed  Shades,  o'er  hell  that  lower, 
Oh,  be  my  curses  on  you  heard ! 

Ye,  that  all  pretty  things  devour. 
Have  torn  from  me  my  pretty  bird. 

Oh  evil  deed !  Oh  sparrow  dead  ! 

Oh  what  a  wretch,  if  thou  canst  see 
My  fair-one's  eyes  with  weeping  red, 

And  know  how  much  she  grieves  for  thee ! 

UPON  MAMURRA.* 

ADDRESSED     TO    C^SAR. 

WHO  can  behold,  or  who  endure, 

Save  rakes  devoid  of  truth  and  shame, 
Or  gambling  cheats,  or  gluttons  tame, 
That  base  Mamurra  should  procure 
And  squander  free  the  spoil  and  products  all 
Of  farthest  Britain's  isle,  and  rich  Transalpine 
Gaul. 

Miscreant  Romulus !  canst  thou  see 

And  suffer  this? — Then  thine  the  shame, 
The  rake's,  the  cheat's,  the  glutton's  name. 
Some  proud  and  all-abounding  he 
Through  all  our  marriage  beds  shall  rove 
Gay  as  Adonis,  soft  as  Venus'  dove. 

Canst  thou  still  see  and  bear  this  thing, 
Miscreant  Romulus'? — Thine  the  shame. 
The  rake's,  the  cheat's,  the  glutton's  name. 
And  for  this  name,  unrivall'd  king, 
Proud  didst  thou  bear  afar  thy  conquering  crest 
E'en  to  the  farthest  isle  that  gems  the  distant 
west.t 


*  A  profligate  Roman  knight,  who,  by  the  favour  of 
Cfesar,  amassed  an  immense  fortune  in  the  Gallic  wars. 
This  probably  is  the  poem  which  (according  to  Sueto- 
nius) was  read  to  Caesar,  while  on  a  visit  at  Cicero's 
villa,  and  "at  which,"  says  the  latter  in  a  letter  to  Atti- 
cus,  "he  never  changed  countenance." 

t  Britain. 


That  he,  thy  lustful  friend,  should  prey 
On  all  the  spoil,  thy  valour's  prize! 
"What  matters  it?''  thy  bounty  cries, 
"A  little  wealth  he  throws  away." 
And  has  he  then  but  little  wealth  devour'd  ? 
First  he  his  father's  hoards  on  low  companions 
shower'd ; 

Then  by  the  spoil  of  Pontus  fed, 
And  then  by  all  Iberia  gave, 
And  Tagus  from  its  golden  wave. 
Him  justly  Gaul  and  Britain  dread  ; 
Justly  his  grasping  sway  may  cause  alarms, 
More  than  his  emperor's  name  and  all-victorious 

arms. 

Oh  !  why  so  base  a  favourite  choose, 
Who  has  not  wit,  nor  use,  nor  power, 
Save  all  thy  riches  to  devour  ? 
Didst  thou,  Oh  son-in-law  !*  then  lose, 
Didst  thou,  Oh  conquering  father!  then  obtain, 
The   empire   oft  the  world  to  be  this   minion's 
gain. 


TO  LESBIA. 

LET  us,  my  Lesbia,  live  and  love, 
And,  though  sour  Cynics  disapprove, 

Heed  not  their  frowns  a  stiver; 
Suns  set,  and  suns  again  may  rise, 
But  we,  when  once  our  daylight  dies, 

Must  sleep,  sleep  on,  for  ever. 
Give  me  then  a  thousand  kisses, 
Then  a  hundred  of  like  blisses, 
Hundreds  then  to  thousands  add, 
And,  when  thousands  more  we've  had, 
We'll  blend,  confuse  them  all,  that  so 
Nor  you  nor  I  their  sum  may  know,— 
No  ;  nor  even  Envy's  self  e'er  guess 
Our  half  amount  of  happiness. 


A  MESSAGE  TO  HIS  MISTRESS. 
COMRADES  and  friends!  with  whom,  where'er 

The  Fates  had  will'd,  through  life  I  rov'd, 
Now  speed  ye  home,  and  with  you  bear 

These  bitter  words  to  her  I've  lov'd. 
Tell  her  from  fool  to  fool  to  run, 

Where'er  her  vain  caprice  may  call ; 
Of  all  her  dupes  not  loving  one, 

But  ruining  and  maddening  all. 
Bid  her  forget — what  now  is  past — 

Our  once  dear  love,  whose  ruin  lies 
Like  a  fair  flower,  the  meadow's  last, 

Which  feels  the  plougshare's  edge  and  dies. 
*  Pompey,  who  married  Caesar's  daughter,  Julia. 


CATULLUS. 


421 


TO  THE  PENINSULA  OF  SIRMIO. 

SWEET  Sirmio!  Thou,  the  very  eye 

Of  all  peninsulas  and  isles, 
That  in  our  lakes  of  silver  lie, 

Or  sleep,  enwreath'd  by  Neptune's  smiles. 

How  gladly  back  to  thee  I  fly ! 

Still  doubting,  asking, — Can  it  be 
That  I  have  left  Bithynia's  sky, 

And  gaze  in  safety  upon  thee  ? 

Oh  !  what  is  happier  than  to  find 

Our  hearts  at  ease,  our  perils  past; 
When  anxious  long,  the  litrhten'd  mind 

Lays  down  its  load  of  care  at  last; 
When  tired  with  toil,  o'er  land  and  deep, 

Again  we  tread  the  welcome  floor 
Of  our  own  home,  and  sink  to  sleep 

On  the  long  wished-for  bed  once  more. 

This,  this  it  is,  that  pays  alone 
The  ills  of  all  life's  former  track ; 

Shine  out,  my  beautiful,  mine  own 
Sweet  Sirmio,  greet  thy  master  back. 

And  thou  fair  lake,  whose  water  quaffs 
The  light  of  heaven,  like  Lydia's  sea, 

Rejoice,  rejoice — let  all  that  laughs 
Abroad,  at  home,  laugh  out  with  me ! 


HYMENEAL, 

OBT  THE   NUPTIALS  OF  JULIA  AND   MANLIUS. 
A  YOUTH. 

VESPER  ascends:  Ye  youths!  together  rise: 
Eve's  long-expected  star  has  gilt  the  skies : 
Rise,  leave  the  feast;  the  bride  will  soon  appear; 
The  bridal  song  be  sung  :    Oh  Hymen,  Hymen 

hear'.' 

A  VIRGIN. 

Mark  ye  the  youths?  to  face  them,  maidens,  rise  ; 
Night-shedding  Hesper  lights  the  spangled  skies 
Look  up:  'tis  so;  and  saw  ye  how  their  throng 
Sprang  forth  ?  nor  idly;  soon  to  raise  the  song: 
Let  us  in  rivrtl  strains  surpass  the  lay: 
Oh  Hymen,  Hymen,  bless  the  wedding-day. 

A  YOUTH. 
Arduous  the  palm    of  strife:     Oh!  friends  be 

strong : 

For  see,  yon  maidens  muse  some  mutter'd  song; 
Nor  idly  muse:  some  memorable  lay; 
While   we  our  ears  and  thoughts  have  turn'd 

away : 

We  merit  shnm<\  >inee  victory  favours  care: 
Yet  no\v  your  parts  with  emulation  bear: 
'Tis  theirs  to  speak  :  let  us  responses  frame  : 
Oh  Hymen,  Hymen,  bless  the  marriage  llame ! 

V1HM  VS. 

Hesper!  knows  heaven  a  star  like  thee  severe, 
That  tear'st  the  maiden  from  her  mother  dear  ? 
The  lingering  maiden  from  ln>r  mother's  arms, 
And  yield'st  some  fervid  youth  her  spotless 

charms  ; 

What  wrongs  more  fierce  can  cities  storm'd  dis- 
play? 
Come,  Hymen,  hither!  Hymen,  grace  the  day! 


YOUTHS. 

flesper !  what  star  more  joyous  shines  above  ? 
Thy  flames  confirm  the  plighted  troth  of  love  : 
By  covenants  of  men,  of  parents,  seal'd, 
Thy  dawn  alone  the  wish'd  embrace  can  yield : 
What  hour  can  gods  bestow  more  wish'd  than 

this? 
Come,  Hymen,  come ;  and  crown  the  hour  of 

bliss! 

VIRGINS. 

As  in  fenc'd  gardens  blows  some  floweret  rare, 
Safe  from  the  nibbling  flock  or  griding  share  : 
Which  gales  refresh,  suns  strengthen,  rain-drops 

rear, 

To  many  a  youth  and  many  a  maiden  dear : 
Clipt  by  the  nail  it  bends  the  stem  and  fades, 
No  more  by  youths  admir'd,or  wish'd  by  maids; 
So  loved  the  unpolluted  virgin  blooms ; 
But  when  the  blighting  touch  her  flower  con- 
sumes, 
No  more  she  charms  the  youth,  or  charms  the 

maid  : 
Come,  Hymen,  Hymen,  give  the  nuptials  aid. 

YOUTHS. 

As  on  the  naked  field  the  lonely  vine 

Yields  no  sweet  grape,  nor  lifts  its  tendril  twine: 

Droops  with  its  weight  and  winds   its   tender 

shoots 

With  earthward  bend  around  their  twisted  roots : 
Nor  herds  nor  peasants,  in  the  noon-day  heat, 
Beneath  its  chequer'd,  bowery  shade  retreat: 
But,  if  it  clasp  some  elm  with  married  leaves, 
Its  shade  the  peasant  and  the  herd  receives: 
Such  is  the  virgin,  who  untouch'd  remains, 
While  still  unwooed  her  useless  beauty  wanes, 
But  wedded  in  her  bloom,  those  charms  delight 
Her   husband's    eyes,    nor    shame   her  parent's 

sight. 

YOUTHS  AND  VIRGINS. 

Resist  not  fiercely,  virgin  ; — but  obey 
Thy  mother,  father;  thy  betrothers  they: 
Not  thine  the  virgin  flower :  a  part  is  theirs : 
Thy  sire  a  third,  a  third  thy  mother,  shares : 
A  third  thine  own:  then  struggle  not,  coy  maid! 
For  in  thy  bridegroom  both  are  disobey'd  : 
They,  with  thy  dower,  have  yielded  every  right: 
Come,  Hymen,  Hymen,  bless  the  marriage-night! 


TO  M.  T.  CICERO, 

WHO  HAD   PLEADED  SUCCESSFULLY  FOR  CATULLUS. 

TULLY,  most  eloquent,  most  sage, 

Of  all  the  Roman  race, 
That  deck  the  past  or  present  age, 

Or  future  days  may  grace. 

Oh!  may  Catullus  thus  declare 

An  overflowing  heart; 
And,  though  the  worst  of  poets,  dare 

A  grateful  lay  impart  ? 

'Twill  teach  thee  how  thou  hast  surpast 

All  others  in  thy  line; 
Far,  far  as  he  in  his  is  last, 

Art  thou  the  first  in  thine. 
2L 


422 


CATULLUS. 


TO  LESBIA. 

No  nymph,  amid  the  much-lov'd  few, 
Is  lov'd  as  thou  art  lov'd  by  me : 

No  love  was  e'er  so  fond,  so  true, 

As  my  fond  love,  sweet  maid,  for  thee ! 

Yes,  e'en  thy  faults,  bewitching  dear ! 

With  such  delights  my  soul  possess ; 
That  whether  faithless,  or  sincere, 

I  cannot  love  thee  more,  nor  less ! 


TO  HIMSELF, 

ON  THE  APPROACH  OF  SPRING. 

Now  Spring  renews  her  gentle  charms, 
And,  lull'd  in  Zephyr's  balmy  arms, 

Soft  grows  the  angry  sky ; 
Haste  then,  and,  leaving  Phrygia's  plains, 
Leaving  Nicaea's  rich  domains, 

To  Asia's  cities  fly. 
My  soul,  all-trembling,  pants  to  stray, 
My  bounding  feet  the  call  obey, 

Friends  of  my  youth,  farewell ! 
Lov'd  friends,  with  whom  I  left  my  home, 
Now  doom'd  through  various  ways  to  roam, 

In  different  lands  to  dwell. 


THE  COMPARISON. 

QUINTIA  is  beauteous  in  the  million's  eye  ; 

Yes, — beauteous  in  particulars,  I  own ; 
Fair-skinn'd,  straight-shap'd,  tall-siz'd  ;  yet  I  deny 

A  beauteous  whole ;  of  charmingness  there's 

none : 

In  all  her  height  of  figure  there  is  not 
A  seasoning  spice  of  that— I  know  not  what — 
That  piquant  something,  grace  without  a  name. 
But  Lesbia's  air  is  charming  as  her  frame. 
Yes, — Lesbia,  beauteous  in  one  graceful  whole, 
From  all  her  sex  their  single  graces  stole. 


TO  CALVUS, 

ON   THE  DEATH  OF   HIS    Q.UIWTILIA. 

CALVUS,  if  any  joy  from  mortal  tears 

Can  touch  the  feelings  of  the  silent  dead  ; 
When  dwells  regret  on  loves  of  former  years, 

Or  weeps  o'er  friendships  that  have  long  been 

fled: 
Oh,  then  far  less  will  be  Quintilia's  woe 

At  early  death  arid  fate's  severe  decree, 
Than  the  pure  pleasure  she  must  feel  to  know 

How  well,  how  truly,  she  was  loved  by  thee. 

Another  translation  of  the  Same. 
IF  ere  in  human  grief  there  breathe  a  spell 
To  charrn  the   silent   tomb,  and   soothe    the 

dead; 

When  soft  regrets  on  past  affections  dwell, 
And  o'er  fond  friendships  lost,  our  tears  are 

shed  ; 

Sure,  a  less  pang  must  touch  Quintilia's  shade, 
While  hovering  o'er  her  sad,  untimely  bier, 
Than  keen-felt  joy  that  spirit  pure  pervade, 
To  witness  that  her  Calvus  held  her  dear. 


THE  RITES  AT  HIS  BROTHER'S  GRAVE. 

O'ER  many  a  distant  land,  o'er  many  a  wave, 
Brother!  I  come  a  pilgrim,  to  thy  grave 
To  pay  the  rites  which  pious  love  ordains, 
And,  though  in  vain,  invoke  thy  mute  remains. 
For  thou  art  gone !  Yes,  thee  I  must  resign, 
My  more  than  brother — ah !  no  longer  mine. 
Meanwhile  these  rites  of  ancestry  be  paid, 
A  sacred  debt  to  thy  lamented  shade ; 
Take  them — these  tears  their  heartfelt  homage 

tell— 
And  now — for  ever  bless  thee,  and  farewell ! 


A  PICTURE, 

FROM  THE  NUPTIALS  OF  JULIA  AND  MANLIUS. 

AND  soon,  to  make  thee  truly  blest, 
Soon  may  a  young  Torquatus  rise, 

Who,  hanging  on  his  mother's  breast 
To  his  known  sire  shall  turn  his  eyes. 

Outstretch  his  infant  arms  awhile, 

Half  ope  his  little  arms  and  smile. 


PERFIDY  OF  MAN. 

FROM  THE   NUPTIALS   OF  PELEUS   AND   THETIS. 

LET  never  woman  trust 
The  oath  of  man  :  let  never  woman  hope 
Faith  in  his  tender  speeches.     He,  while  aught 
Inflames  his  ardour  to  possess,  will  fear 
No  oath,  will  spare  no  promise.     But  when  once 
His  lust  is  sated,  fears  not  what  he  spoke, 
Heeds  not  his  perjur'd  promise.* 


ATYS. 

Borne  swiftly  o'er  the  seas 

to  Phrygia's  woody  strand, 
Atys  with  rapid  haste 

infuriate  leap'd  to  land ; 
Where  high-inwoven  groves 

in  solemn  darkness  meet, 
Rushed  to  the  mighty  Deity's 

remote  and  awful  seat  ; 
And  wildered  in  his  brain, 

fierce  inspiration's  prey, 
There  with  a  broken  flint 

he  struck  his  sex  away. 
Soon  as  he  then  beheld 

his  comely  form  unmann'd, 
While  yet  the  purple  blood 

flowed  reeking  oa  the  land ; 
Seized  in  his  snowy  grasp 

the  drum,  the  timbrel  light, 
That  still  is  heard,  dread  Cybele, 

at  thine  initiate  rite, 

*  A  passage  in  Otway's  Orphan  is  in  the  same  strain  : 
"Trust  not  a  man  ;  we  are  by  nature  false, 
Dissembling,  subtle,  cruel,  and  inconstant: 
When  a  man  talks  of  love,  with  caution  hear  him  ; 
But  if  he  swears,  he'll  certainly  deceive  you." 
Dryden  also,  in  Palamon  and  Jlrcite,   alluding  to  Lo- 
ver's vows,  calls  them 

"A  train  of  lies 
That,  made  in  lust,  conclude  in  perjuries." 


CATULLUS. 


423 


And  struck  the  quivering  skin, 
whence  hollow  echoes  flew, 

And  raised  this  panting  song 
to  his  infuriate  crew. 

«  Ye  priests  of  Cybele, 

or  rather  let  me  say, 
For  ye  are  men  no  longer, 

ye  priestesses,  away ! 
Together  pierce  the  forest, 

great  Cybele's  domains, 
Ye  vagrant  flocks  of  her 

on  Dindymua  who  reigns. 
Ye,  like  devoted  exiles, 

who,  seeking  foreign  lands, 
Have  follow'd  me  your  leader, 

have  bow'd  to  my  commands; 
Have  eross'd  the  salt-sea  wave, 

have  dar'd  the  racing  storms, 
And,  loathing  woman's  love, 

unmann'd  your  lusty  forms; 
use  of  error  past 

let  laughing  freu/y  blind; 
Let  doubt,  let  thought  itself, 

be  driven  from  the  mind. 
Haste,  haste,  together  haste 

to  Cybele  divine! 
Seek  we  her  Phrygian  grove 

and  dark  sequestor'd  shrine, 
Where  cymbals  clash,  where  drums 

resound  their  deepening  tone, 
Where  Phrygia's  crooked  pipe 

breathes  out  its  solemn  drone, 
Where  votaresses  toss 

their  ivy-circled  brows, 
And  urge  with  piercing  yells 

their  consecrated  vows, 
Where  the  delirious  train 

disport  as  chance  may  lead  : 
Thither  our  vows  command 

in  mystic  dance  to  speed." 

Thus  Atys,  female  now, 

to  female  comrades  sung. 
The  frantic  chorus  rose 

from  many  a  panting  tongue; 
Re-echoed  the  deep  timbrel, 

the  hollow  cymbals  . 
And  all  to  verdant  Ida 

run  madly  at  the  claim. 
Though  breathless,  still  impetuous 

with  inspiration's  force 
Raving  and  bewildor'd, 

•e  conscious  of  her  course, 
As  the  unbroken  heifer 

will  fly  the  threaten'd  yoke, 
Atys  through  gloomy  woo 

where  never  -nnhcam  broke, 
Loud  striking  the  light  timbrel, 

rush'd  on  with  bounding  stride, 
And  all  the  frantic  p- 

pursue  their  rapid  guide. 
The  fearful  fane  at  length 

their  panting  ardour  I 
Each,  faint  and  unrcfresh'd, 

in  leaden  slumber  drops. 


In  languor  most  profound 

their  eyelids  are  deprest, 

And  all  extatic  rage 

is  lull'd  in  torpid  rest. 

But  when  again  the  sun 

returning  to  the  skies 
Put  forth  his  golden  brow  ; 

when  now  his  radiant  eyes 
Throughout  wide  heaven,  and  earth, 

and  ocean  pour'd  their  light; 
And  with  thunder-pacing  steeds, 

he  chas'd  the  shades  of  night; 
When  slumber's  reign  serene 

had  fren/y's  flame  subdued, 
When  Atys  her  fell  deed 

in  clearer  reason  view'd, 
Beheld  in  what  abode 

her  future  lot  was  placed, 
And,  ah !  how  low  she  stood, 

in  Nature's  rank  disgraced  ; 
Then,  hurried  to  despair 

by  passion's  rising  tide, 
Again  she  wildly  sought 

the  country's  sea-girt  side  ; 
And,  casting  her  full  eyes 

o'er  boundless  ocean's  flow, 
Address'd  her  native  land 

in  these  plaintive  strains  of  woe. 

"My  country,  oh  my  country, 

creatress,  parent  earth ! 
My  country,  my  dear  country, 

that  sustain'd  me  from  my  birth! 
Must  I  for  dreary  woods 

forsake  thy  smiling  shore, 
And  see  my  friends,  my  home, 

my  parents  never  more? 
No  more  the  Forum  seek, 

or  the  gay  1'ahcstra's  court, 
Or  urge,  as  wont  of  old, 

each  famM  gymnastic  sport? 
Oh  wretched,  wretched  man! 

while  years  shall  slowly  roll, 
For  ever,  o'er  and  o'er  again, 

for  ever  grieve,  my  soul ! 
What  grace,  what  beauty  's  there, 

that  I  did  not  enjoy? 
I,  when  in  manhood's  prime, 

a  youth,  or  yet  a  boy, 
The  flower  of  all  who  trod 

the  firm  iivinna-tic  floor, 
The  victor  mid  the  ciowd, 

who  the  wrestler's  prizes  bore. 
My  gates  were  ever  throng'd. 

and  full  my  threshold  swarm'd ; 
With  blooming  garlands  hung, 

that  love-sick  maidens  form'd, 
My  mansion  gaily  glitter'd. 

each  morning,  as  I  sped 
At  earliest  blush  of  sunrise, 

with  lightness,  from  my  bed. 

And  must  I  ever  now 

a  maniac  votaress  rave, 

Heaven's  devoted  handmaid, 
to  Cybele  a  slave  ? 


424 


CATULLUS. 


Her  frantic  orgies  ply, 

disgrac'd  in  Nature's  plan, 
A  part  of  what  I  was, 

a  maim'd,  a  barren  man; 
And  dwell  in  Ida's  caves, 

which  snow  for  ever  chills ; 
And  pass  my  savage  life 

on  Phrygia's  rugged  hills, 
Placed  with  the  sylvan  stag, 

the  forest-ranging  boar  ? 
Oh !  now  how  soon  I  rue  the  deed, 

how  bitterly  deplore !" 
As  from  her  rosy  lips 

these  wandering  murmurs  broke, 
They  rose  to  heaven,  and  bore 

the  unwonted  words  she  spoke : 
Indignantly  unyoking 

her  lions  on  the  plain, 
And  rousing  the  grim  beast 

that  bore  the  left  hand  rein, 
Great  Cybele,  enrag'd, 

her  dread  injunction  told, 
And  thus  to  fury  waked 

the  tyrant  of  the  fold. 
"  Haste,  fierce  one,  haste  away! 

rush  on  with  glaring  ire, 
With  inspiration's  rage, 

with  frenzy's  goad  of  fire, 
Drive  the  too  daring  youth, 

who  would  my  service  fly, 
Again  to  seek  the  gloom 

of  yonder  forest  high. 
Haste  :  lash  thyself  to  rage 

till  all  thy  flank  be  sore : 
Let  all  around  re-echo 

to  thine  appalling  roar  : 
Toss  with  thy  sinewy  neck 

on  high  thy  glossy  mane." 
So  spake  terrific  Cybele 

and  loosed  her  lion's  rein. 
Gladly  the  beast  awakes 

his  ruthlessness  of  mind, 
Bounds,  rages,  reckless  leaves 

the  thicket  crush'd  behind, 
Then  swiftly  gained  the  beach, 

wash'd  by  the  foamy  flood 
Where  Atys,  in  despair, 

amid  the  breakers  stood, 
And  springing  fiercely  forth — 

the  wretch,  no  longer  brave, 
Into  the  forest  plung'd, 

and  in  a  living  grave 
There  pass'd  her  long  devoted  life, 

a  priestess  and  a  slave. 
Oh  great,  oh  fearful  goddess ! 

oh  Cybele  divine ! 


Oh  goddess,  who  has  placed 
on  Dindymus  a  shrine  ! 

Far  be  from  my  abode 

thy  sacred  frenzy's  fire, 

Madden  more  willing  votaries, 
more  daring  minds  inspire.* 


LESBIA'S  DISGRACE. 

ADDRESSED   TO   C^ELIUS. 

OH  C^plius !  think,  our  Lesbia,  once  thy  pride ; 

Lesbia,  that  Lesbia,  whom  Catullus  priz'd 
More  than  himself  and  all  the  world  beside, 

Now  gives,  for  hire,  to  profligates  despis'd, 
In  the  dark  alley,  or  the  common  lane, 
The  charms  he  lov'd,  the  love  he  sigh'd  to  gain. 


TO  LESBIA. 

THOU  told'st  rne,  in  our  days  of  love, 
That  I  had  all  that  heart  of  thine ; 

That,  e'en  to  share  the  couch  of  Jove, 

Thou  wouldst  not,  Lesbia,  part  from  mine. 

How  purely  wert  thou  worshipp'd  then ! 

Not  with  the  vague  and  vulgar  fires 
Which  beauty  wakes  in  soulless  men, 

But  loved,  as  children  by  their  sires. 

That  flattering  dream,  alas,  is  o'er ; — 

I  know  thee  now — and,  though  these  eyes 

Doat  on  thee  wildly  as  before, 
Yet,  e'en  in  doating,  I  despise. 

Yes.  sorceress, — mad  as  it  may  seem, — 
With  all  thy  craft,  such  spells  adorn  thee, 

That  passion  e'en  outlives  esteem, 

And  I,  at  once,  adore — and  scorn  thee. 


*  There  are  many  contradictory  stories  about  Atys. 
According  to  Catullus,  he  was  a  beautiful  youth,  who 
having  landed  with  a  few  companions  in  Phrygia,  hur- 
ried to  the  grove  of  the  goddess  Cybele,  and  there,  struck 
with  a  superstitious  frenzy,  qualified  himself  for  the  ser- 
vice of  that  divinity.  Then,  snatching  up  the  musical 
instruments  used  in  her  worship,  and  exhorting  his  com- 
panions to  follow,  he  traverses  the  woods  and  mountains, 
till  having,  at  length,  reached  the  temple  of  Cybele,  he 
drops  down  exhausted  by  fatigue  and  mental  distraction. 
Being  tranquillized,  however,  by  a  night's  repose,  he  be- 
comes sensible  of  his  folly  and  wretchedness,  returns  to 
the  sea-shore,  and,  casting  his  eyes  over  the  ocean  home- 
ward, compares  his  former  happiness  with  his  present 
degraded  condition. — It  is  lamentable  that  a  poem  of  such 
energy  and  pathos  (as  this  undoubtedly  is,)  should  have 
£0  puerile  a  conclusion.  Cybele,  dreading  the  defection 
of  her  new  votary,  lets  loose  a  lion  from  her  car,  which 
drives  Atys  back  to  her  groves— 

"There  to  find  a  living  grave, 
And  pass  her  long-devoted  life,  a  priestess  and  a  slave." 


LABERIUS. 


[Died  43  B.  C.J 


A  ROMAK  knight  of  respectable  family  and 
character,  and  a  composer  of  Mimes;  but  chiefly 
known  to  posterity  by  a  prologue  which  he  wrote 
and  spoke,  on  being  compelled  by  Julius  ( 
to  appear  upon  the  stage.  Though  acquitting 
himself  with  grace  and  spirit  as  an  actor,  he 
could  not  refrain  from  expressing  his  detestation 
of  the  tyranny  which  had  made  him  such.  In 
one  of  the  scenes  he  personated  a  Syrian  slave, 
and,  whilst  escaping  from  the  lash  of  his  master, 
exclaimed — "Porro,  Quirites,  libertatem  perdidi- 
mus ;"  and  shortly  after  added  —  "Necesse  est 
multos  timeat,  quern  multi  timent;"  at  which  the 
oyes  of  the  whole  audience  were  instantly  turned 
awards  Ccesar,  who  was  present  in  the  theatre. 

It  was  not  merely  to  entertain  the  people,  who, 
(as  it  has  been  justly  observed,)  would  have  been 
as  well  amused  with  the  representation  of  any 
other  actor,  nor  to  wound  the  private  feelings  of 
Laberius,  that  Caesar  forced  him  on  the  stage. 


His  sole  object  was  to  degrade  the  Roman  knight- 
hood, to  subdue  their  spirit  of  independence  and 
honour,  and  to  strike  the  people  with  a  sense  of 
his  unlimited  sway.  It  was  the  same  policy 
which  afterwards  led  him,  and  his  successors  in 
the  empire,  to  convert  their  senators  into  gladi- 
ators and  buffoons,  and  to  encourage  men  of  the 
noblest  families,  their  Fabii  and  Mamerci,  to  ca- 
per about  the  stage,  barefooted  and  smeared  with 
soot,  for  the  amusement  of  the  rabble. 

Laberius  did  not  long  survive  his  mortification. 
Retiring  from  Rome,  he  died  at  Puteoli,  about 
ten  months  after  the  assassination  of  Ca>sar. 

The  titles,  and  a  few  fragments,  of  his  Mimes 
are  still  extant;  but,  excepting  the  prologue,  these 
remains  are  too  inconsiderable  and  detached 
for  us  to  judge  either  of  their  subject  or  their 
merits.* 


*  See  Dunlop's  History  of  Roman  Literature,  vol.  i., 
p.  554. 


PROLOGUE. 

NECESSITY — the  current  of  whose  sway 
Many  would  stem,  but  few  can  find  the  way — 
To  what  abasement  has  she  made  me  bend, 
Now  when  life's  pulse  is  ebbing  to  its  end ! 
Whom  no  ambitious  aim,  no  sordid  bait, 
Fear,   force,   nor   influence    of    the    grave   and 

great, 

Nor  meed  of  praise,  nor  any  lure  beside, 
Could  move,  when  youthful,  from  my  place  of 

pride ; 

Lo,  in  mine  age  how  easily  I  fall ! 
One  honied  speech  from  ('•  _rne  was  all; 

For  how  might  I  ni.-i>t  hi-  snvrn-iirn  will, 
Whose  every  wish  the  imils  themselves  fulfil? 
Twice  thirty  years  without  a  blemish  spent. 
Forth  from  my  home  this  morn  a  knight  I 


And  thither  I  return — as  what?  a  mime! 
O,  I  have  lived  one  day  beyond  my  time ! 
Fortune — still  wayward  both  in  bad  and  good, 
If  'twas  thy  pleasure  in  thy  changeful  mood, 
To  tear  the  wreath  of  honour  from  my  brow, 
Why  was  I  not  far  earlier  taught  to  bow. 
When  with  such  aid  as  youth  and  strength  afford, 
I  might  have  won  the  crowd,  and  pleased  their 

lord  ? 

Now,  why  thus  humbled  in  the  frost  of  age  ? 
What  scenic  virtues  bring  I  to  the  stage  ? 
What  fire  of  soul,  what  dignity  of  mien, 
What  powers  of  voice  to  grace  the  mimic  scene? 
As  creeping  ivy  kills  the  strangled  trvr. 
So  the  long  clasp  of  years  has  dealt  with  me. 
Nought  left,  alas !  of  all  my  former  fame, 
went,    Save  the  poor  legend  of  a  tomb— my  name ! 


54 


2  L2 


425 


PUBLIUS   VIRGILIUS   MARO. 


[Bora  70,— Died  19,  B.  C.] 


THIS  great  poet  was  born  at  the  village  of 
Andes  near  Mantua,  during  the  first  consulship 
of  Pompey  and  Crassus,  and  in  the  year  of  Rome 
683.  Of  his  father  little  more  is  known  than 
that  he  was  possessed  of  sense  to  feel,  and  of 
means  to  confer  on  his  son,  the  advantages  of  a 
liberal  education.  He  sent  him,  at  seven  years 
of  age,  to  Cremona,  and  from  thence,  at  sixteen, 
to  Milan;  at  both  which  places  he  is  said  to 
have  prosecuted  his  studies  with  ardour  and 
diligence,  and  to  have  thus  laid  the  foundation 
of  that  varied  learning,  for  which  he  was  no  less 
distinguished  than  for  his  lofty  and  elegant 
genius.  In  particular,  he  acquired  that  taste  for 
the  literature  and  philosophy  of  Greece,  which 
is  so  discernible  in  all  his  writings.  -His  in- 
structor in  philosophy  was  Syro,  the  Epicurean, 
whose  doctrines,  however,  he  afterwards  aban- 
doned for  the  loftier  ones  of  the  academic  school. 

Having  lost  his  little  patrimony,  which,  with 
other  lands  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Cremona 
and  Mantua,  had  been  allotted  to  the  disbanded 
soldiery  of  the  civil  wars,  he  repaired  to  Rome, 
where,  through  the  efforts  of  Varus,  Pollio,  and 
others,  he  not  only  obtained  restitution  of  his 
farm,  but  even  acquired  the  future  favour  and 
friendship  of  the  conqueror  himself.  This  event 
he  has  celebrated  in  his  first  Eclogue. 

At  the  request  of  his  new  patron,  he  is  said  to 
have  undertaken  the  Georgics,  and,  seven  years 
afterwards,  the  JEneid ;  but  so  dissatisfied  was 
he  with  the  latter,  that  he  left  it,  with  a  dying 
injunction  on  his  friends  to  destroy  it. 

Virgil  died  at  Brundusium,on  his  way  back  from 
Athens  to  Rome,  whither  he  was  proceeding  with 
Augustus.  His  ashes  were  conveyed  to  Naples, 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  which  a  tomb,  believed 
by  the  inhabitants  to  be  his,  is  still  pointed  out 
to  the  inquiring  traveller.  From  the  little  which 
we  are  able  to  glean  of  his  life  and  character,  he 
seems  to  have  been  a  man  of  modesty  and  worth, 
admired  and  beloved  by  his  brother-poets,  as 
well  as  by  all  the  other  great  and  eminent  men 
of  his  age.  He  is  frequently  mentioned  by  Ho- 


race, and  always  in  terms  of  the  sincerest  affec- 
tion and  esteem. 

Of  his  works  it  would  require  a  pen  like  his 
own  to  describe  them  in  the  language  they  de- 
serve. "I  look  on  Virgil,"  says  Mr.  Dryden,  "as 
a  succinct,  grave,  and  majestic  writer ;  one  who 
weighed  not  only  every  thought,  but  every  word 
and  syllable ;  who  was  still  aiming  to  crowd  his 
sense  into  as  narrow  a  compass  as  he  possibly 
could.  His  verse  is  everywhere  sounding  the  very 
thing  in  your  ears,  whose  sense  it  bears;  yet  the 
numbers  are  perpetually  varied,  to  increase  the 
delight  of  the  reader ;  so  that  the  same  sounds 
are  never  repeated  twice  together. — Though  he 
is  smooth,  where  smoothness  is  required,  yet  is 
he  so  far  from  affecting  it,  that  he  seems  rather 
to  disdain  it;  frequently  makes  use  of  Synalae- 
phas,  and  concludes  his  sense  in  the  middle  of 
his  verse.  He  is  everywhere  above  conceits  of 
epigrammatic  wit  and  gross  hyperboles  ;  he  main- 
tains majesty  in  the  midst  of  plainness ;  he  shines, 
but  glares  not;  and  is  stately  without  ambition, 
(which  is  the  vice  of  Lucan.)  I  drew  my  defi- 
nition of  poetical  wit  from  my  particular  consi- 
deration of  him;  for  propriety  of  thoughts  and 
words  are  only  to  be  found  in  him.  This  exact 
propriety  of  Virgil  I  particularly  regarded  as  a 
part  of  his  character,  but  must  confess,  to  my 
shame,  that  I  have  not  been  able  to  translate  any 
part  of  him  so  well  as  to  make  him  appear 
wholly  like  himself.  For  where  the  original  is 
close,  no  version  can  reach  it  in  the  same  com- 
pass.— Tasso  tells  us,  in  his  letters,  that  Sperone 
Speroni,  a  great  Italian  wit  who  was  his  contem- 
porary, observed  of  Virgil  and  Tully,  that  the 
Latin  orator  endeavoured  to  imitate  the  copious- 
ness of  Homer,  the  Greek  poet ;  and  that  the 
Latin  poet  made  it  his  business  to  reach  the 
conciseness  of  Demosthenes,  the  Greek  orator. 
Virgil,  therefore,  being  so  very  sparing  of  his 
words,  can  never  be  translated,  as  he  ought,  in 
any  modern  tongue.  To  make  him  copious  is  to 
alter  his  character ;  and  to  translate  him,  line  for 
line,  is  impossible." 


FROM  THE  PASTORALS. 

TITYRUS    AKD    MELIBfKUS. 

AUGUSTUS,  having  settled  himself  in  the  Ro- 
man empire,  and  wishing  to  reward  his  veteran 
troops  for  their  services,  distributed  among  them 
all  the  lands  that  lay  about  Cremona  and  Man- 
tua, turning  out  the  right  owners  for  having  sided 
with  his  enemies.  Virgil,  who  was  a  sufferer 
among  the  rest,  having,  through  the  intercession 


of  his  friends,  recovered  his  estate,  as  an  instance 
of  his  gratitude,  composed  the  following  Pastoral, 
where  he  sets  out  his  own  good  fortune  in  the 
person  of  Tityrus,  and  the  calamities  of  his  Man- 
tuan  neighbours  in  the  character  of  Meliboaus. 

MELIBCEUS. 

BENEATH  the  shades  which  beechen  boughs  dif- 
fuse, 
You,  Tityrus,  entertain  your  silvan  muse. 


VIRGIL. 


427 


Round  the  wide  world  in  banishment  we  roam 
Fore'd  from  our  pleasing  fields  and  native  home; 
While,  stretch'd  at  ease,  you  sing  your  happy 

loves, 
And  Amaryllis  fills  the  shady  groves. 

TITYIU  S. 

These  blessings,  friend,  a  deity  bestow'd; 
For  never  can  I  deem  him  less  than  God. 
Tie  tender  firstlings  of  my  woolly  breed 
Shall  on  his  holy  altar  often  bleed. 
He  gave  my  kine  to  graze  the  flow'ry  plain, 
Aud  to  my  pipe  renew'd  the  rural  strain. 

MELIBCEUS. 

I  envy  not  your  fortune  but  admire, 
That,  while  the  raging  sword  and  wasteful  fire 
Destroy  the  wretched  neighbourhood  around, 
No  hostile  arms  approach  your  happy  ground. 
Far  diff'rent  is  my  fate :  my  feeble  goats 
With  pains  I  drive  from  their  forsaken  cotes. 
And  this,  you  see,  I  scarcely  drag  along, 
Who,  yeaning,  on  the  rocks  has  left  her  young ; 
The  hope  and  promise  of  my  falling  fold. 
My  loss,  by  dire  portents  the  gods  foretold  ; 
For,  had  I  not  been  blind,  I  might  have  seen : — 
Yon  riven  oak,  the  fairest  of  the  green, 
And  the  hoarse  raven,  on  the  blasted  bough, 
By  croaking  from  the  left,  presaged  the  coming 

blow. 

But  toll  me.  Tityrus,  what  heavenly  power 
Preserv'd  your  fortune  in  that  fatal  hour? 

TITYRUS. 

Fool  that  I  was,  I  thought  imperial  Rome 
Like  Mantua,  where  on  market  days  we  come, 
And  thither  drive  our  tender  lambs  from  home. 
So  kids  and  whelps  their  sires  and  dams  express ; 
And  so  the  great  I  measur'd  by  the  less. 
Eut  country  towns,  compard  with  her,  appear 
Like  shrubs,  when  lofty  cypresses  are  near. 

MKLIB(KU8. 

What  great  occasion  call'd  you  hence  to  Rome  ? 

TITYIU  S. 

Freedom,  which  came  at  length,  though  slow  to 

come. 

Nor  did  my  search  of  liberty  begin, 
Till  my  black  hairs  were  chain: M  upon  my  chin; 
Nor  Amaryllis  would  vouchsafe  a  look, 
Till  Galatea's  meaner  bonds  I  In 
Till  thru  a  hapless  Impel. •><.  homely  swain, 

lit  not  freedom,  nor  aspired  to  gain: 
Though    many    a    victim    from    my    folds    was 

bought, 

An  1  many  a  cheese  to  country  markets  brought, 
Vet  all  the  little  that  I  got,  I  spent. 
And  still  returned  as  empty  as  I  went. 

MELIBCEl  -s. 

We  stood  amaz'd  to  see  your  mistress  mourn, 
Unknowing  that  she  pin'd  for  your  return  : 
We  wonder'd  why  >he  kept  her  fruit  so  long, 
For  whom  so  late  th'  ungather'd  apples  hung. 
But  now  the  wonder  ceases,  since  I  see 
She  kept  them  only,  Tityrus,  for  thee. 
For  thee  the  bubbling  springs  appear'd  to  mourn, 
And  whisp'ring  pines  made  vows  for  thy  return. 


TITTRUS. 

What  should  I  do? — While  here  I  was  enchain'd 
No  glimpse  of  godlike  liberty  remain'd; 
Nor  could  I  hope,  in  any  place  but  there, 
To  find  a  god  so  present  to  my  prayer. 
There  first  the  youth  of  heavenly  birth  I  view'd, 
For  whom  our  monthly  victims  are  renew'd. 
He  heard  my  vows,  and  graciously  decreed 
My  grounds  to  be  restor'd,  my  former  flocks  to 
feed. 

MELIBfEUS. 

O  fortunate  old  man !  whose  farm  remains — 
For  you  sufficient — and  requites  your  pains ; 
Though  rushes  overspread  the  neighb'ring  plains, 
Though  here  the  marshy  grounds  approach  your 

fields, 

And  there  the  soil  a  stony  harvest  yields. 
Your  teeming  ewes  shall  no  strange  meadows 

try, 

Nor  fear  a  rot  from  tainted  company, 
Behold  !  yon  bord'ring  fence  of  sallow  trees 
Is  fraught  with  flow'rs,  the  flow'rs  are  fraught 

with  bees 

The  busy  bees,  with  a  soft  murmuring  strain, 
Invite  to  gentle  sleep  the  lab'ring  swain. 
While,   from   the    neighb'ring  rock,   with   rural 

songs, 

The  pruner's  voice  the  pleasing  dream  prolongs, 
Stock-doves  and  turtles  tell  their  am'rous  pain, 
Aud  from  the  lofty  elms,  of  love  complain. 

TTTYHFS. 

Th'  inhabitants  of  seas  and  skies  shall  change, 
And  fish  on  shore,  and  stags  in  air,  shall  range, 
The  banish'd  Parthian  dwell  on  Arar's  brink, 
And  the  blue  German  shall  the  Tigris  drink, 
Ere  I,  forsaking  gratitude  and  truth, 
Forget  the  figure  of  that  godlike  youth. 

MELIBffitJS. 

But  we  must  beg  our  bread  in  climes  unknown, 
Beneath  the  scorching  or  the  freezing  zone : 
And  some  to  far  Oaxis  shall  be  sold, 
Or  try  the  Libyan  heat,  or  Scythian  cold  ; 
The  rest  among  the  Britons  be  confin'd  ; 
A  race  of  men  from  all  the  world  disjoin'd. 
3!  must  the  wretched  exiles  ever  mourn, 
Nor,  after  length  of  rolling  years,  return  ? 
Are  we  condemn'd  by  fate's  unjust  decree, 
Vo  more  our  houses  and  our  homes  to  see? 

-hall  we  mount  again  the  rural  throne, 
And  rule  the  country  kingdoms  once  our  own; 
Did  we  for  these  barbarians  plant  and  sow? 
3n  these,  on  these,  our  happy  fields  bestow? 
Good  heaven !  what  dire  effects  from  civil  discord 

flow! 

Vow  let  me  graft  my  pears,  and  prune  the  vine; 
The  fruit  is  theirs,  the  labour  only  mine, 
farewell,  my  pastures,  my  paternal  stock, 

fruitful  fields,  and  my  more  fruitful  flock! 

more,  my  iroats.  .-hall  I  behold  you  climb 
The  sleepy  cliffs,  or  crop  the  flow'ry  thyme ! 
o  more  extended  in  the  grot  below, 
hall  see  you  browsing  on  the  mountain's  brow 
The  prickly  shrubs;  and  after  on  the  bare, 
-cap  down  the  deep  abyss,  and  hang  in  air. 


428 


VIRGIL. 


No  more  my  sheep  shall  sip  the  morning  dew ; 
No  more  my  song  shall  please  the  rural  crew : 
Adieu  my  tuneful  pipe  !  and  all  the  world,  adieu! 

TITYRUS. 

This  night,  at  least,  with  me  forget  your  care, 
Chestnuts,  and  curds  and  cream  shall  be  your 

fare : 
The    carpet-ground   shall  be   with  leaves  o'er- 

spread ; 

And  boughs  shall  weave  a  cov'ring  for  your  head. 
For  see,  yon  sunny  hill  the  shade  extends ; 
And  curling  smoke  from  cottages  ascends. 


THE  poet  celebrates  the  birth-day  of  Saloni- 
nus,  the  son  of  Pollio,  born  in  the  consulship  of 
his  father,  after  the  taking  of  Salonse,  a  city  in 
Dalmatia. 

SICILIAN-  Muse,  begin  a  loftier  strain! 

Though  lowly  shrubs,  and  trees,  that  shade  the 

plain, 

Delight  not  all ;  Sicilian  Muse,  prepare 
To  make  the  vocal  woods  deserve  a  consul's  care. 
The  last  great  age,  foretold  by  sacred  rhymes, 
Renews  its  finish'd  course  :  Saturnian  times 
Roll  round  again ;  and  mighty  years,  begun 
From  their  first  orb,  in  radiant  circles  run. 
The  base  degenerate  iron  offspring  ends ; 
A  golden  progeny  from  heaven  descends. 
O  chaste  Luciha !  speed  the  mother's  pains, 
And  haste  the  glorious  birth !  thine  own  Apollo 

reigns ! 

The  lovely  boy,  with  his  auspicious  face, 
Shall  Pollio's  consulship  and  triumph  grace : 
Majestic  months  set  out  with  him  to  their  ap- 
pointed race. 

The  father  banished  virtue  shall  restore ; 
And  crimes  shall  threat  the  guilty  world  no  more. 
The  son  shall  lead  the  life  of  gods,  and  be 
By  gods'  and  heroes  seen,  and  gods  and  heroes 

see. 

The  jarring  nations  he  in  peace  shall  bind, 
And  with  paternal  virtues  rule  mankind. 
Unbidden,  earth  shall  wreathing  ivy  bring, 
And  fragrant  herbs,  the  promises  of  spring, 
As  her  first  offerings  to  her  infant  king. 
The  goats  with  strutting  dugs  shall  homeward 

speed, 

And  lowing  herds  secure  from  lions  feed. 
His  cradle  shall  with  rising  flowers  be  crown'd ; 
The  serpent's  brood  shall  die;  the  sacred  ground 
Shall  weeds  and  poisonous  plants  refuse  to  bear; 
Each  common  bush  shall  Syrian  roses  wear. 
But  when  heroic  verse  his  youth  shall  raise, 
And  form  it  to  hereditary  praise, 
Unlaboured  harvests  shall  the  fields  adorn, 
And  clustered  grapes  shall  blush  on  every  thorn; 
The  knotted  oaks  shall  showers  of  honey  weep, 
And  through  the   matted  grass  the  liquid  gold 

shall  creep. 

Yet,  of  old  fraud  some  footsteps  shall  remain  : 
The  merchant  still   shall  plough   the   deep   for 

gain  ; 


Great  cities  shall  with  walls  be  compassed  round ; 
And    sharpened    shares    shall   vex  the   fruitful 

ground ; 

Another  Tiphys  shall  new  seas  explore ; 
Another  Argo  land  her  chiefs  upon  th'  Iberian 

shore ; 

Another  Helen  other  wars  create, 
And  great  Achilles  urge  the  Trojan  fate. 
And  when  to  ripened  manhood  he  shall  grow3 
The  greedy  sailor  shall  the  seas  forego : 
No  keel  shall  cut  the  waves  for  foreign  ware; 
For  every  soil  shall  every  product  bear. 
The  labouring  hind  his  oxen  shall  disjoin : 
No  plough  shall  hurt  the  glebe,  no  pruning-hook 

the  vine ; 

Nor  wool  shall  in  dissembled  colours  shine; 
But  the  luxurious  father  of  the  fold, 
With  native  purple,  and  unborrowed  gold, 
Beneath  his  pompous  fleece  shall  proudly  sweat; 
And  under  Tyrian  robes  the  lamb  shall  bleat. 
The   Fates,   when  they  this  happy  web  have 

spun, 
Shall  bless  the  sacred  clue,  and  bid  it  smoothly 

run. 

Mature  in  years,  to  ready  honours  move, 
0  of  celestial  seed  !  O  foster-son  of  Jove ! 
See,  labouring  Nature  calls  thee  to  sustain 
The  nodding  frame  of  heaven,  and  earth,  and 

main  ! 

See,  to  their  base  restored,  earth,  seas,  and  air ; 
And  joyful  ages,  from  be'hind,  in  crowding  ranks 

appear. 

To  sing  thy  praise,  would  heaven  my  breath  pro- 
long, 

Infusing  spirits  worthy  such  a  song, 
Not  Thracian  Orpheus  should  transcend  my  lays, 
Nor  Linus,  crowned  with  never-fading  bays ; 
Though  each  his  heavenly  parent  should  inspire, 
The  Muse  instruct  the  voice,  and  Phoebus  tune 

the  lyre. 

Should  Pan  contend  in  verse,  and  thou  my  theme 
Arcadian  judges  should  their  god  condemn. 
Begin,  auspicious  boy !  to  cast  about 
Thy  infant  eye,  and,  with  a  smile,  thy  mother 

single  out. 

Thy  mother  well  deserves  that  short  delight, 
The  nauseous  qualms  of  ten  long  months  and 

travail  to  requite. 

Then  smile  !  the  frowning  infant's  doom  is  read  : 
No  god  shall  crown  the  board,  nor  goddess  bless 

the  bed. 


PHARMACEUTRIA. 

THIS  Pastoral  contains  the  songs  of  Damon  and 
Alphesiboeus.  The  first  of  them  bewails  the  loss 
of  his  mistress,  and  repines  at  the  success  of  his 
rival  Mopsus.  The  other  repeats  the  charms  of 
some  enchantress,  who  endeavoured  by  her  spells 
and  magic  to  make  Daphnis  in  love  with  her. 

THE  mournful  Muse  of  two  despairing  swains, 
The  love  rejected,  and  the  lovers'  pains; 
To  which  the  savage  lynxes  list'ning  stood ; 
The  rivers  stood  in  heaps,  and  stopp'd  the  run- 
ning flood ; 


VIRGIL. 


429 


The  hungry  herd  their  needful  food  refuse — 
Of  two  despairing  swains,  I  sing  the  mournful 

Muse. 

Grc  at  Pollio !  thou,  for  whom  thy  Rome  pre- 
pares 

The  ready  triumph  of  thy  fmish'd  wars, 
Whether  Timavus  or  th'  Illyrian  coast, 
Whatever  land  or  sea,  thy  presence  boast ; 
Is  there  an  hour  in  fate  reserv'd  for  me, 
To  sing  thy  deeds  in  numbers  worthy  thee ; 
In  numbers  like  to  thine,  could  I  rehearse 
Thy  lofty  tragic  scenes,  tliy  labour'd  verse; 
The  world  another  Sophocles  in  thee, 
Another  Homer  should  behold  :n  me. 
Amirst  thy  laurels  let  tlys  ivy  twine: 
Thine  was  my  earliest  muse;  my  latest  shall  be 

thine. 
Scarce   from  the   world   the  shades  of  night 

withdrew; 
Scarce  were  the  flocks   refresh'd  with  morning 

dew, 

When  Damon,  stretch'd  beneath  an  olive  shade, 
And  wildly  staring  upwards,  thus  inveigh 'd 
Against  the  conscious  gods,  and  curs'd  the  cruel 

maid  : 

"Stai  of  the  morning,  why  dost  thou  delay? 
Come,  Lucifer,  drive  on  the  lagging  day, 
Wlii|.,>  I  my  Ni.-a's  perjur'd  faith  deplore — 
Witness,  ye  pow'rs,  by  whom  she  falsely  swore ! 
The  ?od=,  alas  !  are  witnesses  in  vain  : 
Yet  shall  my  dying  breath  to  heaven  complain. 
Begin  with  me,  my  flute,  the   sweet  Maenalian 

strain. 

"The  pines  of  Ma-nalus,  the  vocal  grove, 
Are  over  full  of  verse,  and  full  of  love  : 
They  hear  the  hinds,  they  hear   their  god  com- 
plain, 

Who  suffer'd  not  the  reeds  to  rise  in  vain. 
Begin  with  me,  my  llute,  the  sweet  Miunalian 

•.in. 

'  i opstis  triumphs;  he  weds  the  willing  fair. 
When   such    is    Nisa's   choice,   what  lover  can 

despair  1 

Now  griffons  join  with  mares  ;  another  age 
Shall,  see  the   hound  and   hind  their  thirst  as- 
suage, 

Promiscuous  at  the  spring.     Prepare  the  lights, 
O  M  >p-us!  and  perform  the  bridal  rites. 
Scatter  thy  nuts  among  the  .-(-rambling  lx>ys : 
Thine  is  the  night,  and  thine  the  nuptial  joys. 
For  -.hee  the  sun  declines:  O  happy  swain! 

with   me.  my   flute,  the    -  uilian 

iin. 

"O  Nisa!  justly  to  thy  choice  condemn'd! 
Win  in    hast    thou    taken,    whom    hast    thou   con- 

temn'd  ? 

For  him,  thou  1.  ,:ig  herd, 

Scorn'd  my  thick  eyebrows  ami  my  shaggy  beard. 
Unhappy  Damon  sighs  and  sings  in  vain, 
While  Nisa  thinks  in.  |  pain. 

Be-in  with   me,  my  llute.  the   sweet   Ma-nalian 

strain. 

"1  view'd  thee  first  (how  fatal  was  the  view!) 
And  led  thee  where  the  ruddy  wildii 
Higli  on  the  planted  hedge,  and  wet  with  morn- 
ing dew. 


Then  scarce  the  bending  branches  I  could  win  ; 
The  callow  down  began  to  clothe  my  chin. 
I  saw  ;  I  perish'd  ;  yet  indulg'd  my  pain. 
Begin  with  me,  my  flute,  the  sweet  Msenalian 
strain. 

"  I  know  thee,  Love  !  In  deserts  thou  wert  bred, 
And  at  the  dugs  of  savage  ti-rrs  fed; 
Alien  of  birth,  usurper  of  the  plains! 
Begin  with  me,  my  flute,  the  sweet  Maenalian 
strains : 

"Relentless  Love  the  cruel  mother  led, 
The  blood  of  her  unhappy  babes  to  shed  : 
Love  lent  the  sword ;  the  mother  struck  the  blow; 
Inhuman  she;  but  more  inhuman  thou: 
Alien  of  birth,  usurper  of  the  plains! 
Begin  with  me,  my  flute,  the  sweet  Mamalian 
strains. 

"Old;  doting  Nature,  change  thy  course  anew ; 
And  let  the  trembling  lamb  the  wolf  pursue: 
Let  oaks  now  glitter  with  Hesperian  fruit, 
And  purple  daffodils  from  alder  shoot; 
Fat  amber  let  the  tamarisk  distil, 
And  hooting  owls  contend  with  swans  in  skill; 
Hoarse  Tityrus  strive  with  Orpheus  in  the  woods, 
And  challenge  fam'd  Arion  on  the  floods. 
Or,  oh !  let  Nature  cease,  and  Chaos  reign  ! 
Begin  with  me,  my  flute,  the  sweet  Maenalian 
strain. 

"Let  earth  be  sea;  and  let  the  whelming  tide 
The  lifeless  limbs  of  luckless  Damon  hide: 
Farewell,  ye  secret  woods,  and  shady  groves, 
Haunts  of  my  youth,  and  conscious  of  my  loves ! 
From  yon  high  cliff  I  plunge  into  the  main  : 
Take  the  last  present  of  thy  dying  swain  : 
And  cease,  my  silent  flute,  the  sweet  Msenalian 
strain." 

Now  take  your  turns,  ye  Muses,  to  rehearse 
His  friend's  complaints,  and  mighty  magic  verse. 
"Bring  running  water:  bind  those  altars  round 
With  fillets,  and  with  vervain  strew  the  ground: 
Make  fat  with  frankincense  the  sacred  fires 
To  re-inflame  my  Daphnis  with  d< 
Tis  done:   we   want  but  verse.  —  Restore,  my 

charms, 
My  ling'rir.g  Daphnis  to  my  longing  arms. 

"Pale   Phcebe,  drawn  by  verse,  from  heaven 

descends  ; 

And  Circe  chang'd  with  charms  Ulysses'  friends. 
Verse    breaks    the    ground,  and  penetrates   the 

brake, 

And  in  the  winding  cavern  splits  the  snake. 
Verse  fires  the  frozen  veins. — Restore,  my  charms, 
My  ling'ring  Daphnis  to  my  longing  arms. 

"Around  his  waxen  image  first  I  wind 
Three  woollen  fillets,  of  three  colours  join'd  ; 
Thrice  bind  about  his  thrice-devoted  IP 
Which  round  the  sacred  altar  thrice  is  led. 
Unequal  numbers  please  the  gods. — My  charms, 
Restore  my  Daphnis  to  my  longing  arm-. 

••Knit  with  three  knots  the  fillets:  knit  them 

straight ; 
Then  say.  -Th'-se  knots  to  love  I  consecrate.' 

!,:>-!«• ! — Restore,  my  charms, 
My  lov.-ly  Daphnis  to  my  longing  arms. 

fire  this  tignre  harden-,  made  of  clay, 
And  this  of  wax  with  fire  consumes  away, 


430 


VIRGIL. 


Such  let  the  soul  of  cruel  Daphnis  be — 
Hard  to  the  rest  of  women,  soft  to  me. 
Crumble  the  sacred  mole  of  salt  and  corn  ; 
Next  in  the  fire  the  bays  with  brimstone  burn  ; 
And,  while  it  crackles  in  the  sulphur,  say, 
'This  I  for  Daphnis  burn;  thus  Daphnis  burn 

away ! 

This  laurel  is  his  fate.' — Restore,  my  charms, 
My  lovely  Daphnis  to  my  longing  arms. 

"As  when  the  raging  heifer,  through  the  grove, 
Stung  with  desire,  pursues  her  wand'ring  love; 
Faint,  at  the  last,  she  seeks  the  weedy  pools, 
To  quench  her  thirst,  and  on  the  rushes  rolls ; 
Careless  of  night,  unmindful  to  return  ; 
Such  fruitless  fires  perfidious  Daphnis  burn, 
While  I  so  scorn  his  love! — Restore,  my  charms, 
My  ling'ring  Daphnis  to  my  longing  arms. 

"  These  garments  once  were  his,  and  left  to  me, 
The  pledges  of  his  promis'd  loyalty, 
Which  underneath  my  threshold  I  bestow. 
These  pawns,  0  sacred  earth !  to  me  my  Daphnis 

owe. 

As  these  were  his,  so  mine  is  he. — My  charms, 
Restore  their  ling'ring  lord  to  my  deluded  arms. 

'•  These  pois'nous  plants,  for  magic  use  design'd, 
(The  noblest  and  the  best  of  all  the  baneful  kind,) 
Old  Mceris  brought  me  from  the  Pontic  strand, 
And  cull'd  the  mischief  of  a  bounteous  land. 
Smear'd  with  these  pow'rful  juices,  on  the  plain, 
He  howls  a  wolf  among  the  hungry  train ; 
And  oft  the  mighty  necromancer  boasts, 
With  these  to  call  from  tombs  the  stalking  ghosts, 
And  from  the  roots  to  tear  the  standing  corn, 
Which,  whirl'd  aloft,  to  distant  fields  is  borne : 
Such   is    the    strength    of  spells. — Restore,    my 

charms, 
My  ling'ring  Daphnis  to  my  longing  arms. 

"  Bear  out  these  ashes;  cast  them  in  the  brook; 
Cast  backwards  o'er  your  head ;  nor  turn  your 

look: 

Since  neither  gods  nor  godlike  verse  can  move, 
Break  out,  ye  smother'd  fires,  and  kindle  smo- 

ther'd  love. 

Exert  your  utmost  pow'r,  my  ling'ring  charms, 
And  force  my  Daphnis  to  my  longing  arms. 

"See  while  my  last  endeavours  I  delay, 
The  waking  ashes   rise,  and   round   our   altars 

play! 

Run  to  the  threshold,  Amaryllis — hark ! 
Our  Hylax  opens,  and  begins  to  bark. 
Good  heaven!  may  lovers  what  they  wish  believe? 
Or  dream  their  wishes,  and  those  dreams  deceive  ? 
No  more !    my  Daphnis  comes !    no    more    my 

charms ! 

He  comes,  he  runs,  he  leaps,  to  my  desiring 
arms." 


GALLUS,  a  great  patron  of  Virgil,  and  an  excellent 
poet,  was  very  deeply  in  love  with  one  Cytheris, 
whom  he  calls  Lycoris,  and  who  had  forsaken 
him  for  the  company  of  a  soldier.  The  poet 
therefore  supposes  his  friend  Gallus  retired,  in 
his  height  of  melancholy,  into  the  solitudes  of 
Arcadia,  where  he  represents  him  in  a  very  lan- 
guishing condition,  with  all  the  rural  deities 


about  him,  pitying  his  hard  usage,  and  condoling 
his  misfortunes. 

THY  sacred  succour,  Arethusa,  bring, 
To  crown  my  labour,  ('tis  the  last  I  sing,) 
Which  proud  Lycoris  may  with  pity  view : — 
The  muse  is  mournful,  though  the  numbers  few. 
Refuse  me  not  a  verse,  to  grief  and  Gallus  due. 
So  may  thy  silver  streams  beneath  the  tide, 
Unmix'd  with  briny  seas  securely  glide. 
Sing  then  my  Gallus,  and  his  hopeless  vows; 
Sing,  while  my  cattle  crop  the  tender  browse. 
The  vocal  grove  shall  answer  to  the  sound, 
And  Echo,  from  the  vales  the  tuneful  voice  re- 
bound. 

What  lawns  or  woods  withheld  you  from  his  aid, 
Ye  nymphs,  when  Gallus  was  to  love  betray'd, 
To  love,  unpitied  by  the  cruel  maid? 
Not  steepy  Pindus  could  retard  your  course, 
Nor  cleft  Parnassus,  nor  the  Aonian  source: 
Nothing  that  owns  the  Muses  could  suspend 
Your  aid  to  Gallus: — Gallus  is  their  friend. 
For  him  the  lofty  laurel  stands  in  tears, 
And  hung  with  humid  pearls  the  lowly  shrub 

appears. 

Maenalian  pines  the  godlike  swain  bemoan, 
When,  spread  beneath  a  rock,  he  sigh'd  alone ; 
And  cold  Lycoeus  wept  from  every  dropping  stone  5 
The  sheep  surround  their  shepherd,  as  he  lies : 
Blush  not,  sweet  poet,  nor  the  name  despise  : 
Along  the  streams,  his  flock  Adonis  fed; 
And  yet  the  queen  of  beauty  blest  his  bed. 
The  swains  and  tardy  neat-herds  came,  and  last, 
Menalcas,  wet  with  beating  winter  mast. 
Wond'ring,  they  ask'd  from  whence  arose  thy 

flame ; 

Yet  more  amaz'd,  thy  own  Apollo  came. 
Flush'd  were  his  cheeks,  and  glowing  were  his 

eyes : 

"Is  she  thy  care?  Is  she  thy  care?"  he  cries. 
"  Thy  false  Lycoris  flies  thy  love  and  thee, 
And,  for  thy  rival,  tempts  the  raging  sea, 
The  forms  of  horrid  war,  and  heaven's  incle- 
mency." 

Silvanus  came :  his  brows  a  country  crown 
Of  fennel,  and  of  nodding  lilies,  drown. 
Great  Pan  arriv'd;  and  we  beheld  him  too, 
His  cheeks  and  temples  of  vermilion  hue. 
"Why,  Gallus,  this  immod'rate  grief?"  he  cried: 
"  Think'st  thou  that  love  with  tears  is  satisfied  ? 
The  meads  are  sooner  drunk  with  morning  dews, 
The  bees  with  flow'ry  shrubs,  the  goats  with 

browse." 

Unmov'd,  and  with  dejected  eyes,  he  mourn'd : 
He  paus'd,  and  then  these  broken  words  return'd  : 
"'Tis  past;  and  pity  gives  me  no  relief: 
But  you,  Arcadian  s\\  ains,  shall  sing  my  grief. 
And  on  your  hills  my  last  complaints  renew  : 
So  sad  a  song  is  only  worthy  you. 
How  light  would  lie  the  turf  upon  my  breast, 
If  you  my  suff'rings  in  your  songs  exprest! 
Ah!    that   your    birth    and    bus'ness    had    been 

mine — 

To  pen  the  sheep,  and  press  the  swelling  vine ! 
Had  Phyllis  or  Amynta  caus'd  my  pain, 
Or  any  nymphs  or  shepherd  on  the  plain, 


VIRGIL. 


431 


(Though  Phyllis  brown,  though  black  Amynta 

were, 

Are  violets  not  sweet,  because  not  fair?) 
Beneath  the  sallows  and  the  shady  vine, 
My  loves  had  niix'd  their  pliant  limbs  with  mine  : 
Phyllis  with  myrtle  wreaths  hadcrown'd  my  hair, 
And  soft  Amynta  snng  away  my  care. 
Co  ne  see  what  pleasures  in  our  plains  abound ; 
The  woods,  the  fountains,  and  the  flow'ry  ground. 
A<  you  are  beauteous,  were  you  half  so  true, 
Here  could  I  live,  and  love,  and  die  with  only 

you. 

Now  I  to  lighting  fields  am  sent  afar, 
Aril  strive  in  winter  camps  with  toils  of  war, 
While  you,  (alas,  that  I  should  find  it  so!) 
To  shun  my  sight,  your  native  soil  forego, 
Ar.d  climb  the  frozen  Alps,  and  tread  th'  eternal 

snow. 

Ye  frosts  and  snows,  her  tender  body  spare ! 
Tlose  are  not  limbs  for  icicles  to  tear. 
For  me,  the  wilds  and  deserts  are  my  choice; 
Tl.  e  Muses,  once  my  care  ;  my  once  harmonious 

voice. 

Tl  ere  will  I  sing,  forsaken  and  alone: 
Tl  e  rocks  and  hollow  caves  shall  echo  to  my 

moan. 

The  rind  of  ev'ry  plant  her  name  shall  know  ; 
And,  as  the  rind  extends,  the  love  shall  grow. 
Tl  en  on  Arradian  mountains  will  I  chase 
(Mix'd  with  the  woodland  nymphs)  the  savage 

race; 

Nor  cold  shall  hinder  me,  with  horns  and  hounds 
To  thread  the  thickets,  or  to  leap  the  mounds, 
And  now  methinks  o'er  steepy  rocks  I  go, 
And  rush  through  sounding  woods,  and  bend  the 

Parthian  bow ; 

A?  if  with  sports  my  surf'rings  I  could  ease, 
Or  by  my  pains  the  God  of  Love  appease. 
My  frenzy  changes:  I  delight  no  more 
On  mountain  tops  to  chase  the  tusky  boar : 
No  game  but  hopeless  love  my  thoughts  pursue : 
Once  more,  ye  nymphs,  and  songs,  and  sounding 

woods,  adieu ! 

Love  alters  not  for  us  his  hard  decrees, 
Not    though    beneath    the    Thracian    clime    we 

free/.e. 

Or  Italy's  indulgent  heaven  forego, 
And  in  mid-winter  tread  Sithonian  snow; 
Oi,  when  the  barks  of  elms  are  scorch'd,  we  keep 
On  Meme's  burning  plains  the  Libyan  sheep, 
In  hell,  and  earth,  and  seas,  and  heaven  above, 
Love  conquers  al! ;  and  we  must  yield  to  Love. 


FROM  GEORGIC  I. 

IN  VorATIOV  OK  THK  KfHAL  IIKITIES Ar»J)RES8TO 

AUGl   STl   s  r  1>  VII AHVICK  Til   KA1IMKHS.   KTC. 

WHENCE  joyful  harvests  spring,  what  heavenly 

Invites  the  plough,  and  weds  to  elms  the  vine; 
II  >\v  Hocks  and  herds  by  kindly  nurture  thrive, 
A  id  -au'e  experience  stores  the  frui^U  hive; 
1    sing. —  Ye    lights  of  heaven!    whose  sov'reign 

sway 
Leads  on  the  year  around  th'  ethereal  way : 


Bacchus  and  Ceres!  if  beneath  your  reign 
Earth  chang'd  Chaonian  mast  for  golden  grain 
And  the  new  grape's  uncultur'd  vintage  gave 
To  mix  its  sweets  with  Acheloiis'  wave; 
Ye,  too,  whose  gifts  my  votive  numbers  guide, 
Fauns  and  fair  Dryads  that  o'er  swain's  preside; 
Thou!  whose  dread  trident  shook  the  womb  of 

earth, 
And  loos'd  the  steed,  that,  neighing,  sprang  to 

birth  ; 

Guardian  of  woods !  whose  herds,  a  snowy  train 
Browse   the  rich  shrubs  that   shade   the   Caean 

plain  ; 

God  of  the  fleece,  whom  grateful  shepherds  love, 
Oh !  leave  thy  native  haunt,  Lycaeus'  grove ; 
And  if  thy  Maenalus  yet  claim  thy  care, 
Hear,  Tegeaean  Pan !  th'  invoking  pray'r. 
Pallas!  whose  voice  the  olive  rais'd ;  and  thou, 
Fam'd  youth,  inventor  of  the  crooked  plough! 
Sylvanus!  waving  high,  in  triumph  borne, 
A  sapling  cypress  with  its  roots  uptorn ; 
Oh  come,  protectors  of  the  land  !  descend  ; 
Each  god  and  goddess,  at  my  call  attend, 
Who    rear    new    fruits   that   earth   spontaneous 

yields, 
Or  feed   with  prosperous   show'rs  the  cultur'd 

fields. 

Thou,  Caesar,  chief;  where'er  thy  voice  ordain 
To  fix  'mid  gods  thy  yet  unchosen  reign — 
Wilt  thou  o'er  cities  stretch  thy  guardian  sway, 
While  earth  and  all  her  realms  thy  nod  obey? 
The  world's  vast  orb  shall  own  thy  genial  pow'r, 
Giver  of  fruits,  fair  sun,  and  fav'ring  show'r  ; 
Before  thy  altar  grateful  nations  bow, 
And  with  maternal  myrtle  wreathe  thy  brow ; 
O'er  boundless  ocean  shall  thy  pow'r  prevail, 
Thee  her  sole  lord,  the  world  of  waters  hail ! 
Rule,  where  the  sea  remotest  Thule  laves, 
While  Tethys'  dow'rs  thy  bride  with   all   her 

waves. 

W7ilt  thou  'mid  Scorpius  and  the  Virgin  rise, 
And,  a  new  star,  illume  thy  native  skies? 
Scorpius,  e'en  now,  each  shrinking  claw  confines, 
And  more  than  half  his  heaven  to  thee  resigns. 
Where'er  thy  reign  (for  not,  if  hell  invite 
To  wield  the  sceptre  of  eternal  night, 
Let  not  such  lust  of  dire  dominion  move 
Thee,  Caesar,  to  resign  the  realm  of  Jove; 
Though  vaunting  Greece  extol  th'  Elysian  plain, 
Whence  weeping  Ceres  wooes  her  child  in  vain.) 
Breathe    fav'ring    gales,    my   course    propitious 

guide, 

O'er  the  rude  swain's  uncertain  path  preside, 
Ni'W,  now  invok'd  assert  thy  hcav'nly  birth. 
And  learn  to  hear  our  prayers,  a  god  on  earth. 
When  first  young  Zephyr  melts  the  mountain 

snow, 

And  Spring  unbinds  the  mellow'd  mould  below, 
Press   the  deep   plough,  and   urge   the  groaning 

team, 
Where  the  worn  shares  'mid  opening  furrows 

gleam. 

Lands,  o'er  whose  soil  maturing  time  has  roll'd 
Twice  summer's  heat,  and  twice  the  wintry  cold, 
Profuse  of  wealth  th'  insatiate  swain  repay, 
And  crown  with  bursting  barns  his  long  delay. 


432 


VIRGIL. 


Ere  virgin  earth  first  feel  th'  invading  share, 
The  genius  of  the  place  demands  thy  care; 
The  culture,  clime,   the   winds,   and   changeful 

skies, 

And  what  each  region  bears,  and  what  denies. 
Here    golden   harvests    wave,    there   vineyards 

glow, 

Fruit  bends  the  bough,  or  herbs  unbidden  grow. 
Her  saffron  Tmolus,  Ind  her  ivory,  boasts, 
Spice  wings  the  gale  round  Saba's  balmy  coasts, 
The  naked  Chalybes  their  iron  yield, 
The  pow'rful  Castor  scents  the  Pontic  field 
While  fatn'd  Epirus  rears  th'  equestrian  breed, 
Born  for  the  palm  that  crowns  th'  Olympic  steed, 
In  stated  regions,  from  th1  eternal  Cause, 
Such  Nature's  compact,  and  unbroken  laws ; 
Such  from  the  time  when  first  Deucalion  hurl'd 
The  stones  that  peopled  the  deserted  world ; 
Whence  a  new  race  arose  upon  the  earth, 
Hard  as  the  stubborn  flint  that  gave  them  birth. 

Not  to  dull  Indolence  and  transient  Toil 

Great  Jove  resigned  the  conquest  of  the  soil ; 

He  sent  forth  Care  to  rouse  the  human  heart, 

Arid  sharpen  genius  by  inventive  art ; 

Nor  tamely  suffer'd  earth  beneath  his  sway 

In  unproductive  sloth  to  waste  away. 

Ere  Jove  bore  rule,  no  labour  tam'd  the  ground, 

None  dar'd  to  raise  the  fence,  or  mark  the  bound  ; 

Nature  to  all,  her  fruits  profusely  bore, 

And  the  free  earth,  unask'd,  but  gave  the  more. 

Jove  to  the  serpent  fang  new  venorn  gave, 

Commanded  wolves  to  prowl,  and  swell'd  the 

wave, 
From  leaves  their  honey  shook,  conceal'd   the 

fire, 
And  bad  free  streams,  that  flow'd  with   wine, 

retire. 

Jove  will'd,  that  use,  by  long  experience  taught, 
Should  force  out  various  arts  by  gradual  thought, 
Strike  from  the  flint's  cold  womb  the  latent 

flame, 

And  from  the  answering  furrow  nurture  claim. 
Then  first  the  hollow'd  alder  prest  the  stream, 
And  sailors  watch'd  each  star's  directing  beam. 
Numbered  the  host  of  heaven,  and  nam'd  the  train 
Pleiads,  and  Hyads,  and  the  northern  Wain ; 
Then  snares,  and  slime,  the  bird  and  beast  be- 

tray'd, 
And  deep  mouth'd  hounds  enclos'd  the  forest 

glade. 
Light  meshes   lash'd  the   stream   with  circling 

sweep, 

And  weighted  nets  descending  dragg'd  the  deep. 
Then  iron,  and  the  saw's  shrill  grating  edge, 
Eas'd  the  rude  efforts  of  the  forceful  wedge, 
Thus  rous'd  by  varied  wants  new  arts  arose, 
And  strenuous  Labour  triumphed  at  its  close. 

Five   zones    the    heaven    surround,    the   centre 

glows 

With  fire  unquench'd,  and  suns  without  repose, 
At  each  extreme  the  poles  in  tempest  tost, 
Dark  with  thick  show'rs,  and  unremitting  frost. 
Between  the  poles  and  blazing  zone  confin'd 
Lie  climes  to  feeble  man  by  heaven  assign'd. 


'Mid  these  the  signs  their  course  obliquely  run, 
And  star  the  figur'd  belt  that  binds  the  sun. 
High  as  at  Scythian  cliffs  the  world  ascends, 
Thus  low  at  Libyan  plains  its  circle  bends. 
Here  heaven's  bright  lustre  gilds  our  glowing 

pole, 

There  gloomy  Styx,  and  hell's  deep  shadows  roll; 
Here  the  huge  Snake  in  many  a  volume  glides, 
Winds  like  a  stream,  and  either  Bear  divides, 
The  Bears  that  dread  their  flaming  lights  to  lave, 
And  slowly  roll  above  the  ocean  wave. 
There  night,  eternal  night,  and  silence  sleep, 
And  gathering  darkness  broods  upon  the  deep. 
Or  from  our  clime,  when  fades  the  orient  ray, 
Then  bright  Aurora  beams  returning  day, 
And  when  above  Sol's  fiery  coursers  glow, 
Late  Vesper  lights  bis  evening  star  below. 

A  STORM  IN   AUTUMN. 

WHY  should  I  mark  each  storm,  and  starry  sign, 
When  milder  suns  in  autumn  swift  decline? 
Or  what  new  cares  await  the  vernal  hour, 
When  spring  descends  in  many  a  driving  show'r, 
While  bristle  into  ear  the  bearded  plains, 
And  the  green  stalk  distends  its  milky  grains? 
E'en  in  mid  autumn,  while  the  jocund  hind 
Bade  the  gay  field  the  gather 'd  harvest  bind, 
Oft  have  I  seen  the  war  of  winds  contend, 
And  prone  on  earth  th'  infuriate  storm  descend, 
Waste  far  and  wide,  and,  by  the  roots  uptorn, 
The  heavy  harvest  sweep  through  ether  borne, 
While  in  dark  eddies,  as  the  whirlwind  past, 
The  straw  and  stubble  flew  before  the  blast. 
Column  on  column  prest  in  close  array, 
Dark  tempests  thicken  o'er  the  watery  way, 
Heaven  pour'd  in  torrents  rushes  on  the  plain, 
And  with  wide  deluge  sweeps  the  floating  grain; 
The  dikes  overflow,  the  flooded  channels  roar, 
Vext  ocean's  foaming  billows  rock  the  shore : 
The  Thunderer,  thron'd  in  clouds,  with  darkness 

crown'd, 

Bares  his  red  arm,  and  flashes  lightnings  round. 
The  beasts  are  fled  :  earth  rocks  from  pole  to  pole, 
Fear  walks  the  world,  and  bows  th'  astonish'd 

soul: 

Jove  rives  with  fiery  bolt  Ceraunia's  brow, 
Or  Athos  blazing  'mid  eternal  snow, 
The  tempest  darkens,  blasts  redoubled  rave, 
Smite   the  hoarse  wood,  and  lash  the   howling 

wave. 

PROGNOSTICS  OF  THE  WEATHER,  WITH  A  DIGRES- 
SION ON  THE  PRODIGIES  WHICH  FOLLOWED  THE 
DEATH  OF  JULIUS  C2ESAR  AND  PREDICTED  THE 
HORRORS  OF  THE  CIVIL  WARS. 

ALIKE,  with  orient  beams,  or  western  rays, 
The  sun,  that  ne'er  deceives,  each  change  dis- 
plays : 

Sure  signs,  that  cannot  err,  the  sun  attend, 
At  day's  first  dawn,  or  when  the  stars  ascend. 
Where  many  a  spot  his  rising  lustre  shrouds, 
Half-hid  the  disk  beneath  a  veil  of  clouds, 
Thick  from  the  south  the  gathering  deluge  sprung 
Foams  the  strown  corn,  and  herds,  and  woods 
among, 


VIRGIL. 


433 


If  dull  at  morn  with  many  a  scattered  beam 
Through     vaporous     haze    the     light    obscurely 

gleam. 

Or  if  Aurora  lift  her  mournful  head, 
And  with  pale  aspect  leave  Tithonus'  bed, 
In  vain  the  Leaf  shall  eurl  ripe  cluster?  round, 
While  rattling  hailstones  from  the  roof  rebound. 
But  chief  observe  along  his  wc-tcrn  way 
Each  hue  that  varies  at  the  close  of  day. 
The  rains  descend,  when  dusky  tints  prevail ; 
When  red  discolour,  dread  tlf  infuriate  gale: 
If  spots  immingle  streak'd  with  gleams  of  lire. 
Rain  and  fierce  wind  to  vex  the  world  conspire  : 
That  night  my  anchor'd  bark  shall  sleep  on  shore. 
While  loud  and  long  the  storms  o'er  ocean  roar. 
But  if  the  orb.  at  dawn  that  brightly  rose, 
With  radiant  beam  its  course  of  glory  close,  . 
Dread  not  the  threat'ning  clouds,  their  transient 

gloom 

S  lall  fly  before  the  north's  dispersing  plume. 
Last,  what  late  eve  shall  bring,  what  winds  pre- 
vail ; 

And  all  that  Austor  plans  with  humid  gale, 
"V  iew,  where  the  sun's  prophetic  sitnis  display, 
\or  dare  mistrust  the  God  that  gives  the  day. 
"oo,  with  frequent  portent  deigns  presage 
Blind  tumult,  treasons,  and  intestine  rage. 
He  too.  when  Rome  deplor'd  dead  Caesar's  fate, 
Felt  her   deep  woe,  and  mourn'd  her  hapless 

state ; 

What  time  in  iron  clouds  he  veil'd  his  light, 
And  impious  mortals  fear'd  eternal  night. 
Nor  less  dread  signals  shook  the  earth  and  wave. 
Birds  of  ill  note,  and  dogs  dire  omens  pave; 
How  oft  we  view'd.  along  th'  expanse  below, 
Wide  seas  of  lire  down  shatter'd  ^Etna  flow, 
Win  f  ilame  the  red  volcano  threw, 

And  fervid  rocks  that  lighten'd  as  they  Hew  ! 
O'er  all  the  sky.  (Jennania  heard  afar 
The  bray  of  arms  that  clang'd  th'  aerial  war; 
The  Alpine  regions  of  eternal  snow 
Ke.-l'd  with  unusual  earthquakes  to  and  fro: 
Shapes   wondrous    pale   by  night  were   seen   to 

rove, 

And  a  loud  voice  oft  shook  the  silent  grove. 
Fix'd  are  the  Hoods;  earth  widely  yawns  below. 
And  beasts,  in  human  accents,  murmured 
The  ivory  weeps  'mid  consecrated  walls. 
Sweat  in  big  drops  from  bra/en  statues  falls; 
Monarch  of  rivers,  rairing  far  and  wi 
Eridanns  pours  forth  his  torrent  tide. 
Down  the  wide  deluge  whirls  uprooted  woods, 
And  wastes  the  earth  with  desolating  Hood-. 
That  time    nor   ceas'd    the  wells  with    blood    to 

flow, 

Nor  spotted  entrails  ceas'd   foreboding  \ 
Nor  ceas'd  loud  echoes  nightly  to  rap 

tve    howl    along    th'   unpeopled 

street 

Such  lightnings  never  fir'd  th'  unclouded  air. 
Nor  comets  trail'd  so  oft  their  bla/.ing  hair. 
For  this  in  equal  arms  Philippi  view'd 
Home's  kindred  bands  again  in  gore  embru'd, 
The  gods  twice  fed  broad  HM  inns  with  on 
And   bath'd    with    Roman    blood    th'    Kmathkui 
coast. 

55 


There,  after  length  of  time,  the  peaceful  swain 
Who  ploughs   the  turf  that  swells   o'er  armies 

slain, 
Shall  cast,  half-gnaw'd  with  rust,  huge  pikes  in 

air, 

And  hollow  helms  that  clash  beneath  the  share, 
And  'mid  their  yawning  graves  amaz'd  behold 
Large  bones  of  warriors  of  gigantic  mould. 

V--  native  gods!  ye  tutelary  pow'rs 
Of  Tuscan  Tiber,  and  the  Roman  tow'rs ; 
Thou  Vesta  !  and  thou  founder  of  our  name, 
Guide  of  our  arms  and  guardian  of  our  fame, 
Oh  !  let  this  youth  a  prostrate  world  restore, 
Save  a  wreck'd  age,  and  soothe  to  peace  once 

more. 

Enough,  enough  of  blood  already  spilt 
Sates  vengeful  gods  for  Troy's  perfidious  guilt; 
Already  envious  heavens,  thee,  Caesar,  claim, 
And  deem  the  earth  subdu'd  below  thy  fame; 
Where,  right  and  wrong  in  mad  confusion  hurl'd, 
New  crimes  alarm,  new  battles  thin  the  world. 
None  venerate  the  plough  :  waste  earth  deplores 
Her    swains    to    slaughter    dragged    on    distant 

shores  ; 

Far.  far  they  fall  from  their  uricultur'd  lands, 
And  scythes  transform'd  to  falchions  arm  their 

hands ; 

Here  mail'd  Euphrates,  there  Germania  bleeds, 
Death   neighb'ring  towns   to  kindred   slaughter 

leads ; 
Mars  arms  the  globe. 


FROM  GEORGIC  II. 

PHAISES   OF   ITALY. 

YET  nor  the  Median  groves,  nor  rivers  roll'd, 

&,  and  Hermus,  o'er  their  beds  of  gold, 
Nor  Intl.  nor  Bacah,  nor  the  blissful  land 
Where  incense  spreads  o'er  rich  Panchaia's  sand, 
Nor  all  that  fancy  paints  in  fabled  lays, 
Oh  native  Italy!  transcend  thy  praise. 
Though    here    no   bulls  beneath   th'  enchanted 

With  fiery  nostrils  o'er  the  furrow  smoke, 

No  hydra  teeth  embattled  harvest  yield, 

and  bright  hemlet  bristling  o'er  the  field; 
Men  corn  each  laughing  valley  fills, 
Th"  vintage  reddens  on  a  thousand  hills, 
Luxuriant  olives  spread  from  shore  to  shore, 
And  Hocks  unnmnber'd  rani:"  the  pastures  o'er. 
Hence  the  proud  war-horse  rushes  (.11  the  foe, 
riitumnus  !   hence   thy   herds,    more   white   than 

snow, 

And  stately  bull,  that,  of  dgantic  - 
Supreni"  of  victims  on  the  altar  i 
Bath'd  in  thy  mered  >in-am  oft  led  the  train, 
When    Koine    in    pomp    of    triumph    deck'd    the 

lane. 

II,. P.  spring  perpetual  leads  the  laughing  hours. 
And  winter  wears  a  wreath  of  summer  fl. 
Th'  o'erloaded   branch  twice  lills  with  fruits  the 

year. 

And  twice  the  teeming  Hocks  their  ofispring  rear. 
Yet  here  no  lion  breeds,  no  tiger  stray.-. 
No  tempting  aconite  the  touch  betrays, 
2M 


434 


VIRGIL. 


No  monstrous  snake  the  uncoiling  volume  trails, 
Or  gathers,  orb  on  orb,  his  iron  scales. 
But  many  a  peopled  city  towers  around. 
And  many  a  rocky  cliff  with  castle  crown'd, 
And  many  an  antique  wall,  whose  hoary  brow 
O'er  shades  the  flood,  that  guards  its  base  below. 
Say,  shall  I  add,  enclosed  on  every  side 
What  seas  defend  thee,  and  what  lakes  divide  ? 
Thine,  mighty  Lavius?  or,  with  surging  waves, 
Where,  fierce  as  ocean,  vex'd  Benacus  raves  ? 
Havens  and  ports,  the  Lucrine's  added  mole, 
Seas,  that  enraged  along  their  bulwark  roll, 
Where  Julian  waves  reject  th'  indignant  tide, 
And  Tuscan  billows  down  Avernus  glide? 
Here  brass  and  silver  ores  rich  veins  expose, 
And  pregnant,  mines  exliaustless  gold  enclose. 
Blest  in  thy  race,  in  battle  unsubdued 
The  Marsian  youth,  and  Sabine's  hardy  brood, 
By  generous  toil  the  bold  Ligurian's  steel'd, 
And  spear-armed  Volsci  that  disdain  to  yield : 
Camilli,  Marii,  Decii,  swell  thy  line, 
And,  thunderbolts  of  war,  each  Scipio,  thine! 
Thou  CoBsar !  chief,  whose  sword  the  East  o'er- 

powers, 

And  the  tamed  Indian  drives  from  Roman  towers. 
All  hail,  Saturnian  earth!  hail,  loved  of  fame, 
Land  rich  in  fruits,  and  men  of  mighty  name! 
For  thee  I  dare  the  sacred  founts  explore, 
For  thee  the  rules  of  ancient  art  restore, 
Themes,  orice  to  glory  raised,  again  rehearse, 
And  pour   through   Roman   towns  th'   Ascraean 

verse. 


SPRING  comes ;  new  bud  the  field,  the  flower, 

the  grove  ; 

Earth  swells,  and  claims  the  genial  seeds  of  love: 
^Ether,  great  lord  of  life,  his  wings  extends, 
And  on  the  bosom  of  his  bride  descends 
With  showers  prolific  feeds  the  vast  embrace 
That  fills  all  Nature,  and  renews  her  race. 
Birds  on  their  branches  hyineneals  sing, 
The  pastur'd  meads  with  bridal  echoes  ring; 
Bath'd  in  soft  dew,  and  fann'd  by  western  \\  inds, 
Each  field  its  bosom  to  the  gale  unbinds: 
The  blade  dares  boldly  rise  new  suns  beneath, 
The  tender  vine  puts  forth  her  flexile  wreath, 
And,   freed   from    southern  blast  and  northern 

shower, 
Spreads  without   fear   each   blossom,   leaf,  and 

flower. 
Yes!  lovely  Spring!  when  rose  the  world  to 

birth,* 

Thy  genial  radiance  dawn'd  upon  the  earth, 
Beneath  thy  balmy  air  creation  grew, 
And  no  black  gale  on  infant  Nature  blew. 
When  herds  first  drank  the  light,  from  Earth's 

rude  bed 

When  first  man's  iron  race  uprear'd  its  head, 
When  first  to  beasts  the  wild  and  wood  were  given, 
And    stars    unnumber'd    pav'd    th'   expanse    of 

heaven  ; 


*  All  the  poets  favour  the  opinion  of  the  world's  crea- 
tion in  the  spring. — See  Odd.  Met.  I.  107;  Buchanan's 
Catenate  Maia  ;  and  above  all,  Milton's  exquisite  lines 
in  his  Paradise  Lost,  IV.  264,  and  VII.  370. 


Then,  as  through  all  the  vital  spirit  came, 

And    the  globe    teem'd    throughout   its    mighty 

frame, 

Each  tender  being,  struggling  into  life, 
Had  droop'd  beneath  the  elemental  strife, 
But  thy  mild  Reason,  each  extreme  between, 
Soft  nurse  of  Nature,  gave  the  golden  mean. 

ON  THE  ADVANTAGES  OF  PHILOSOPHICAL  STUDIES, 
AND  ON  THE  INNOCENCE,  SECURITY,  AND  USE- 
FULNESS OF  A  COUNTRY-LIFE. 

AH!  happy  swain!  ah!  race  belov'd  of  heaven! 
If  known  thy  bliss,  how  great  the  blessing  given ! 
For  thee  just  Earth  from  her  prolific  beds 
Far  from  wild  war  spontaneous  nurture  sheds. 
TliQpgh  nor  high  domes  through  all  their  portals 

wide 

Each  morn  disgorge  the  flatterer's  refluent  tide; 
Though  nor  thy  gaze  on  gem-wrought  columns 

rest; 

The  brazen  bust,  and  gold-embroider'd  vest; 
Nor  poisoning  Tyre  thy  snowy  fleeces  soil, 
Nor  casia  taint  thy  uncorrupted  oil ; 
Yet  peace    is    thine,    and    life    that   knows    no 

change, 

And  various  wealth  in  Nature's  boundless  range, 
The  grot,  the  living  fount,  the  umbrageous  glade, 
Arid  sleep  on  banks  of  moss  beneath  the  shade  ; 
Thine,  all  of  tame  and  wild,  in  lawn  and  field, 
That  pastur'd  plains  or  savage  woodlands  yield: 
Content  and  patience  youth's  long  toils  assuage, 
Repose  and  reverence  tend  declining  age: 
There  gods  yet  dwell,  and,  as  she  fled  mankind, 
There  Justice  left  her  last  lone  trace  behind. 

Me  first,  ye  Muses!  at  whose  hallow'd  fane 
Led  by  pure  love  I  consecrate  my  strain; 
Me  deign  accept!  and  to  rny  search  unfold 
Heaven  and  her  host  in  beauteous  order  roll'd, 
Th'  eclipse  that  dims  the  golden  orb  of  day, 
And  changeful  labours  of  the  lunar  rny; 
Whence  rocks  the  earth,  by  what  vast  force  the 

main 

Now  bursts  its  barriers,  now  subsides  again  ; 
Why  wintry  suns  in  ocean  swiftly  fade, 
Or  what  delay  retards  night's  ling'ring  shade. 
But,  if  chill  blood  restrain  th'  ambitious  flight, 
And  Nature  veil  her  wonders  from  my  sight, 
Oh  may  I  yet,  by  fame  forgotten,  dwell 
By   gushing    fount,    wild    wood,    and    shadowy 

dell ! 

Oh  lov'd  Sperchean  plains,  Taygetian  heights, 
That  ring  to  virgin  choirs  in  Bacchic  rites! 
Hide  me  some  god,  where  Hrernus1  vales  extend, 
And  boundless  shade  and  solitude  defend! 
How  blest  the  sage  !  whose  soul  can  pierce 

each  cause 

Of  changeful  Nature,  and  her  wondrous  laws; 
Who  tramples  far  beneath  his  foot,  and  braves 
Fate,  and  stem  death,  and  hell's  resounding 

waves. 
Blest  too,  who  knows  each  god,  that  guards  the 

swain 

Pan,  old  Sylvanus,  and  the  Dryad  train. 
Not  the  proud  fasces,  nor  the  pomp  of  kings, 
Discord,  that  bathes  in  kindred  blood  her  wing 5 5 


VIRGIL. 


435 


Not  arming  Istrians  that  on  Dacia  call ; 
Triumphant  Rome,  and  kingdoms  doom'd 
Envy's  wan  gaze,  or  Pity's  bleeding  tear, 
Di.-turb  the  tenor  of  his  calm  earerr. 
From  fruitful  orchards,  and  spontaneous  fields 
I!  •  culls  the  wealth  that  \viiliua  Nature  yields, 
Far  from  the  tumult  of  the  niadd'nin_'  bar,     • 
iron  justice,  and  forensic  war. 

IX  with  restless  oar  \\  ild  seas  unknown, 

Some  rush  on  death,  or  cringe  around  the  throne; 

:  warriors  here  beneath  their  footstep  tread. 

T  te  realm  that  rear'd  them,  and  the  hearth  that 

fed, 
T:>  quaiF  from  perns,  and  lull  to  transient  rest, 

wound  that  bleeds  beneath  the  Tyrian  ve<t. 
These  brood  with  sleepless  ua/e  o'er  buried  gold, 
The  vo-trum  these  with  raptur'd  trance  behold, 
Or  wonder  when  repeated  plaudits  H 
'Mid  peopled  theatres,  the  shout  of  praise  ; 
Thrse  with  grim  joy.  by  civil  discord  led. 
And  stain'd  in  battles  where  a  brother  bled. 
From  their  sweet  household  hearth  in  exile  roam, 
.And  seek,  beneath  new  su.  s.  a  foreign  home. 
'1  he  pea.-anf  yearly  ploughs  his  native  soil; 
Thf  lands,  that  blest  his  fathers,  bound  his  toil, 
;.  his  country's  wealth  increase, 
da  children's  children  sport  in  peace. 

u  leads  new  plenty  round; 
lambs,  and  kids  along  the  meadow  bound, 
Now  every  furrow  loads  with  corn  the  plain, 
Fruits  bend  the  bough,  and  gainers  burst  with 

grain ; 

Or  where  with  purple,  hues  the  upland  glows, 
Autumnal  suns  o.i  mellowing  grapes  repose. 

ine  return  at.  winter's  evening  hours, 
(lorii'd  with  the  ma-t  that  every  forest  showers; 
For  him  the  arbute  reddens  on  the  wood, 
And  mills  press  forth  the  olive's  gushing  flood  ; 
hold  guards,  and  round  his 

Fond  infants  climb  the  foremast  kis<  to  seize; 
Kin"  from  th"ir  crushing  udders  nectar  shed, 
.And  wanton  kids  hiirh  to-;-;  their  butting  head. 
He  too,  at  times,  when  flames  the  rustic  shrine, 
And.  rantr'd  around,  his  <^ay  compeers  recline, 
In  grateful 
Stretr-h'd  on  the  turf  -  limbfl  to  lay, 

•.enmher'd  soul. 
And  hail  tl  i"g  bowl ; 

the  rim  the  javelin's  mar 
vVhen  for  the  pri/e  his  hardy  hinds  coii'»n  1. 

1.  untaught  to  yield, 
(  To  wrestling  toils  p;  «;il!"!)g'd   field. 

Such  was  the  lit'.-  that  uin-iei;' 
Thus  Koine's  twin  founders,  thus  Ktrnria  r 
Thus  Rome  hers. -if.  o'er  all  on  earth  renown'd, 
Rome.  who>e    sev'n  hills   her  towery  walls  sur- 
round ; 

Such,  ere  Hi  •!  i  an  .!•  'i'd. 

And   slaughter'd   bulls,  the  unhallow'd  banquet 

;'d  ; 

Such  was  the  life  on  earth  that  Saturn  knew, 
F.re  mortals  trembled  as  the  trumpet  I 

:t  ivil  rung  afar. 
When  clattering  hammers  shap'd   the  sword  of 


FROM  GEORGIC  III. 

APOTHEOSIS    OF    AI'M'STVS HOUSES CHAIIIOT- 

HACK MIIKKI)  AND  CARE  OF  CATTLE,  SHEEP,  ETC. 

I  FIRST,  from  Pindus'    brow,  if  life  remain, 
Will  lead  the  Muses  to  the  Latian  plain, 
For  thee  my  native  Mantua!  twine  the  wreath, 
And  bid  the  palm  of  Idunrea  breathe. 
Near  the   pure,    stream,  amid    the    green  cham- 
paign, 

I  first  will  rear  on  high  the  marble  fane, 
Where,  with  slow  bend,  broad  Mincio's  waters 

stray, 

And  tall  reeds  tremble  o'er  his  shadowy  way. 
High  in  the  midst  great  Caesar's  form,  divine, 
A  present  god,  shall  consecrate  the  shrine. 
For  him  my  robes  shall  flame  with  Tyrian  dye, 
Wiog'd  by  four  steeds  my  hundred  chariots  fly. 
All  Greece  shall  scorn  her  fam'd  Olympian  field; 
Here  lash  the  courser  and  the  crcstus  wield. 
I,  I  myself  will  round  rny  temple  twine 
The  olive  wreath,  and  deck  with  gifts  the  shrine, 
E'en  now  the  solemn  pomp  I  joy  to  lead, 
E'en  now  I  see  the  sacred  heifers  bleed. 
Now  view  the  turning  scenes,  and  now  behold 
Thr  inwoven  Britons  lift  the  purple  fold. 
There,  on  the  ivory  gates  with  gold  embost 
My  skill  shall  sculpture  the  Gargarian  host, 
And  o'er  the  foe,  in  radiant  mail  array'd, 
Quirinus  poising  his  victorious  blade. 
Here   the  vast  Nile   shall  wave  with  war,  and 

there 

Columns  of  naval  brass  ascend  in  air. 
Niphates  here,  there  Asia's  captive  tow'rs, 
And  Parthia's  flight  conceal'd  in  arrowy  show'rs  : 
From  different  nations  double  trophies  torn, 
And  from  each  shore   Rome   twice  in  triumph 

borne. 

There  busts  shall  breathe,  and  Parian  statues  trace 
From  sire  to  son  Jove's  long-descending  race: 

us  and  Tros  shall  lend  the  line, 
And  Cynthins,  architect  of  Troy  divine. 
Envy  shall  there  th'  avenging  Furies  dread, 
The  Stygian  lake  with  flaming  sulphur  fed, 
The  racking  wheel.  Ixion's  snaky  coil, 
And  the  rebounding  rock's  eternal  toil. 

Meanwhile.  M-CCC  ia-!  by  thy  genius  fir'd, 
I  dare  the  arduous  t-i-'n  by  tliee  inspir'd; 
Through  woods,  and  lawns,  untrodden  urge  my 

way. 

While  murmuring  Dryads  chide  the  long  delay. 
Oh  come!  Citlrrron  shouts  her  mountains  o 

•i;ui  houn  1-  deep  echoes  roar, 
The  nei^hi,  Maurus,  bound 

Rock  ring's  to  rock,  and  woods  to  woods  resound. 

•e.  attnn'd  to  loftier  }:• 
Shall    swell    th'    adventurous    song    to    C:; 

praise. 

His  glowing  battle  •..  to  f;1Mir., 

And  spl  the  -In  ian  name. 

ie  fur  I'isa's  palm  the  courser  rear, 
Or  Labour  yoke  for  wealth  the  vigorous  st. 
With  tin'd  mother  trace, 

And  form'd  like  her  expect  the  proiriis'd  race. 
I  If  curling  horns  the  crescent  backward  bend, 
j  And  bristly  hairs  beneath  the  ear  defend, 


436 


VIRGIL. 


If  on  her  knees  the  pendulous  dew-lap  float, 
Large  front,  and  brawny  neck  vast  strength  de- 
note : 

If  length'ning  flanks  to  boundless  measure  spread, 
Fierce   her   rough   look,  and   bold  her  bull-like 

head, 

If  snowy  spots  her  mottled  body  stain, 
And  her  indignant  brow  the  yoke  disdain, 
With  tail  wide  sweeping,  as  she  stalks  the  dews; 
Thus,  lofty,  large,  and  long,  the  mother  choose. 

Crown  the  fourth  year  with  hymeneal  flow'rs: 
Age,  ere  the  tenth,  laments  its  languid  pow'rs. 
Inglorious  cares  the  dregs  of  life  infest, 
Unfit  for  labour,  and  by  love  unblest. 
In  youth's  full  force,  by  glowing  pleasure  led, 
Loose  the  fierce  savage  to  the  genial  bed ; 
There  let  him  leave,  ere  yet  to  death  resign'd, 
Some  bold  memorial  of  his  strength  behind. 
Swift  fades  our  joyful  prime:  'tis  fled  away; 
Close  on  its  wings,  pant  sickness,  sore  decay, 
Relentless  pains  that  lingering  life  consume, 
And  age,  that  calls  on  death  to  close  the  tomb. 
Haste,   as   thy  herds    thus   sickens,   droop,   and 

die, 

Still  with  new  tides  the  stream  of  life  supply, 
Prevent  their  loss,  a  race  successive  rear, 
Nor  mourn  with  vain  regret  time's  fleet  career. 
Choose  with  like  care  the  courser's  generous 

breed, 

And  from  his  birth  prepare  the  parent  steed. 
As  yet  a  colt  he  stalks  with  lofty  pace, 
And  balances  his  limbs  with  flexile  grace : 
First   leads    the    way,    the    threat'ning    torrent 

braves ; 
And  dares   the    unknown  arch   that  spans  the 

waves. 

Light  on  his  airy  crest  his  slender  head, 
His  belly  short,  his  loins  luxuriant  spread  : 
Muscle  on  muscle  knots  his  brawny  breast, 
No  fear  alarms  him,  nor  vain  shouts  molest. 
But  at  the  clash  of  arms,  his  ear  afar 
Drinks  the  deep  sound,  and  vibrates  to  the  war : 
Flames  from  each  nostril  roll  in  gather'd  stream, 
His  quivering  limbs  with  restless  motion  gleam, 
O'er  his  right  shoulder,  floating  full  and  fair, 
Sweeps  his  thick  rnane,  and  spreads  its  pomp  of 

hair : 

Swift  works  his  double  spine,  and  earth  around 
Rings  to  his  solid  hoof  that  wears  the  ground. 
Such  ardent  Cyllarus,  whose  rage  restraint! 
Foam'd  on  the  bit  by  Spartan  Pollux  rein'd : 
Such  the  fam'd  steeds  that  whirl'd  Pelides'  car, 
And  o'er  the  battle  wing'd  the  God  of  war : 
And  such  the  shape,  that  erst  the  God  disguis'd, 
When  Saturn  fled,  by  jealous  rage  surprised  : 
Loose  in  the  gale  his  mane  luxuriant  play'd, 
And  Pelion  echoed  as  the  courser  noigh'd. 
But  when  with  age,  or  long  disease  opprest, 
Hide  him  at.  home  in  not  inglorious  rest : 
Release  the  veteran,  from  the  toil  remove, 
Nor  urge  reluctant  to  laborious  love ; 
Vain  rage,  that  flashes  with  delusive  fires, 
And,  like  the  stubble,  blazes  and  expires. 
Then,  chie'f,  their  years,    and    dauntless    spirit 

trace, 
What  breed  ennobles,  and  what  honours  grace, 


j  If  victory's  glorious  prize  their  speed  inflame, 
Or  how,  when  conquer'd  sinks  their  crest  with 

shame. 

Swift  at  the  signal,  lo !  the  chariots  bound, 
And    bursting    through    the    barriers    seize    the 

ground. 

Now  with  high  hope  erect  the  drivers  dart, 
Now  fear  exhausts  their  palpitating  heart. 
Prone  o'er  loose  reins  they  lash   th'    extended 

steed, 

And  the  wing'd  axle  flames  beneath  their  speed. 
Now,  low  they  vanish  from  the  aching  eye, 
Now  soar  in  air,  and  seem  to  gain  the  sky. 
Where'er  they  rush  along  the  hidden  ground, 
Dust  in  thick  whirlwinds  darkens  all  around. 
Each  presses  each  :  in  clouds  from  all  behind, 
Horse,  horseman,  chariots  thundering  in  the  wind, 
Breath,  flakes  of  foam,  and  sweat  from  every 

pore 

Smoke  in  the  gale,  and  stream  the  victor  o'er. 
Thus  glorious  thirst  of  praise  their  spirit  fires, 
And  shouting  victory  boundless  strength  inspires. 

Bold  Erichthonius  first  four  coursers  yok'd, 
And  urged  the  chariot  as  the  axle  smok'd. 
The  skilful  Lapithae  first  taught  to  guide 
The  mounted  steeds,  and    rein  their   temper'd 

pride, 

Taught  under  arms  to  prance,  and  wheel  around, 
Press   their  proud   steps,  and  paw  th'  insulted 

ground. 

Alike  their  labours,  and  alike  they  claim 
Youth's  boundless  force  and  unabated  flame. 
Ah  !  vain  in  age  that  Argos'  vaunted  breed, 
Bore  in  triumphant  palms  th'  exulting  steed, 
That  oft  he  chas'd  the  foe,  or  claim'd  his  birth 
From  Neptune's  race,  that  burst  the  womb  of 

earth. 

But  if  Bellona  claim  impetuous  steeds, 
And  press  to  victory  where  the  battle  bleeds, 
Or  Fame,  where  Alpheus  laves  the  field  of  Jove, 
Urge  the  wing'd  car  amid  th'  Olympian  grove; 
Flash  on  his  infant  eye  the  blazing  shield, 
Pour  on  his  ear  the  thunder  of  the  field, 
Sound  the  shrill  trumpet,  roll  the  iron  car, 
And  rattle  o'er  his  stall  the  reins  of  war; 
Teach  him  to  love  thy  praise,  and  proudly  stand, 
And  arch  his  crest  beneath  thy  flattering  hand. 
Wean'd  from  his  dam.  yet  weak  in  youthful  year. 
Thus  train'd  to  martial  sounds  the  courser  rear ; 
Soothe  with  soft  reins,  nor  dare  his  lip  to  wound, 
Till  summer  rolls  her  fourth  revolving  round. 
Then  wheel  in  graceful  orbs  his  pac'd  career, 
Let  step  by  step  in  cadence  strike  the  ear, 
His  flexile  limbs  in  curves  alternate  prance, 
And  seem  to  labour  as  they  slow  advance: 
Then  give,  uncheck'd,  to  fly  with  loosen'd  rein, 
Challenge   the   winds,   and   wing   th'   unprirted 

plain. 

Thus  Boreas,  rushing  fierce  from  Scythia's  coast, 
Bears  on  his  wings  dark  winter's  gather'd  host: 
The  undulating  fields  and  billowy  grain 
Float  in  the  breeze  that  bristles  all  the  plain  ; 
The  high  woods  roar,  long  surges  swell  the  deep, 
While  his  fleet  wings  at  once  the  earth  and  ocean 
sweep. 


VIRGIL 


437 


Round  Elis'  course,  thus  rear'd,  the  victor  steed 
Shall  foam  with  blood,  and  triumph  in  his  speed, 
Or.  fearless  rushing  'mid  ranks  of  war, 
0  er  routed  armies  wheel  the  Belgic  car. 
Now.  train'd  to  will,  and  pliant  to  command, 
Let  generous  grain  his  growing  strength  expand  : 
The  pamper'd   steed,  ere  tam'd,  each  blow  dis- 
dains, 
Scorns   the   harsh   curb,  and   grinds  the  galling 

reins. 

But,  to  confirm  their  force,  in  youth  remove 
Thy  steeds,  and  bullocks  from  destructive  love. 
Banish  the  bull  in  distant  delis  unseen, 
"Where  rivers  spread  their  torrent  tide  between, 
Where  intervening  rocks  prone  cliffs  oppose, 
Or  lonely  stalls  his  sulk'n  strength  enclose. 
He  views  the  bride,  each  look  new  passion  fires, 
Slow    wa.-tes    his    strength,  and   melts   his   vain 

desires. 

When  noontide  flames,  forgetful  of  the  shade, 
His  restless  footsteps  bruise  th'  untasted  blade ; 
.And  oft  her  wanton  look  and  wily  charm 
The  rival  challengers  to  battle  arm. 
The  beauteous  heifer  indolently  roves, 
And  feeds  at  leisure  'mid  luxuriant  groves: 
Onward  they  rush,  and  from  alternate  blows 
Dark  blood  through  gushing  wounds  the  earth 

o'erflows. 

Front  clash'd  on  front  their  battering  horns  re- 
bound, 

Olympus  bellows,  and  the  woods  resound. 
The  combat  o'er,  insatiate  rage  remains, 
The  vanquish'd  exile  roams  o'er  distant  plains; 
Mourns  o'er  his  shame,  and  each  ignoble  scar, 
That  marks  th'  insulting  victor's  might  in  war. 
And  much  he  mourns,  sad   wanderer,  forc'd  to 

rove, 

In  battle  unaveng'd,  and  lost  to  love, 
And  leave,  oft  turning  ere  he  quits  the  plain, 
The  native  honours  of  his  proud  domain. 
Hence  by  long  toils  collecting  all  his  might, 
(I-  disciplines  his  strength  to  wage  the  fight: 
Wears   through   each   sleepless   night  his  rocky 

bed'. 

And  strays  all  day  on  prickly  rushes  fed: 
Now  tries,  contending  'gainst  th'  invaded  oak, 
His  iron  horns,  and  batters  stroke  by  stroke; 
Butts  at  the  wind,  and   with  impatient  hoof, 
Prelude  of  battle,  whirls  the  earth  aloof; 
Then,  gathering  all  his  vigour,  seeks  his  foe, 
l)ri\es  unexpected  on.  and  levels  at  a  blow. 
Thus  faintly  seen  along  the  distant  deep, 
Gleams   the   white  wave,  and   heaves   its   surgy 

sweep. 

Swell-  as  it  rolls,  'mid  bellowing  caverns  roars, 
And  bursts  a  mountain  on  the  di'lug'd  sho: 
Ye\'d  ocean  boil-.,  and.  high  in  columns  driven. 
Whirls   the   dark   sand,   and    clouds   the    face  of 

heaven. 

Thus  all  that  wings  the  air  and  cleaves  the  Hood. 
Herds  that  or  gra/.e  the  plain  or  haunt  the  wood. 
Rush    to    like     flame-,     when    kindred    pa- 
move, 

And  man  and  brute  obey  the  pow'r  of  love. 
The  headlong  lioness,  by  fren/y  stung. 
Then  fiercer  roams,  regardless  of  her  young: 


Then  hideous  bears  with  slaughter   strow  tthe 

wood; 

Then  the  grim  tigress  rages,  gorg'd  with  blood  ; 
And  where  'mid   Libyan  sands  the  wanderers 

stray, 

Woe !  to  the  traveller  on  his  lonely  way. 
Lo !  where  the  steeds,  all  wild  with  joy,  inhale 
The  well-known  scent,  and  quiver  in  the  gale; 
Them  nor  fierce  blows,  rude  bit,  or  galling  rein, 
Nor  interposing  crags-or  cliffs  restrain, 
Nor  floods  that  wear  the  rock's  o'erhanging  sides, 
And  whirl   the   mountains   down    their  torrent 

tides. 

Prone  darts  the  boar  from  deep  Sabellian  shades, 
Whets  his  fierce  tusks,  the  batter'd  earth  invades, 
Wears  the  gnarl'd  oak,  and,  rubbing  to  and  fro, 
Steels  his  tough  shoulders,  and  invites  the  blow. 
What  dares  not  ardent  youth,  when  love  in- 
spires, 

Boils  in  his  blood,  and  pours  unsated  fires? 
Lonely  at  midnight,  when  the  tempest  raves, 
Fearless  he  flings  his  bosom  to  the  waves: 
Above  dire  thunder  rolls,  seas  boil  below, 
Round  his  pale  head  portentous  lightnings  glow; 
Nor  heaven,  nor  seas,  nor  roaring  winds  appal, 
Nor  billows  breaking  on  the  rocks  recall, 
Nor  his  deserted  parents'  boding  cry, 
Nor  on  his  corse  the  virgin  doonrd  to  die. 
Why  should  I  sing  how  furious  dogs  engage, 
Wars  that  fierce  wolves  arid  spotted  lynxes  wage, 
Or  how,  each  native  fear  by  love  subdued, 
Stags  clash  their  antlcr'd  brows,  and  bathe  with 

blood  ? 

But  chief  unbounded  rage  the  mare  inspires, 
Venus  herself  there  centres  all  her  fires; 
Such,  as  erst  rag'd,  when  Potnian  coursers  tore 
Sad  Glaucus'  limbs,  and  dyed  their  jaws  in  gore. 
Love  o'er  Gargarian  heights,  Ascanian  waves, 
Climbs    the    steep    mountain,    and    the    torrent 

braves ; 

In  spring-tide  most,  when  kindling  Nature  reigns, 
And  warmth  reviving  throbs  in  fuller*  veins, 
Lo!  on  the  mountain  brow  the  mares  inhale 
With  fiery  lip  soft  Zephyr's  amorous  gale; 
And  oft,  un wedded,  pregnant  with  the  wind, 
Scour  o'er  the  cliffs,  and  leave  the  vales  behind: 
Not  where  bright  Eurus  blows,  they  shape  their 

flight, 

Not  where  the  sun  first  pours  the  golden  light, 
But  where  keen  Boreas  dwells,  or  Auster  shrouds 
Heaven's   gloomy  cope,  and  chills  with  weeping 

clouds  ; 

There,  while  the  genial  warmth  their  bosom  fills, 
The  sov'reigu  filter,  drop  by  drop,  distils, 
That,  mixt  with  herbs,  and  crown'd  with  baleful 

spell, 
Pluck'd  by  vile  step  lame-,  drugs  the  bowl  of  hell. 

lint  time  irreparable  flies  away, 
While  in  the  ma/e  of  love  we  fondly  stray. 
Cease  we  of  herds — new  themes  new  cares 

lire ; 

Rough  goatt  :i!1  '  il"'1-'}'  flocks  the  song  inspire: 
Rough  goats  and  flocks,  ye  swain,  due  notice  claim; 
Here  fix  your  labours,  here  aspire  to  fame. 
I,  conscious  of  the  toil,  will  strive  to  raise 
The  lowly  theme,  and  grace  with  labour'd  lays : 
2M2 


438 


VIRGIL. 


Tranc'd  by  sweet  love,  o'er  unfrequented  heights, 
Where  no  smooth  trace  to  Castaly  invites, 
I  pierce  the  wild  by  mortal  foot  nntrod, 
And  lonely  commune  with  th'  Aonian  god. 

Now,  venerable  Pales!   raise  the  song: 
Goddess!  to  thee  the  pastoral  lays  belong. 
First  I  ordain  the  fodder'd  sheep  to  feed 
In  shelt'ring  cotes  till  summer  shades  the  mead ; 
Oft  o'er  the  rugged  earth  fresh  stubble  spread, 
And  litter  frequent  fern  beneath  their  tread, 
Lest  piercing  ice  the  tender  cattle  wound, 
Cramp  their  chill  limbs,  and  spread  contagion 

round. 

Next  to  the  goats  I  turn:  the  arbute  bring, 
And  draw  fresh  water  from  the  fountain  spring, 
And,  fenced  from  bitter  blasts,  their  stalls  oppose 
Where  full  the  noontide  sun  in  winter  glows, 
When  cold  Aquarius,  as  he  quits  the  sphere, 
Turns  his  prone  urn,  and  floods  the  parting  year. 
Swains !  tend  the  lowly  goat :  though  scorn'd 

of  fame, 

Their  useful  breed  no  slight  protection  claim. 
Let  rich  Miletus  vaunt  her  fleecy  pride, 
And  weigh  with  gold  her  robes  in  purple  dy'd, 
Thou   tell   thy   goats,    what    countless    swarms 

abound ! 

Lo !  milk  in  gushing  tides  o'erflows  the  ground ! 
The  more  th'  insatiate  pails  new  loads  demand, 
New  floods  exhaustless  froth  beneath  thy  hand. 
Clothed  in  their  shaven  beards,  and  hoary  hair, 
Fence  of  the  ocean  spray  and  nightly  air, 
The  miserable  seaman  breasts  the  main, 
And  camps  uninjur'd  press  the  marshy  plain. 
By  day,  unwatch'd,  they  crop  their  distant  food, 
Thorns  of  the  rock,  and  brakes  that  shag  the  wood, 
Mindful  at  night  return  without  a  guide, 
And  lead  their  kids  that  bound  on  either  side, 
While  their   swoln  dugs,  distended  with   their 

store, 

Scarce  pass  the  threshold  of  thy  shelt'ring  door. 
The  less  their  wants,  the  more  each  want  supply, 
Nor  with  karsh  scorn  their  little  claims  deny! 
Oh!  shield  them  from  the  ice  and  drifting  snows, 
Beneath  thy  roof  their  tender  limbs  repose, 
Scatter  their  sylvan  food,  nor  day  by  day 
Refuse,  all  winter  long,  their  dole  of  hay. 
When  Spring  invites,  and  Zephyr  fans  the  mead, 
Alike  both  flocks  to  glades  and  pastures  lead, 
While  the  bright  star,  fair  harbinger  of  day, 
Gems  the  gray  rime  that  silvers  o'er  the  way. 
Fresh  the  fair  prime,  and  sweet  a  vernal  dawn 
To  sip  the  dewdrops  that  impearl  the  lawn. 
But  when  the  sun's  bright  beams  fierce  radiance 

fling, 

And  the  loud  woods  with  shrill  cicadas  ring, 
Haste,  to  deep  wells  and  spreading  waters  guide, 
Or  oaken  troughs  by  living  rills  supplied. 
When   noontide   flames,  down  cool  sequester'd 

glades, 

Lead,  where  some  giant  oak  the  dell  o'ershades, 
Or  where  the  gloom  of  many  an  ilex  throws 
The  sacred  darkness  that  invites  repose. 
When  sinks  the  sun  beneath  the  purple  main, 
Rills  and  refreshing  meads  delight  again  ; 
Then  Vesper  stilly  breathes  the  temperate  gale, 
Cool  dewy  moonbeams  gleam  along  the  vale, 


Responsive  shores  the  halcyon's  note  prolong, 
And  woodland  echoes  swell  the  linnet's  song. 
Why  should    my  verse    recount    the    Libyan 

swains, 

And  huts  thin  strewn  along  the  wide  champaigns? 
Morn  after  morn,  and  night  succeeding  night, 
Through  all  the  changes  of  the  lunar  light, 
Where'er  their  flocks  'mid  houseless  deserts  stray, 
And  wander  o'er  th'  illimitable  way, 
The  Libyan  shepherds  bear,  as  on  they  roam, 
Their  arms,  their  dog,  their  bow,  their  god,  their 

home. 

Not  otherwise,  in  arms,  untaught  to  yield, 
Rome's  burden'd  soldiers  seek  the  iron  field, 
And  fix,  ere  Fame's  swift  voice  prevents  their 

way, 
'Mid  unsuspecting  hosts  their  war  array. 

But  where  Maeotis  Scythia's  waste  divides, 
And  turbid  Ister  rolls  his  yellow  tides, 
And  Rhodope,  o'er  many  a  realm  outspread, 
Turns  to  the  pole,  and  bends  her  craggy  bed; 
There  stalls  enclose  the  herds  that  never  stray, 
No  grass  the  field,  no  leaves  the  wood  array, 
But  earth  lies  hid  by  ridgy  drifts  opprest, 
And   snow,  seven   ells  in  height,  deforms  her 

breast. 

There  blasts  that  freeze,  and  winter,  ever  dwell ; 
Mist  and  eternal  fog  the  sun  repel  ; 
Whether  his  fiery  steeds  high  heaven  ascend, 
Or  westering  to  the  wave,  his  chariot  bend. 
Prone  floods  suspended  in  mid  course  congeal, 
Fix'd  ocean  rattles  to  the  iron  wheel, 
Where  tossing  vessels  cross'd  the  billowy  main, 
O'er  the  smooth  ice  swift  glides  the  loaded  wain  ; 
Brass  snaps  in  sunder,  and  th'  infolding  vest 
Hardens  like  mail,  and  stiffens  on  the  breast. 
There  crystal  chains  at  or.ce  whole  pools  confine, 
And  hatchets  cleave  the  congelated  wine; 
Breath  palpable  to  touch  at  once  descends, 
And  rigid  ice  from  matted  beards  depends. 
Meanwhile  o'er  all  the  air  snows  press  on  snows, 
And  the  huge  limbs  of  stateliest  bulls  enclose  ; 
Numb'd  with  new  weight,  and  press'd  in  droves, 

the  deer 

Scarce  o'er  the  mass  their  topmost  antlers  rear; 
Nor  toils  their  flight  impede,  nor  hounds  o'ertake, 
Nor  plumes  of  purple  dye  their  fears  awake; 
But  while  in  vain,  beneath  the  load  opprest, 
They  heave  the  mount  thai  gathers  on  their  breast, 
Them,  front  to  front,  at  will  the  murderers  slay, 
Shout  to  their  groan,  and  bear  the  spoil  away. 
There,  while  del v'd  caves  their  shelter'd  limbs 

enclose, 

The  hordes  in  careless  indolence  repose, 
O'er  fires  undying  oaks  gigantic  raise, 
And  scorn  the  distant  sun's  forgotten  blaze, 
Mock   with   harsh   fruit   the   grape's   nectareous 

bowls, 

While  half  the  year  one  long  carousal  rolls. 
Beneath  the  polar  sky's  keen  fury  cast, 
Cut  by  the  snow  and  rude  Rhipa-an  blast, 
Shagg'd  with   yellow  skins  that  crown'd   their 

chase, 
Thus  live  the  wild  barbarian's  lawless  race. 

Is  wool  thy  care  ?  from  thorns  the  flock  restrain, 
The  wood  too  rough,  and  too  luxuriant  plain ; 


VIRGIL. 


439 


Soft  let  the  fleece  in  silver  tresses  flow, 
And  fair  the  sire  as  flakes  of  falling  snow: 
But  if  dark  hues  his  tongue  and  palate  stain, 
Drive  the  lone  exile  from  thy  spotless  train, 
Lest  the  dim  blemish  that  the  sire  defil'd 
Infect  the  fleece,  and  stain  the  motley  child. 
THUS  once,  if  rightly  bards  the  son:?  attune, 
Pan  wav'd  the  snowy  wool  that  lur'd  the  moon ; 
Nor.  when  the  wanton  woo'd  thee  to  the  grove, 
Didst  thou,  fair  Cynthia!  scorn  the  bribe  of  love. 

r  slight  thy  dogs:  on  whey  the  mastiffs  feed, 
Molossian  race,  and  hounds  of  Spartan  breed  ; 
th  tlu-ir  sleepless  eye  repose  in  peace, 

•  •If,  the  shepherd  gone,  snail  thin  thy  fleece  ; 
No  thief  by  niirht  invade  thy  lonely  home, 
Nor  round  thy  haunts  the  wild  Iberian  roam. 
Go,  the  fleet  hare  and  Hying  hind  pursue, 

I  from  deep  fens  the  bristly  boar  subdue. 

the  tall  stag  along  th'  aerial  height. 
And,  shouting,  press  within  thy  toils  his  flight. 


FROM  GEORGIC  IV. 

"IIF.      •MAXAGKMKXT     OF      BEES THEIR     ACTIONS. 

INSTINCTS.   BATTLES.  &C . THE  CORTCIA5T  OLD 


Vow.  while  th'  aerial  honey's  nectar  dews, 
Gift  of  a  god,  once  more,  invite  the  muse, 
•i  in,  with  fond  regard 

the  long  labours  of  thy  votive  bard. 
\Vor;hy  of  wonder,  here  at  large  I  trace 
Th'  unfolded  irenius  of  the  insect  race, 
Tli"ir  chiefs  illustrious,  and  th'  embattled  field, 
Manners  and  arts,  that  peaceful  studies  yield. 
f]'h"  lowly  theme  shall  claim  no  vulgar  praise, 
If  Pliuvuis  deign  to  hear  th'  invoking  lays. 
a  station  where  no  rnthle.— 

!i.?  still  hive  an  1  shelter'd  bees  a-sail : 
Lest,  a3   they   homeward   droop,   o'erdone   with 

Inclement  b'a-ts  th--ir  loaded  flight  despoil; 
Far  from  the  sheep  that  Wl  'iir, 

The   wanton   kids   that   bound   from   flower   to 

llov. 

-  the  meadow  bi- 

And  dash  from  >pringinir  herbs  nectareous 
DO  li/.ard  arm'd  with  burni-hM  • 

:>ird  <>f  prey,  their  walls  assail, 
Nor  P  roc  ne  haunt,  w.  CU  plume- 

The  blood-Stain'd  hand  imprinted  on  her  '< 
•  wi  lely  v.  aste,  and. 

;  trinni[ih  brill'.'. 

But  th''  ''}'d, 

Clear  fount  and  rill  that  purl-  along  ; 
Palms  o'er  their  pnreh  a  grateful  gloom  extend, 
And  the  wild  olive's  shelt'ring  :  -nd. 

There  when  new  kings  the  swarms  at  springtide 

And  burstii,.  Jadden  all  the  mead, 

Dim  banks  ut  noon  may  lure  to  c 

And  trees  with  hospitable  arm- 

II'  sleep  th'1  -::i_:iant  pools,  or  currents  How, 

Huge  stone-,  ai  d  willows  'mid  the  water  throw; 

That  if  a  br  .veep, 

And  headlong  drive  the  loiterer  to  the  deep, 


On  many  a  bridge  the  bee  may  safely  stand, 
And  his  wet  plumes  to  summer  suns  expand. 
There  all  her  sweets  let  savoury  exhale, 
Thyme  breathe  her  soul  of  fragrance  on  the  gale, 
In  dulcet  streams  her  roots  green  casia  lave, 
And  beds  of  violets  drink  at  will  the  wave. 
Alike,  if  hollow  cork  their  fabric  form, 
Or  flexile  twigs  enclose  the  settled  swarm, 
With  narrow  entrance  guard  the  shelter'd  cell, 
And  summer  suns  and  wintry  blasts  repel. 
Dire  each  extreme:  or  winter  cakes  with  cold, 
Or  summer  melts  the  comb  to  fluid  gold. 
Hence  not  in  vain  the  bees  their  domes  prepare, 
And  smear  the  chinks  that  open  to  the  air, 
With  flowers  and  fucus  close  each  pervious  pore, 
With  wax  cement,  and  thicken  o'er  and  o'er. 
Stor'd  for  this  use  they  hive  the  clammy  dew, 
And  load  their  garners  with  tenacious  glue, 
As  birdlime  thick,  or  pitch  that  slow  distils 
In  loitering  drops  on  Ida's  pine-crown'd  hills, 
And  oft  ('tis  said)  they  delve  beneath  the  earth, 
And  nurse. in  gloomy  caves  their  hidden  birth, 
Amid  the  crumbling  stone's  dark  concave  dwell, 
Or  hang  in  hollow  trees  their  airy  cell. 
Thou  aid  their  toil!  with  mud  their  walls  o'erlay, 
And  lightly  shade  the  roof  with  leafy  spray. 
There  let  no  yew  its  baleful  shadow  cast, 
Nor  crabs  on  glowing  embers  taint  the  blast ; 
Far  from  their  roof  deep  fens  that  poison  breathe. 
Thick  fogs  that  float  from  beds  of  mud  beneath, 
Caves  from  whose  depth  redoubled  echoes  rise, 
And  rock  to  rock  in  circling  shout  replies. 
Now  when  the  sun  beneath  the  realms  of  night 
Dark  winter  drives,  and  robes  the  heavens  with 

light, 

The  bees  o'er  hill  and  dale,  from  flow'r  to  flow 'r, 
In  grove  and  lawn  the  purple  spring  devour, 
Sip  on  the  wing,  and  lightly  brushing  lave 
Their  airy  plumage  in  th'  undimpled  v. 
Hence  with  unusual  joy  in  fondling  mood 
Cling   to    their   nests,  and   rear   their  cherish* d 

brood, 

With  wondrous  art  their  waxen  toil  renew, 
And  thicken  as  they  hive  the  honied  dew, 
Lo !  from  their  cells  when  swarms  through  rether 

am, 

And  float  at  noon  along  the  liquid  beam, 
And  on  the  breeze  that  rings  beneath  their  flight 
Draw  out  in  darkling  clouds  their  airy  height, 

e  them  as  they  wind  aloft  their  way. 
Where  groves  o'ershade,  and  crystal   fountains 

play; 
There  strew  each   rifled  herb,  that  breathes  of 

ing, 

There  the  brnis'd  balm  and  honeysuckle  fling; 
And  tinkling  raise,  while  echo  rings  around, 
And  C'yln-;-  dials  shrilly  sound. 

Soon  shall  they  haunt  the  )i:  -  'at, 

And  to  their  inmost  cells  Unseen  retreat. 

But  if  in.,  -uds  the  hive  alarm, 

When  doubtful  kings  the  frantic  nation  arm, 
Tumultuous  crowds  the  ,it  prepare, 

And  palpitating  hearts  that  beat  to  war; 
Deep  bra/en  peals  the  lingering  crowds  excite, 
And  harsh   the   voice    like   trumpets  hoarse  in 

fight. 


440 


VIRGIL. 


Onward  they  troop,  and,  brandishing  their  wings, 
Fit  their  fierce   claws,  and  point  their  poison'd 

stings ; 

Throng  to  th'  imperial  tent,  their  king  surround, 
Provoke  the  foe,  and  loud  defiance  sound. 
At  length  when  spring  expands  th'  unclouded 

day, 
Through    opening   portals   bursts    their    wing'd 

array ; 

Fierce  clash  the  clust'ring  orbs,  air  rings  around, 
Prone  from  the  conflict  myriads  strow  the  ground, 
Thick  as  tempestuous  hail  from  summer  show'rs, 
Or  streaming  acorns  dash'd  from  oaken  bow:rs. 
Amid  the  press  of  war,  th'  ericount'ring  kings, 
Mark'd  by  the  pomp  and  spreading  of  their 

wings, 

While  boundless  souls  their  little  bosom  swell, 
To  deeds  of  glory  either  host  impel ; 
Fiercely  they  fight,  unknowing  how  to  yield, 
Till  force  resistless  drive  them  from  the  field. 
Yet  at  thy  will  these  dreadful  conflicts  cease, 
Throw  but  a  little  dust,  and  all  is  peace. 

But  when  the  leaders  at  thy  voice  recede, 
Slay  the  weak  rebel !  bid  th'  usurper  bleed ! 
Slay,  ere  he  waste  the  hive.     Defend  the  throne, 
And  let  the  rightful  monarch  reign  alone. 
Doubt  you  the  sov'reign  ?  lo !  his  golden  mail, 
His  stately  port,  and  brightly  burnish'd  scale ; 
The  vile  usurper  'mid  a  kindred  throng 
Scarce  trails  his  loathsome  breadth  of  paunch 

along. 

Such  as  their  kings,  the  two-fold  nation  view, 
These  base  of  aspect  rough,  and  squalid  hue, 
Like  the  tir'd  wretch  in  summer's  sultry  day 
That  spits  with  fiery  lip  the  dust  away ; 
These  gaily  shine,  all-glorious  to  behold, 
Spangled  with  equal  spots,  and  dropt  with  gold; 
Be  these  thy  care ;  for  thee  their  grateful  toil 
Pours  at  due  times  the  tributary  spoil, 
Drains   the    pure    cornb,    whose    liquid    sweets 

refine 
The  grape  austere,  and  tame  the  temper'd  wine. 

If  wavering  swarms  in  aether  wildly  roam, 
Scorn  their  cold  cells,  and  quit  the  unfinish'd 

comb. 

Check  their  vain  sport,  to  peace  the  state  restore, 
Pluck  off  their  monarch's  wings,  the  flight  is  o'er  ; 
No  rebel  dares  beyond  the  limits  stray, 
Or  pluck  the  standard  from  his  tent  away. 
Let  gardens,  breathing  sweets,  the  bee  invite 
To  fix  on  saffron  beds  his  bounded  flight; 
Priapus  there  with  willow  sickle  drive 
The    birds    and    plunderers   from  th'  entrusted 

hive ; 

Then  bring  the  pine  from  rocky  cliffs  sublime, 
There  plant  with  toil-worn  hand  the  mountain 

thyme, 

Fruits,  odiferous  shrubs,  and  fragrant  flow'rs, 
And    freshen,    as    they    bloom,    with    frequent 

show'rs. 

Ah  fav'rite  scenes!  but  now  with  gather'd  sail 
I  seek  the  shore,  nor  trust  th'  inviting  gale ; 
Else  had  my  song  your  charms  at  leisure  trac'd, 
And  all  the  garden's  varied  arts  embrac'd ; 
Sung,  twice  each  year,  how  Poestan  roses  blow, 
How  endive  drinks  the  rill  that  purls  below, 


How  twisting  gourds  pursue  their  mazy  way, 

Swell  as  they  creep,  and  widen  into  day; 

How  verdant  celery  decks  its  humid  bed, 

How  late-blown  flowrets  round  narcissus  spread  ; 

The  lithe  acanthus  and  the  ivy  hoar, 

And  myrtle  blooming  on  the  sea-beat  shore. 

Yes,  I  remember,  where  Galoesus  leads 
His  flood  dark-winding  through  the  golden  rneads, 
Where  proud  (Ebalia's  tow'rs  o'erlook  the  plain, 
Once  I  beheld  an  old  Corycian  swain ; 
Lord  of  a  little  spot,  by  all  disdain'd, 
Where  never  lab'ring  yoke  subsistence  gain'd, 
Where  never  shepherd  gave  his  flock  to  feed, 
Nor  Bacchus  dar'tl  to  trust  th'  ungrateful  mead, 
He  there  with  scanty  herbs  the  bushes  crown'd, 
And  planted  lilies,  vervain,  poppies  round ; 
Nor  envied  kings,  when  late,  at  twilight  close, 
Beneath  his  peaceful  shed  he  sought  repose, 
And  cull'd  from  earth,  with  changeful   plenty 

stor'd, 

Th'  unpurchas'cl  feasts  that  pi  I'd  his  varied  board. 
At  spring-tide  first  he  pluck'd  the  full-blown  rose, 
From  autumn  first  the  ripen'd  apple  chose ; 
And  e'en  when  winter  split  the  rocks  with  cold, 
And  chain'd  th'  o'erhanging  torrent  as  it  roll'd, 
His  blooming  hyacinths,  ne'er  known  to  fail, 
Shed  sweets  unborrow'd  of  the  vernal  gale, 
As  'mid  their  rifled  beds  he  wound  his  way, 
Chid  the  slow  sun  and  Zephyr's  long  delay. 
Hence  first  his  bees  new  swarms  unnumber'd 

gave, 

And  press'd  from  richest  combs  the  golden  wave ; 
Limes  round  his  haunts  diffus'd  a  grateful  shade, 
And  verdant  pines  with  many  a  cone  array'd  ; 
And  every  bud,  that  gem'd  the  vernal  spray 
Swell'd  into  fruit  beneath  th'  autumnal  ray. 
He  lofty  elms,  transpos'd  in  order,  plac'd, 
Luxuriant  pears  at  will  his  alleys  gracrd, 
And    grafted    thorns   that  blushing   plums    dis- 

play'd, 
And  planes   that  stretch'd  o'er    summer  feasts 

their  shade. 

Ah !  fav'rite  scenes !  to  other  bards  resign'd, 
I  leave  your  charms,  and  trace  my  task  assigii'd. 
Now  learn  what  added  arts  the  race  improve, 
The  meed  of  old  conferr'd  by  grateful  Jove  ; 
What  time  the  bees,  by  clanging  cymbals  led, 
In  Cretan  caves  the  nursling  Thunderer  fed. 
They,  they  alone  a  common  race  supply, 
And  dwell  in  towns  beneath  the  public  eye, 
Love  their  known  household,  aid  their  country's 

cause, 

Securely  live  beneath  establish'd  laws  ; 
Prescient  of  winter,  hoard  the  rifled  spring, 
And  summer's  tribute  to  the  treasury  bring. 
Some,  bound  by  compact,  leave  their  native  home, 
And  far  and  wide  for  daily  nurture  roam ; 
Form'd  of  thick  gum  and  pale  narcissus'  tear, 
Some,  in  the  hive,  their  new  foundations  rear ; 
These,  train'd  to  work,  the  clinging  wax  suspend, 
These  to  the  race,  the  nation's  hope,  attend, 
Condense  pure  honey,  and  insatiate  swell 
With  liquid  nectar  each  o'erflowing  cell. 
These,  at  the  gate,  their  statioird  vigils  keep, 
Mark  where    the    clouds   collect,  the    tempests 

sweep, 


VIRGIL. 


441 


Unload  the  labourer,  or,  embattled,  drive 
The  drone,  dull  sluggard,  from  the  busy  hive  : 
A  nation  toils,  the  work  unwearied  glows, 
And.  redolent  of  thyme,  the  honey  flows. 
As  when  the  Cyclops,  for  the  almighty  Sire, 
Force  from  the  stubborn  mass  the  bolt  of  fire, 
These  slumb'ring  flames  with    gathered   winds 

awake, 

Those  plunge  the  hissing  bars  beneath  the  lake; 
Heav'cl  with  vast  strength  their  arms  in  order 

rise. 

And  blow  to  blow  in  measurV.  chime  replies; 
While  with  firm  tongs  they  turn  the  sparkling  ore, 
A.nd  ^Etna's  caves  with  labouring  anvils  roar. 
Not  less  (if  unreprov'd,  I  mhtly  dare, 
Things  of  low  note  with  wondrous  works  com- 
pare,) 

The  love  of  gain  th'  Hymettian  swarm  inspires, 
\Vakes  every  wish,  and  all  their  ardour  fires. 
To  each  his  part;  age  claims  th'  entrusted  care 
To  rear  the  palace,  and  the  dome  repair; 
The  young,  returning  home  at  dead  of  night, 
Faint  droop  beneath  the  thyme  that  loads  their 

flight 

Where'er  a  willow  waves,  or  arbute  grows, 
Or  casia  scents  the  gale,  or  crocus  glows, 
Or  hyacinth  unfolds  its  purple  hue, 
Flow'r,  shrub,  and  grove,  for  them  their  sweets 

renew. 

Alike  they  labour,  and  alike  repose  ; 
I'orth  from  their  gates  each  morn  the  nation  flows, 
And  when  pale  twilight,  from  the  wasted  mead, 
l!ids  the  tir'd  race,  o'ercharg'd  with  spoil,  recede, 
They  seek  their  roof,  their  drooping  frame  revive, 
And  shake  with  ceaseless  hum  the  crowded  hive. 
Deep  calm  succeeds,  each  laid  within  his  cell. 
Where  sleep  and  peace  without  a  murmur  dwell. 
If  tempests  low?r,  or  blust'ring  Eurus  sound, 
Prescient  they  creep  their  city  walls  around, 
Sip  the  pure  rill  that  near  their  portal  springs, 
And  bound  their  wary  flight  in  narrower  rings ; 
And  with  light  pebbles,  like  a  balanc'd  boat, 
Pois'd  through  the  air  on  even  pinions  float. 

Nor  shall  the  bees  the  less  thy  wonder  move, 
That  none  indulge  the  joys  of  mutual  love  : 
None  waste  their  strength  by  amorous  toils  sub- 

dn'd, 

No  pangs  of  labour  renovate  the  brood. 
By  instinct  led,  at  springtide's  u'enial  hour, 
They  gather  all  the  race  ('nun  herb  and  ilower  : 
Hence  springs  the  people,  hence  th'  imperial  lord, 
Their  domes  and  waxen  kingdom*  rise  restored. 
And  oft  they  roam  where   crags   their  feathers 

bni. 

And  oft  their  lives  beneath  the  burden 
Such  their  fond  xeal  that  every  (lower  explores, 
And  glorious  strife  to  swell  their  i_rni.!'Mi  ft 

Hence,   though   har>h    fate,  when  seven   fleet 

summers  • 

At  once  their  labours  and  their  lives  suspend, 
The  race  and  realm  from  aL'e  to  a-e  remain, 
And  time  but  lengthens  with  new  links  the  chain. 
Not  Lydia's  sons  nor  Parthia's  peopled  shore, 

an  thus  their  kin  :  adore. 

He  lives,  and  pours  through  all  th'  accordant  soul; 

He  dies,  and  by  his  death  dissolves  the  whole : 

56 


Rage  and  fierce  war  their  wondrous  fabric  tear, 
Scatter  their  combs,  and  waste  in  wild  despair. 
He  guards  their  works,  his  look  deep  rev'rence 

draws  ; 
Crowds  swarm  on  crowds,  and  hum  their  loud 

applause, 

Bear  'mid  the  press  of  battle  on  their  wing, 
And.  proud  to  perish,  die  around  their  king. 
Hence,  to  the  bee  some  sages  have  assign'd 
A  portion  of  the  God,  and  heavenly  mind ; 
For  God  goes  forth,  and  spreads  throughout  the 

whole. — 

Heaven,  earth,  and  sea,  the  universal  soul ; 
Each  at  its  birth  from  him  all  beings  share, 
Both  man  and  brute,  the  breath  of  vital  air ; 
There  all  return,  and,  loos'd  from  earthly  chain, 
Fly  whence  they  sprung,  and  rest  in  God  again, 
Spurn  at  the  grave,  and,  fearless  of  decay, 
Live  'rnid  the  host  of  heaven,  and  star  th'  ethe- 
real way. 

But  if  thy  search  their  sacred  realm  explore, 
And  from  their  treasures  draw  the  honied  store, 
With  spirted  water  damp  their  ready  wing, 
And,  veil'd  in  clouds  of  smoke,  elude  the  sting. 
The  golden  harvest  twice  each  year  o'erflows, 
Thou  twice  each  year  the  plenteous  cells  unclose, 
Soon  as  fair  Pleias,  bright'ning  into  day, 
Scorns  with  indignant  foot  the  watery  way, 
Or,  when  descending  down  the  aerial  steep, 
She  pours  her  pale  ray  on  the  wintry  deep. 
The  injur'd  swarms  with  rage  insatiate  glow, 
Barb  every  shaft  and  poison  every  blow, 
Deem  life  itself  to  vengeance  well  resign'd, 
Die  on  the  wound,  and  leave  their  stings  behind. 

If  wintry  dearth  thy  prescient  fears  create, 
Or  rouse  thy  pity  for  their  ruin'd  state, 
With  thymy  odours  scent  their  smoking  halls, 
And  pare  th'  unpeopled  cells  that  load  their  walls. 
There  oft,  unseen,  dark  newts  insidious  prey, 
The  beetle  there  that  flies  the  light  of  day, 
There  feasts  th'  unbidden  drone,  there  ring  the 

alarms 

Of  hornets  battling  with  unequal  arms, 
Dire   gnaws    the   moth,   and    o'er    their   portals 

spread 

The  spider  watches  her  aerial  thread. 
Yet  still,  when  most  oppress'd.  they  mostly  strive, 
And  tax  their  strength  to  renovate  the  hive; 
Contending  myriads  urge  exhaustless  powr 
Fill  every  cell,  and  crowd  the  comb  with  flov. 
But  (since  dread  ills  both  bees  and  man  molest) 

disease  the  languid  hive  i: 

Pale  haggard  looks  th'  undoubted  sign  display, 
Their  vigour  wastes,  and  all  their  hues  decay. 
"The  dead  are  carried  forth,  and  sad  and  slow 
The  long  procession  swells  the  pomp  of  woe ; 
Then  lurk  the  sick  within  their  dark  retreat, 
Or  cling  around  the  doors  with  pensive  feet, 
Their  drooping  pinions,  weak  with  famine, close, 
Or.  shrunk  with  cold,  their  torpid  limbs  repose. 
Then  long-drawn  hums  wind  on  from  cell  to  cell, 
Like  gales  that  murmur  down  the  woodland  dell, 
Or  eltbing  waves  that  roll  along  the  shore, 
Or  flames  that  in  the  furnace  inly  roar, 
Then  round  the  hive  in  many  a  smoky  wreath, 
Let  burning  galbanum  rich  incense  breathe, 


442 


VIRGIL, 


Through  ready  channels  pour  the  golden  flood, 
Lure   their  coy  taste,  and  court  with  tempting 

food. 

There  the  dried  rose  and  pounded  galls  combine, 
And  centaury  strong-breath'd,  and  sodden  wine, 
Grapes  that  long  ripe    on    Psythian   vineyards 

hung, 
And  thyme  that  on  the  breeze  rich   fragrance 

flung. 

In  fields  there  grows  a  flow'r  of  pastoral  fame, 
Amellus,  so  the  shepherds  call  its  name ; 
Sprung  from  one  root  its  stalks  profusely  spread, 
A  golden  circle  glitters  on  its  head, 
But  many  a  leaf  with  purple  violet  crown'd 
Throws  a  soft  shade  the  yellow  disk  around. 
Though  rough  the  taste,  yet  wreath'd  round  many 

a  shrine, 

In  rich  festoons  its  golden  blossoms  shine, 
And  by  meand'ring  Mella's  pastur'd  plain 
With  radiant  lustre  tempt  the  shepherd  swain. 
Seethe  in  rich  wine  its  roots,  and,  oft  renew'd, 
High  pile  before  their  gates  th'  alluring  food. 

ORPHEUS  AXD    EURYDICE. 

"GREAT  is  thy  guilt;  on  thy  devoted  head 
Indignant  gods  no  common  vengeance  shed  ; 
Sad  Orpheus,  doom'd,  without  a  crime,  to  mourn 
His  ravish Vi  bride  that  never  shall  return  ; 
Wild  for  her  loss,  calls  down  th'  inflicted  woes, 
And  deadlier  threatens,  if  no  fate  oppose. 
When  urg'd  by  thee  along  the  marshy  bed, 
Th'  unhappy  nymph  in  frantic  terror  fled  ; 
She  saw  not,  doom'd  to  die,  across  her  way, 
Where,  couch'd  beneath  the  grass,  the  serpent 

lay. 

But  every  Dryad,  their  companion  dead, 
O'er  the  high  rocks  their  echo'd  clamour  spread, 
The  Rhodopeian  mounts  with  sorrow  rung, 
Deep  waitings  burst  Pangrea's  cliffs  among 
Sad  Orithyia,  and  the  GeUe  wept, 
And  loud  lament  down  plaintive  Hebms  swept. 
He.  lonely,  on  his  harp,  'mid  wilds  unknown, 
Sooth'd  his  sad  love  with  melancholy  tone : 
On  thee,  sweet  bride!  still  dwelt  th'  undying  lay, 
Thee  first  at  dawn  deplor'd,  thee  last  at  close  of 

day. 

For  thee  he  tlar'd  to  pass  the  jaws  of  hell, 
And  gates  where  death  and  darkness  ever  dwell, 
Trod  with  firm  foot  in  horror's  gloomy  grove, 
Approach'd  the  throne  of  subterraneous  Jove, 
Nor  fear'd  the  manes  and  stern  host  below, 
And  hearts  that  never  felt  for  human  woe. 
Drawn  by  his  song  from  Erebus  profound 
Shades  and  unbodied  phantoms  flock  around, 
Countless  as  birds  that  fill  the  leafy  bow'r 
Beneath  pale  eve,  or  winter's  driving  show'r. 
Matrons  and  sires,  and  unaffianc'd  maids, 
Forms  of  bold  warriors  and  heroic  shades, 
Youths  and  pale  infants  laid  upon  the  pyre, 
While  their  fond  parents  saw  th'  ascending  fire : 
All  whom  the  squalid  reeds  and  sable  mud 
Of  slow  Cocytus'  unrejoicing  flood, 
All  whom  the  Stygian  lake's  dark  confine  bounds, 
And  with  nine  circles,  maze  in  maze,  surrounds. 
On  him,  astonislrd  Death  and  Tartarus  gaz'cl, 
Their  viper  hair  the  wond'ring  Furies  rais'd : 


rim  Cerberus  stood,  his  triple  jaws  half  clos'd. 
And  fix'd  in  air  Ixion's  wheel  repos'd. 

'  Now  ev'ry  peril  o'er,  when  Orpheus  led 
His  rescu'd  prize  in  triumph  from  the  dead, 
And  the  fair  bride,  so  Proserpine  enjoin'd, 
Press'd  on  his  path,  and  follow'd  close  behind, 
[n  sweet  oblivious  trance  of  amorous  thought 
The  lover  err'd,  to  sudden  frenzy  wrought: 
Ah!  venial  fault!  if  hell  had  ever  known 
Mercy,  or  sense  of  suffering  not  its  own. 
He  stopp'd,  and,  ah!  forgetful,  weak  of  mind, 
Cast,  as  she  reach'd  the  light,  one  look  behind. 
There  die  his  hopes,  by  love  alone  betray'd, 
He  broke  the  law  that  hell's  stern  tyrant  made ; 
Thrice  o'er  the  Stygian  lake  a  hollow  sound 
Portentous  murmur'd  from  its  depth  profound. 
Alas !  what  fates  our  hapless  love  divide, 
What  frenzy,  Orpheus,  tears  thee  from  thy  bride! 
Again  I  sink ; '  a  voice  resistless  calls, 
Lo !  on  my  swimming  eye  cold  slumber  falls. 
Now,  now  farewell !  involved  in  thickest  night, 
Borne  far  away,  I  vanish  from  thy  sight, 
And  stretch  towards  thee,  all  hope  for  ever  o'er, 
These  unavailing  arms,  ah!  thine  no  more.' — 
She  spoke,  and  from  his  gaze  for  ever  fled, 
Swift  as  dissolving  smoke  through  a?ther  spread, 
Nor  more  beheld  him,  while  he  fondly  strove 
To  catch   her   shade,   and  pour   the   plaints   of 

love. 

Deaf  to  his  pray'r  no  more  stern  Charon  gave 
To  cross  the  Stygian  lake's  forbidden  wave. 
What  shall  he  do?  where,  dead  to  hope,  reside? 
'Reft  of  all  joy,  and  doubly  lost  his  bride ; 
What  tears  shall  soothe  th'  inexorable  god? 
Pale  swam  her  spirit  to  its  last  abode. 

"Ah!  many  a  month  he  wept  in  lofty  caves 
By  frozen  Strymon's  solitary  waves; 
With  melting  melodies  the  beasts  subdu'd, 
And  drew  around  his  harp  the  list'ning  wood. 
Thus  Philomel,  beneath  the  poplar  spray, 
Mourns  her  lost  brood  untimely  snatch'cl  away, 
Whom  some  rough  hind,  that  watch'd  her  fost'ring 

nest, 

Tore  yet  unfleg'd  from  the  maternal  breast: 
She  on  the  bough,  all  night  her  plaint  pursues, 
Fills  the  far  woods  with  woe,  and  each  sad  note 

renews. 

No  earthly  charms  had  pow'er  his  soul  to  move, 
No  second  hymeneal  lur'd  to  love. 
'Mid  ciimes  where  Tanais  freezes  as  it  flows, 
'Mid  deserts  hoary  with  Rhipsean  snows, 
Lone  roam'd   the  bard,  his  ravish'd  bride   de- 
plord, 

And  the  vain  gift  of  hell's  relenting  lord. 
Scorn'd  of  the  youth,   when   grief  alone   could 

charm, 

Rage  and  revenge  the  Thracian  matrons  arm ; 
'Mid  the  dark  orgies  of  their  god,  they  tore 
His  mangled  limbs,  and  tost  along  the  shore. 
Ah  !  at  that  time  while  roll'd  the  floating  head 
Torn  from  hi?  neck,  down  Hebrus'  craggy  bed, 
His    last,    last  voice,   his    tongue    now   cold    in 

death, 

Still  nam'd  Eurydice  with  parting  breath  ; 
'  Ah  !  poor  Eurydice  !'  his  spirit  siiih'd, 
And  all  the  rock  Eurydice  replied." — 


VIRGIL. 


443 


FROM  THE  JENEIS. 

Book.  II. 
HECTOR'S  GHOST. 
'TWAS  in  the  dead  of  night,  when  sleep  repairs 
Our  bodies  worn  with  toils,  our  minds  with  cares 
When  Hector's  ghost  before  my  sight  appears : 
A  bloody  shroud  he  seem'd,  and  bath'd  in  tears 
Such  as  he  was,  when,  by  Pelides  slain, 
Thessalian  coursers  dragged  him  o'er  the  plain. 
Swoln  were  his  feet,  as  when  the  thongs  wer 

thrust 
Through  the  bor'd  holes:  his  body  black  will 

dust: 

Unlike  that  Hector,  who  return'd,  from  toils 
Of  war,  triumphant  in  ^Eacian  spoils, 
Or  him,  who  made  the  limiting  Greeks  retire, 
And  laimch'd  against  their  navy  Phrygian  fire. 
His  hair  and  beard  stood  stiffen'd  with  his  gore 
And  all  the  wounds  he  for  his  country  bore, 
Now  stream'd  afresh,  arid  with  new  purple  ran 
I  wept  to  see  the  visionary  man, 
And  while  my  trance  continued,  thus  began  : 
"  0  light  of  Trojans,  and  support  of  Troy, 
Thy  father's  champion,  and  thy  country's  joy! 
O  long  expected  by  thy  friends !  from  whence 
Art  thou  so  late  return'd  for  our  defence  ? 
Do  we  behold  thee,  wearied  as  we  are, 
With  length  of  labours,  and  with  toils  of  war? 
After  so  many  fun'rals  of  thy  own, 
Art  thou  restor'd  to  our  declining  town  ? 
But  say,  what  wounds  are  these?  what  new  dis- 
grace 

Deforms  the  manly  features  of  thy  face?" 
To  this  the  spectre  no  reply  did  frame, 
But  answer'd  to  the  cause  for  which  he  came; 
And,  groaning  from  the  bottom  of  his  breast. 
This    warning,    in    these    mournful    words,  ex- 

prc.-s'd  : 

"0  goddess-born!  escape,  by  timely  flight, 
The  flames  and  horrors  of  this  fatal  night. 
The  foes  already  have  possess'd  the  wall: 
Troy  nods  from  high,  and  totters  to  her  fall. 
Knough  is  paid  to  Priam's  royal  name, 
More  than  enough  to  duty  and  to  lame. 
If  by  a  mortal  hand  my  father's  throne 
Could  be  defended,  'twas  by  mine  alone. 

Troy  to  thee  commends  her  future  state, 
And  gives  her  gods  companions  of  thy  fate: 
From  their  assistance,  happier  walls  expect, 
Which,  wand'ring  long,  at  la>t  thou  .-halt  erect." 
lie  .-aid,  and  brought  me.  from  the.ir  blest  a! 
The  venerable  statues  of  the 
With  an  -icut  Ve.-tu  from  the  sacred  choir, 
The  wreaths  and  reii<jues  of  th'  immortal  fire. 

THE   DEATH   OF   IMUAM. 

PEUHAPS  you  may  of  Priam's  fate  inquire? 
He — when  he  saw  hi-  repil  to\vn  on  lire, 
His  ruin'd  palace,  and  his  ent'riii'j 
On  every  side  inevitable  woe  — 
In  arms  disus'd  iuve.-ts  his  limbs,  decny'd. 
Like  them,  with  a  ire  :   a  late  and  useless  aid. 
His  feeble  shoulders  scarce  the  weight,  sustain: 
Loaded,  not  arm'd.  he  creeps  along  with  pain, 
Despairing  of  success,  ambitious  to  be  slain. 


Uncovered  but  by  heaven,  there  stood  in  view 
An  altar  :  near  the  hearth  a  laurel  grew, 
Dodder'd   with   age,   whose   boughs   encompass 

round 

The  household  gods,  and  shade  the  holy  ground. 
Here  Hecuba,  with  all  her  helpless  train 
Of  dames,  for  shelter  sought,  but  sought  in  vain, 
Driv'n  like  a  flock  of  doves  along  the  sky, 
Their  images  they  hug,  and  to  their  altars  fly. 
The  queen  when  she  beheld  her  trembling  lord, 
And  hanging  by  his  side  a  heavy  sword, 
"What  rage,"  she   cried,    "has  seiz'd   my  hus- 
band's mind  ? 

What  arms  are  these,  and  to  what  use  design'd? 
These  times  want  other  aids  !  Were  Hector  here? 
E'en  Hector  now  in  vain,  like  Priam,  would  ap- 
pear. 

With  us,  one  common  shelter  thou  shalt  find, 
Or  in  one  common  fate  with  us  be  join'd." 
She  said,  and  with  a  last  salute  embrac'd 
The  poor  old  man,  and  by  the  laurel  plac'd. 
Behold  !  Polites,  one  of  Priam's  sons, 
Pursued  by  Phyrrus,  there  for  safety  runs. 
Through  swords  and  foes,  amaz'd  and  hurt,  he  flies 
Through  empty  courts,  and  open  galleries. 
Him  Phyrrus,  urging  with  his  lance,  pursues, 
And  often  reaches,  and  his  thrusts  renews. 
The  youth  transfix'd,  with  lamentable  cries, 
Expires  before  his  wretched  parents'  eyes : 
Whom  gasping  at  his  feet  when  Priam  saw, 
The  fear  of  death  gave  place  to  nature's  law  ; 
And,  shaking  more  with  anger  than  with  age, 
The  gods,"  said  he,  "requite  thy  brutal  rage! 
As  sure  they  will,  barbarian,  sure  they  must, 
If  there  be  gods  in  heaven,  and  gods  be  just — 
Who  tak'st  in  wrongs  an  insolent  delight; 
With  a  son's  death  t'  infect  a  father's  sight. 
Not  he,  whom  thou  and  lying  fame  conspire 
To  call  thee  his — not  he,  thy  vaunted  sire, 
Thus  us'd  my  wretched  age:  the  gods  he  fear'd, 
The  laws  of  nature  and  of  nations  heard, 
fte  cheer'd  my  sorrows,  and,  for  sums  of  gold, 
The  bloodless  carcass  of  my  Hector  sold  ; 
Pitied  the  woes  a  parent  underwent, 
And  sent  me  back  in  safety  from  his  tent." 

This  said,  his  feeble  hand  a  jav'lin  threw, 
iVhich,  flutt'ring,  seem'd  to  loiter  as  it  flew: 
fust,  and  but  barely,  to  the  mark  it  held, 
And  faintly  tinkled  on  the  braxen  shield. 

Then  Pyrrhus  thus:  "Hence  dotard!  meet  thy 

fate, 

And  to  my  father  my  foul  deeds  relate. 
Vow  die!" — With  that  he  dragg'd  the  trembling 

sire, 

slidd'ring  through  clotter'd  blood  and  holy  mire, 
The  mingled  paste  his  miirder'd  -on  had  made) 
laul'd  from  beneath  the  violated  shade, 
And  on  the  sacred  pile  the  royal  victim  laid, 
lis  right  hand  held  his  bloody  falchion  bare; 
lis  left  ho  twisted  in  his  hoary  hair: 
Then,  with  a  speeding  thrust,  his  heart  he  found : 
["he  lukewarm   blood  came  rushing  through  the 

wound, 

\nd  sanguine  streams  distain'd  the  sacred  ground. 
?hus  Priam  fell,  and  shar'd  one  common  fate 
-Vith  Troy  in  ashes,  and  his  ruin'd'  state — 


444 


VIRGIL. 


He,  who  the  sceptre  of  all  Asia  sway'd, 
Whom  monarchs  like  domestic  slaves  obey'd. 
On    the    bleak   shores  now  lies   th'  abandoned 

king, 
A  headless  carcass,  and  a  nameless  thing. 


Book  IV. 

DIDO'S  PASSIOX   FOR 

BUT  anxious  cares  already  seiz:d  the  queen  : 
She  fed  within  her  veins  a  flame  unseen  ; 
The  hero's  valour,  acts,  and  birth,  inspire 
Her  soul  with  love,  and  fan  the  secret  fire. 
His  words,  his  looks,  imprinted  in  her  heart, 
Improve  the  passion,  and  increase  the  smart. 
Now,  when  the  purple  morn  had  chas'd  away 
The  dewy  shadows,  and  restor'd  the  day, 
Her  sister  first  with  early  care  she  sought, 
And  thus  in  mournful  accents  eas'd  her  thought: 
"My  dearest  Anna!  what  new  dreams  affright 
My  lab'ring  soul!  what  visions  of  the  night 
Disturb  my  quiet,  and  distract  my  breast 
With  strange  ideas  of  our  Trojan  guest ! 
His  worth,  his  actions,  and  majestic  air, 
A  man  descended  from  the  gods  declare. 
Fear  ever  argues  a  degen'rate  kind ; 
His  birth  is  well  asserted  by  his  mind. 
Then,  what  he  suffer'd  when  by  Fate  betray'd, 
What  brave  attempts  for  falling  Troy  he  made! 
Such  were  his  looks,  so  gracefully  he  spoke, 
That,  were  I  not  resolv'd  against  the  yoke 
Of  hapless  marriage — never  to  be  curs;d 
With  second  love,  so  fatal  was  my  first — 
To  this  one  error  I  might  yield  again: 
For,  since  Sichaeus  was  untimely  slain, 
This  only  man  is  able  to  subvert 
The  fix'd  foundations  of  my  stubborn  heart. 
And,  to  confess  my  frailty — my  shame, — 
Somewhat  I  find  within,  if  not  the  same, 
Too  like  the  sparkles  of  my  former  flame. 
But  first  let  yawning  earth  a  passage  rend, 
And  let  me  through  the  dark  abyss  descend — 
First  let  avenging  Jove,  with  flames  from  high, 
Drive  down  this  body  to  the  nether  sky, 
Condernn'd  with  ghosts  in  endless  night  to  lie — 
Before  I  break  the  plighted  faith  I  gave ! 
No!  he  who  had  my  vows  shall  ever  have  : 
For,  whom  I  lov'd  on  earth,  I  worship  in  the 

grave." 

She  said  :  the  tears  ran  gushing  from  her  eyes, 
And  stopp'd  her  speech.    Her  sister  thus  replies : 
"0,  dearer  than  the  vital  air  I  breathe! 
Will  you  to  grief  your  blooming  years  bequeath, 
Condemn'd  to  waste  in  woes  your  lonely  life, 
Without  the  joys  of  mother,  or  of  wife  ! 
Think  you   these   tears,  this   pompous  train  of 

woe, 

Are  known  or  valued  by  the  ghosts  below  ? 
I  grant  that  while  your  sorrows  yet  were  green, 
It  well  became  a  woman,  and  a  queen, 
The  vows  of  Tyrian  princes  to  neglect, 
To  scorn  larbas,  and  his  love  reject, 
With  all  the  Libyan  lords  of  mighty  name: 
But  will  you  fight  against  a  pleasing  flame? 
This  little  spot  of  land  which  heaven  bestows, 
On  ev'ry  side  is  hemm'd  with  warlike  foes : 


Gsetulian  cities  here  are  spread  around,  • 
And  fierce  Numidians  there  your  frontiers  bound: 
Here  lies  a  barren  waste  of  thirsty  land, 
And  there  the  Syrtes  raise  the  moving  sand  : 
Barcsean  troops  besiege  the  narrow  shore, 
And  from  the  sea  Pygmalion  threatens  more. 
Propitious  heaven,  and  gracious  Juno,  lead 
This  wand'ring  navy  to  your  needful  aid  : 
How  will  your  empire  spread,  your  city  rise, 
From  such  a  union,  and  with  such  allies  ! 
Implore  the  favour  of  the  pow'rs  above  ; 
And  leave  the  conduct  of  the  rest  to  love. 
Continue  still  your  hospitable  way, 
And  still  invent  occasions  of  their  stay, 
Till   storms   and  winter  winds    shall   cease   to 

threat, 
And  planks  and  oars  repair  their  shatter  'd  fleet." 

These  words,  which  from  a  friend  and  sister 

came, 

With  ease  resolv'd  the  scruples  of  her  fame, 
And  added  fury  to  the  kindled  flame. 

*  ***** 

Sick  with  desire,  and  seeking  him  she  loves, 
From  street  to  street  the  raving  Dido  roves. 
So,  when  the  watchful  shepherd,  from  the  blind, 
Wounds  with  a  random  shaft  the  careless  hind, 
Distracted  with  her  pain  she  flies  the  woods, 
Bounds  o'er  the  lawn,  and  seeks  the  silent  floods  — 
With  fruitless  care  5  for  still  the  fatal  dart 
Sticks  in  her  side,  and  rankles  in  her  heart. 
And  now  she  leads  the  Trojan  chief  along 
The  lofty  walls,  amidst  the  busy  throng; 
Displays  her  Tyrian  wealth,  and  rising  town, 
Which  love,  without  his  labour,  makes  his  own. 
This  pomp  she  shows,  to  tempt  her  wand'ring 

guest, 

Her  falt'ring  tongue  forbids  to  speak  the  rest. 
When  day  declines,  and  feasts  renew  the  night, 
Still  on  his  face  she  feeds  her  famish'd  sight; 
She  longs  again  to  hear  the  prince  relate 
His  own  adventures,  and  the  Trojan  fate. 
He  tells  it  o'er  and  o'er  ;  but  still  in  vain, 
For  still  she  begs  to  hear  it  once  again. 
The  hearer  on  the  speaker's  mouth  depends, 
And  thus  the  tragic  story  never  ends. 

Then,  when  they  part,  when  Phcebe's  paler 

light 

Withdraws,  and  falling  stars  to  sleep  invite, 
She  last  remains,  when  ev'ry  guest  is  gone, 
Sits  on  the  couch  he  press'd,  and  sighs  alone  ; 
Absent,  her  absent  hero  sees  and  hears  ; 
Or  in  her  bosom  young  Ascanius  bears, 
And  seeks  the  father's  image  in  the  child, 
If  love  by  likeness  might  be  so  beguil'd. 


,  being  warned  by  Jupiter  from  settling 
in  Africa,  prepares  for  his  departure,  endeavour- 
ing, however,  (though  in  vain,)  to  conceal  his 
design  from  the  unhappy  queen. 

Meantime  ....................... 

The  loud  report  through  Libyan  cities  goes, 
Fame,  the  great  ill,  from  small  beginnings  growt  — 
Swift  from  the  first;  and  ev'ry  moment  brings 
New  vigour  to  her  flights,  new  pinions  to  her 
wings. 


VIRGIL. 


445 


S'X»n  grows  the  pigmy  tu  Luiranti.- 

Her  feet  on  earth,  her  forehead  in  the  .skies. 

Enrag'd  against  tin-  gods,  revengeful  Earth 

Produc'il  her,  last  of  the  Titanian  birth — 

Swift  is  her  walk,  more  swift  her  winded  haste — 

A  monstrous  phantom,  horrible  and  va.-t. 

As  many  plumes  as  rai.-e  her  lofty  lli_rht, 

ST  many  piercing  eyes  enlarge  her  sight: 

Millions  of  op'ning  mouths  to  Fame  belong 5 

.And  ev'ry  mouth  is  furnish'd  with  a  to: 

And  round  with  listening  ears  the  Hying  plague 

is  hung. 

She  iills  tin;  peaceful  universe  with  cries: 
IV  o  slumbers  ever  close  her  wakeful  •  . 
By  day,  from  lofty  tow'rs  her  head  she  shews. 
And  spreads  through  trembling  crowds  disastrous 

DOT 

"With  court  informers  haunts,  and  royal  spies; 
Things  done   relates ;  not  done  she  feigns ;  and 

mingles  truth  with  lies. 

Talk  is  her  bus'ness  :  and  her  chief  delight 
To  tell  of  prodigies,  and  cause  affright. 
She  fills  the  people's  ears  with  Dido's  name, 
Who.  -'lost  to  honour  and  the  sense  of  shame, 
Admits  into  her  throne  and  nuptial  bed 
A  wand'ring  guest,  who  from  his  country  fled: 
Whole  days  with  him  she  passes  in  delights, 
And  wastes  in  luxury  long  winter  nights, 
Forgetful  of  her  fame  and  royal  trust, 
Dissolv'd  in  ease,  abandon'd  to  her  lust." 
****** 
But  soon  the  queen  perceives  the  thin  disguise: 
(What  arts  can  blind  a  jealous  woman's  eyes?) 
Mie  was  the  first  to  find  the  secret  fraud, 
IJefore  the  fatal  news  was  bla/'d  abroad. 
Love  the  first  motions  of  the  lover  hear-. 
Quick  to  pre-ai>e,  and  e  eu  in  safety  fears. 
Nor  impious  Fame  was  wanting  to  report 
The  .-hips  repair'd.  the  Trojans  quick  resort, 
And  purpose  to  forsake  the  Tyrian  court. 
Frantic  with  i'ear.  impatient  of  the  wound, 
And  impotent  of  mind  she  roves  the  city  round. 
Less  wild  the  Bacchanalian  dames  appear. 
When,  from  afar,  their  nightly  »otl  they  hear, 
And  howl  about  the  hills,  and  shake  the  wreathy 

.-pear. 

At  length  she  finds  tii"  denr  perfidious  man; 
Prevents  his  form'd  6XCU0O,  and  thu-  began: 
e  and  ungrateful!  could  you  hope  tf«  fly, 
And  undi.-c".  -  eye? 

Nor  could  my  kindness  your  coinpas.-ion  n 

in-r  band- 

Or  is  the.  death  of  a  despairing  q 
Not  w.irtii  KM  well  for--- 

when  the  wintry  wind-  command  your  stay, 
(are  ihe  tempest,  an  : 

v  Hi  wen-  not  bound 

To  lands  unknown,  and   foreign  -"iind: 

Were  Troy  rc-tofd.  and  Priam's  happy  r. 
Now  durst  you  tempt,  lor  Troy,  the  raizing  main  ? 
!iom  you  fly!   am  I  the  ibe  you  -bun? 

.mi. 

By  this  right  baud  (since  I  have  nothing  Dm 
To  challenge,  hm  ;  ,,-  ;aith  you  gave,  before) 
1    beu  yon  by  -  too  truly 

By  the  new  pleasures  of  our  nuptial  bed; 


If  ever  Dido,  when  you  were  most  kind, 

\Va-  pleasing  in  your  eyes,  or  touch'cl  your  mind: 

By  these  my  pray'rs,  if  pray'rs  may  yet  have 

place, 

Pity  the  fortune  of  a  falling  race  ! 
For  you  I  have  provok'd  a  tyrant's  hate, 
Incens'd  the  Libyan  and  the  Tyrian  state; 
For  you  alone,  I  suffer  in  my  fame, 
Bereft  of  honour,  and  expos'd  to  shame  ! 
Whom  have  I  now  to  trust,  ungrateful  guest? 
(That  only  name  remains  of  all  the  rest!) 
What  have  I  left?  or  \\  hither  can  I  fly? 
Must  I  attend  Pygmalion's  cruelty, 
Or  till  larbas  shall  in  triumph  lead 
A  queen,  that  proudly  scorn  d  his  proffer'd  bed! 
Had  you  deferr'd,  at  least,  your  hasty  flight, 
And  left  behind  some  pledge  of  our  deliuht. 
Some  babe  to  bless  the  mother's  mournful  sight, 
Some  young  ^Eneas  to  supply  your  place, 
Whose  features  might  express  his  father's  face; 
I  should  not  then  complain  to  live  bereft 
Of  all  my  husband,  or  be  wholly  left."' 

Here  paus'd  the  queen.     Unmov'd  he  holds 

his  eyes. 

By  Jove's  command ;  nor  suffer'd  love  to  rise, 
Though  heaving  in  his  heart;  and  thus  at  length 

replies : 

"Fair  queen,  you  never  can  enough  repeat 
Your  boundless  favours,  or  I  own  my  debt; 
Nor  can  my  mind  forget  Eliza's  name, 
While  vital  breath  inspires  this  mortal  frame. 
This  only  let  me  speak  in  my  defence — 
I  never  hop'd  a  secret  flight  from  hence, 
Much  less  pretended  to  the  lawful  claim 
Of  sacred  nuptials,  or  a  husband's  name. 
For,  if  indulgent  heaven  would  leave  me  free, 
And  not  submit  my  life  to  Fate's  decree, 
My  choice  would  lead  me  to  the  Trojan  shore, 
Those  relics  to  review,  their  dust  adore, 
And  Priam's  ruin'd  palace  to  restore. 
And  now  the  Delphian  oracle  commands, 
And  Fate  invites  me  to  the  Latian  lands. 
That  is  the  promis'd  place  to  which  I  steer; 
And  all  my  vows  are  terminated  there. 
If  you,  a  Tyrian  and  stranger  born. 
With  walls  and  tow'rs.  a  Libyan  town  adorn, 
Why  may  not  we — like  you,  a  foreign  race — 
Like  you,  seek  shelter  in  a  foreign  place"? 

.  as  the  niirht  obscures  the 
With  humid  shades,  or  twink  arise, 

Anchises'  angry  ghost  in  dreams  app< 
Chides  my  delay,  and  fill-  my  soul  with  fears: 
And  young  Ascanius  justly  may  complain, 
Defrauded  of  his  fate,  and  destin'd  r. 
E'en  now  the  herald  of  the  -od-  appear'd — 
Waking  I  saw  him.  and  his  me.--age  heard. 
From    Jove    he    came    commi.-sion'd,    heavenly 

bright 

With  radiant  beams,  and  manifest  to  sight: 
:  :ider  and  the  .sent  I  both  attest) 

walls   he    enter'd,  and    these    words    ex- 

-'d. 

Fair  queen,  oppose  not  what  the  gods  command  : 
Fore'd  by  my  fate.  I  leave  your  happy  land.' 

Thus  while  h"  spoke,  already  she  began 
With  sparkling  eyes  to  view  the  guilty  man, 
2N 


446 


VIRGIL. 


From  head  to  foot,  survey 'd  his  person  o'er, 
Nor  longer  these  outrageous  threats  forbore  : 
"  False  as  thou,  and  more  than  false,  forsworn! 
Not  sprung  from  noble  blood,  nor  goddess-born, 
But  hewn  from  harden'd  entrails  of  a  rock! 
And  rough  Hyrcanian  tigers  gave  thee  suck! 
Why  should  I  fawn  ?  what  have  I  worse  to  fear  ? 
Did  he  once  look,  or  lend  a  list'ning  ear, 
Sigh  when  I  sobb'd,  or  shed  one  kindly  tear? 
All  symptoms  of  a  base  ungrateful  mind, 
So  foul,  that,  which  is  worse,  'tis  hard  to  find. 
Of  man's  injustice  why  should  I  complain? 
The  gods,  and  Jove  himself,  behold  in  vain 
Triumphant  treason;  yet  no  thunder  flies; 
Nor  Juno  views  my  wrongs,  with  equal  eyes : 
Faithless  is  earth,  and  faithless  are  the  skies ! 
Justice  has  fled,  and  truth  is  now  no  more ! 
I  sav'd  the  shipwreck'd  exile  on  my  shore ; 
With  needful  food  his  hungry  Trojans  fed ; 
I  took  the  traitor  to  my  throne  and  bed : 
Fool  that  I  was — 'tis  little  to  repeat 
The  rest — I  stor'd  and  rigg'd  his  ruin'd  fleet. 
I  rave,  I  rave !  a  god's  command  he  pleads, 
And  makes  heaven  accessory  to  his  deeds. 
Now  Lycian  lots,  and  now  the  Delian  god, 
Now  Hermes  is  employ'd  from  Jove's  abode, 
To  warn  him  hence;  as  if  the  peaceful  state 
Of  heavenly  powers  were  touch'd  with  human 

fate. 

But  go !  thy  flight  no  longer  I  detain — 
Go!    seek    thy  promis'd    kingdom    through    the 

main ! 

Yet,  if  the  heavens  will  hear  my  pious  vow, 
The  faithless  waves,  not  half  so  false  as  thou, 
Or  secret  sands,  shall  sepulchres  afford 
To  the  proud  vessels,  and  their  perjur'd  lord. 
Then  shalt  thou  call  on  injur'd  Dido's  name : 
Dido  shall  come  in  a  black  sulph'ry  flame : 
When  death  has  oncedissolv'd  her  mortal  frame — 
Shall  smile  to  see  the  traitor  vainly  weep : 
Her  angry  ghost  arising  from  the  deep, 
Shall  haunt  thee  waking,  and  disturb  thy  sleep. 
At  least  my  shade  thy  punishment  shall  know; 
And  Fame  shall  spread  the  pleasing  news  be- 
low." 

Abruptly  here  she  stops — then  turns  away 
Her  loathing  eyes,  and  shuns  the  sight  of  day. 
Amaz  d  he  stood,  revolving  in  his  mind 
What  speech  to  frame,  and  what  excuse  to  find. 
Her  fearful  maids  their  fearful  mistress  led, 
And  softly  laid  her  on  her  iv'ry  bed. 

But  good  .^Eneas,  though  he  much  desir'd 
To  give  that  pity  which  her  grief  requir'd — 
Though  much  he  mourn'd,  and  laboured  with  his 

Jove — 

Resolv'd  at  length,  obeys  the  will  of  Jove; 
Reviews  his  forces:  they  with  early  care 
Unmoor  their  vessels,  and  for  sea  prepare. 
The  fleet  is  soon  afloat,  in  all  its  pride; 
And  well-caulk'd  galleys  in  the  harbour  ride. 
Then  oaks  for  oars  they  fell'd  ;  or  as  they  stood, 
Of  its  green  arms  despoil'd  the  growing  wood, 
Studious  of  flight.     The  beach  is  cover'd  o'er 
With  Trojan  bands  that  blacken  all  the  shore  : 
On  ev'ry  side  are  seen  descending  down, 
Thick  swarms  of  soldiers,  loaden  from  the  town. 


Thus,  in  battalia,  march  embodied  ants, 
Fearful  of  winter,  and  of  future  wants, 
T'  invade  the  corn,  and  to  their  cells  convey 
The  plunder'd  forage  of  their  yellow  prey. 
The  sable  troops,  along  the  narrow  tracks, 
Scarce  bear  the  weighty  burden  on  their  backs : 
Some  set  their  shoulders  to  the  pond'rous  grain; 
Some  guard  the  spoil,  some  lash  the  lagging  train  ; 
All  ply  their  sev'ral  tasks,  and  equal  toil  sustain. 
What  pangs  the  tender  breast  of  Dido  tore, 
When  from  the  tow'r  she  saw  the  cover'd  shore, 
And  heard  the  shouts  of  sailors,  from  afar, 
Mix'd  with  the  murmurs  of  the  wat'ry  war  ! 
All-powerful    Love!    what  changes  canst  thou 

cause 

In  human  hearts,  subjected  to  thy  laws ! 
Once  more  her  haughty  soul  the  tyrant  bends: 
To  pray'rs  and  mean  submissions  she  descends. 
No  female  arts  or  aids  she  left  untried, 
Nor  counsels  unexplor'd,  before  she  died. 
"Look,  Anna!  look!  the  Trojans  crowd  to  sea  ; 
They    spread .  their    canvas,  and   their    anchors 

weigh. 

The  shouting  crew  their  ships  with  garlands  bind, 
Invoke  the  sea  gods,  and  invite  the  wind. 
Could  I  have  thought  his  threat'ning  blow  so  near, 
My  tender  soul  had  been  forewarn'd  to  bear. 
But  do  not  you  my  last  request  deny: 
With  yon  perfidious  man  your  int'rest  try, 
And  bring  me  news,  if  I  must  live  or  die. 
You  are  his  fav'rite :  you  alone  can  find 
The  dark  recesses  of  his  inmost  mind: 
In  all  his  trusted  secrets  you  have  part, 
And  know  the  soft  approaches  of  his  heart. 
Haste  then,  and  humbly  seek  my  haughty  foe ; 
Tell  him,  I  did  not  with  the  Grecians  go, 
Nor  did  my  fleet  against  his  friends  employ, 
Nor  swore  the  ruin  of  unhappy  Troy, 
Nor  mov'dwith  hands  profane  his  father's  dust: 
Why  should  he  then  reject  a  suit  so  just? 
Whom  does  he  shun?  and  \vhither  would  he  fly? 
Can  he  this  last,  this  only  pray'r  deny? 
Let  him  at  least  his  dangerous  flight  delay, 
Wait  better  winds,  and  hope  a  calmer  sea. 
The  nuptials  he  disclaims,  I  urge  no  more: 
Let  him  pursue  the  promis'd  Latin  shore. 
A  short  delay  is  all  I  ask  him  now — 
A  pause  of  grief,  an  interval  from  wo, 
Till  my  soft  soul  be  ternper'd  to  sustain 
Accustom'd  sorrows,  and  inur'd  to  pain. 
If  you  in  pity  grant  this  one  request, 
My  death  shall  glut  the  hatred  of  his  breast." 
This  mournful  message  pious  Anna  bears, 
And  seconds,  with  her  own,  her  sister's  tears: 
But  all  her  arts  are  still  employ'd  in  vain: 
Again  she  comes,  and  is  refus'd  again. 
His  harden'd  heart  nor  pray'rs  nor  threat'nings 

move ; 
Fate,  and  the  uod,  had  ptopp'd  his  ears  to  love. 

As  when  the  winds  their  airy  quarrel  try, 
Justling  from  ev'ry  quarter  of  the  sky, 
This  way  and  that  the  mountain  oak  they  bend ; 
His  boughs  they  shatter,  and  his  branches  rend; 
With  leaves   and  falling   mast  they  spread  the 

ground  ; 
The  hollow  valleys  echo  to  the  sound : 


VIRGIL. 


447 


Unmov'd,  the  royal  plant  their  fury  mocks, 
Or,  shaken,  clings  more  closely  to  the  rocks: 
Far  as  he  shoots  his  tow'ring  head  on  high 
So  deep  in  earth  his  fix'd  foundations  lie. 
No  less  a  storm  the  Trojan  hero  bears; 
Thick  messages  and  loud  complaints  he  hears, 
And  bandied  words,  still  beating  on  his  ears. 
Sighs,   groans,    and    tears,  proclaim   his   inward 

pains  ; 
But  the  firm  purpose  of  his  heart  remains. 

The  wretched  queen,  pursued  by  cruel  Fate, 
Begins  at  length  the  light  of  heaven  to  hate, 
And  loaths  to  live.    Then  dire  portents  she  sees, 
To  hasten  on  the  death  her  soul  decrees — 
Strange  to  relate  !  for  when  before  the  shrine, 
She  pours  iu  sacrifice  the  purple  wine, 
The  purple  wine  is  turn'd  to  putrid  blood; 
And  the  white  offer'd  milk  converts  to  mud. 
This  dire  presage,  to  her  alone  reveal'd, 
From  all,  and  e'en  her  sister,  she  conceal'd. 

A  marble  temple  stood  within  the  grove, 
Sacred  to  death,  and  to  her  murder'd  love; 
That  honour'd  chapel  she  had  hung  around 
With  snowy  fleeces,  and  with  garlands  crown'd  : 
Oft,  when  she  visited  this  lonely  dome, 
Strange  voices  issued  from  her  husband's  tomb: 
She  thought  she  heard  him  summon  her  away, 
Invite  her  to  his  grave,  and  chide  her  stay. 
Hourly  'tis  heard,  when  with  a  boding  note 
The  solitary  screech-owl  strains  her  throat, 
And,  on  a  chimney's  top  or  turret's  height, 
With  songs  obscene  disturbs  the  silence  of  the 

night 

Besides,  old  prophecies  augment  her  fears ; 
And  stern  ^Eneas  in  her  dreams  appears, 
Disdainful  as  by  day:  she  seems,  alone, 
To  wander  in  her  sleep,  through  ways  unknown, 
(juideless  and  dark;  or,  in  a  desert  plain, 
To  seek  her  subjects,  and  to  seek  in  vain — 
Like  Pentheus.  when  distracted  with  his  fear, 
He  saw  two  suns  and  double  Thebes  appear; 
Or  mad  Ore.-u-s.  when  his  mother's  uhost 
Full  in  his  face  infernal  torches  toss'd, 
And  shook  her  snaky  locks  :  he  shuns  the  sight, 
Flies  o'er  the  stage,  surpris'd  with  mortal  fright; 
The   Furies   guard    the   door,   and   intercept   his 
flight 

Now.  sinking  underneath  a  load  of  grief, 
From  death  alone  she  seeks  her  last  relief. 

******* 

.lead  of  night,  when  weary  bodies  close 
'Their  eyes  in  balmy  sleep,  and  soft  rep 
JMie  win;ls  no  longer  whisper  through  the  \ 
Xor  mimn'riug  tides  disturb  the  gentle  Hoods. 
The  .-tars  in  silent  order  moved  around; 
An  I  iYaee.  with  downy  wings,  was  brooding  on 

the  ground. 

The  Hocks  an. I  herds,  ami  particolour'd  f..\vl 
Which    haunt    the    woods    or    swim    the    weedy 

pool. 

•h'd  on  the  qui<n  earth,  securely  lay, 
Porgetting  the  pa>t  labours  of  the  day. 
\11  else  ofnature's  common  gift  partake; 
Unhappy  Dido  was  alone  awake. 
N'or  sleep  nor  ease  the  furious  queen  can  find: 
Sleep  fled  her  eyes,  as  quiet  lied  her  mind. 


Despair,  and  rage,  and  love,  divide  her  heart; 
Despair  and  rage  had  some,  but  love  the  greater 

part. 

Then  thus  she  said  within  her  secret  mind : 
"What  shall  I  do?  what  succour  can  I  find? 

ie  a  suppliant  to  larbas'  pride, 
And  lake  my  turn  to  court  and  be  denied? 
Shall  1  with  this  ungrateful  Trojan  go, 
Forsake  an  empire,  and  attend  a  foe? 
Himself  I  refuged,  and  his  train  relieved — 
Tis  true — but  am  I  sure  to  be  receiv'd? 
Can  gratitude  in  Trojan  souls  have  place  ? 
Laomedon  still  lives  in  all  his  race ! 
Then,  shall  I  seek  alone  the  churlish  crew, 
Or  with  my  fleet,  their  flying  sails  pursue? 
What  force  have  I  but  those,  who  scarce  before 
I  drew  reluctant  from  their  native  shore? 
Will  they  again  embark  at  my  desire, 
Once  more  sustain  the  seas,  and  quit  their  second 

Tyre  ? 

Rather  with  steel  thy  guilty  breast  invade, 
And  take  the  fortune  thou  thyself  hast  made. 
Your  pity,  sister,  first  seduc'd  my  mind, 
Or  seconded  too  well  what  I  design'd. 
These  dear-bought  pleasures  had  I  never  known, 
Had  I  continued  free,  and  still  my  own — 
Avoiding  love,  I  had  not  found  despair, 
But  shar'd  with  savage  beasts  the  common  air. 
Like  them,  a  lonely  life  I  might  have  led, 
Not  niourn'd  the  living,  nor  disturb'd  the  dead." 
These    thoughts    she    brooded    in    her   anxious 

breast. — 

******* 
Aurora  now  had  left  her  saffron  bed, 
And  beams  of  early  light  the  heavens  o'erspread, 
When  from  a  tower,  the  queen,  with  wakeful 

eyes, 

Saw  day  point  upward  from  the  rosy  skies. 
She  look'd  to  seaward  :  but  the  sea  was  void, 
And  scarce  in  ken  the  sailing  ships  descried. 
Stung  with  despite,  and  furious  with  despair, 
She  struck  her  trembling  breast,  and  tore  her  hair. 
"And  shall  th'  ungrateful  traitor  go,  (she  said,) 
My  land  forsaken,  and  my  love  betray'd? 
Shall  we  not  arm?  not  rush  from  ev'ry  street? 
To  follow,  sink,  and  burn,  his  perjur'd  fleet? 
Haste!  haul  my  galleys  out !  pursue  the  foe! 
Bring  flaming  brands!   set  sail,  and  swiftly  row! 
What  have  I  said!  where  am  I?   Fury  turns 
My  brain;  and  my  distemper'd  bosom  burns; 
Then,  when  I  gave  my  person  and  my  throne, 
This  hate,  this  rai^e.  had  been  more  timoly  shown. 

>w  the  promis'd  faith,  the  vaunted  name, 
The  pious  man,  who.  rushing  through  the  Ilame. 

.  and  to  the  Phrygian  shore 
The  burden  of  h;  -  let  Ix-re  ! 

I  -hoiild  have   torn   him   piece-meal — strcw'd  in 
od* 

'   limbs,  or  left  expos'd  in  woods — 
v'd    his    friends    and    son — and    from    the 

(in; 

Have  set  the  reeking  boy  before  the  sire. 
K  vents  are  doubtful,  which  on  battle  wait! 
Yet   wle-re's  the  doubt,  to  souls  secure  of  fate  ? 
My  Tynans,  at  their  iujur'd  queen's  command, 
Had  toss'd  their  fires  amid  the  Trojan  baud  ; 


448 


VIRGIL. 


At  once  extinguished  all  the  faithless  name  ; 

And  I  myself,  in  vengeance  of  my  shame, 

Had  fall'n  upon  the  pile,  to  mend  the  fun'ral 

flame. 

Thou  Sun,  who  view'st  at  once  the  world  below ! 
Thou  Juno,  guardian  of  the  nuptial  vow  ! 
Thou  Hecat,  hearken  from  thy  dark  abodes ! 
Ye  Furies,  Fiends,  and  violated  Gods ! 
All  powers  invoked  with  Dido's  dying  breath, 
Attend  her  curses  and  avenge  her  death ! 
If  so  the  Fates  ordain,  and  Jove  commands, 
Th'   ungrateful   wretch   should  find   the   Latian 

lands. 

Yet  let  a  race  untam'd,  and  haughty  foes, 
His  peaceful  entrance  with  dire  arms  oppose : 
Oppress'd  with  numbers  in  th'  unequal  field, 
His  men  discourag'd,  and  himself  expell'd, 
Let  him  for  succour  sue  from  place  to  place, 
Torn  from  his  subjects,  and  his  son's  embrace. 
First  let  him  see  his  friends  in  battle  slain, 
And  their  untimely  fate  lament  in  vain : 
And  when  at  length  the  cruel  war  shall  cease, 
On  hard  conditions  may  he  buy  his  peace: 
Nor  let  him  then  enjoy  supreme  command ; 
But  fall,  untimely,  by  some  hostile  hand, 
And  lie  unburicd  on  the  barren  sand ! 
These  are  my  pray'rs,  and  this  my  dying  will : 
And  you,  my  Tyrians,  ev'ry  curse  fulfil. 
Perpetual  hate  and  mortal  wars  proclaim 
Against  the  prince,  the  people,  and  the  name. 
These  grateful  off 'rings  on  my  grave  bestow  ; 
Nor  league,  nor  love,  the  hostile  nations  know ! 
Now,  and  from  hence,  in  ev'ry  future  age, 
When  rage  excites  your  arms,  and  strength  sup- 
plies the  rage, 

Rise  some  avenger  of  our  Libyan  blood, 
With  fire  and  sword  pursue  the  perjur'd  brood — 
Our  arms,  our  seas,  our  shores  oppos'd  to  theirs — 
And  the  same  hate  descend  on  all  our  heirs. 


Book  VI. 

AT  the  request  of  ^neas,  the  Sibyl  attends 
him  to  the  shades  below,  describing  to  him  the 
various  scenes  of  the  place,  and  conducting  him 
to  his  father,  who  shows  him  the  glorious  race  of 
heroes  which  was  to  descend  from  him. 
So  pray'd  the  Trojan  prince,  and,  while  he  pray'd, 
His  hand  upon  the  holy  altar  laid. 
Then  thus  replied  the  prophetess  divine: 
"0  goddess-born,  of  great  Anchises'  line! 
The  gates  of  hell  are  open  night  and  day; 
Smooth  the  descent,  and  easy  is  the  way : 
But,  to  return,  and  view  the  cheerful  skies — 
In  this  the  task  and  mighty  labour  lies. 
To  few  great  Jupiter  imparts  this  grace, 
And  those  of  shining  worth,  and  heavenly  race. 
Betwixt  those  regions  and  our  upper  light, 
Deep  forests  and  impenetrable  night 
Possess  the  middle  space :  th'  infernal  bounds 
Cocytus,  with  his  sable  waves,  surrounds. 
But,  if  so  dire  a  love  your  soul  invades, 
As  twice  below  to  view  the  trembling  shades; 
If  you  so  hard  a  toil  will  undertake, 
As  twice  to  pass  th'  innavigable  lake ; 


Receive  my  counsel.     In  the  neighb'ring  grove 
There  stands  a  tree  :  the  queen  of  Stygian  Jove 
Claims  it  her  own :  thick  woods  and  gloomy  night 
Conceal  the  happy  plant  from  human  sight. 
One  bough  it  bears;  but  (wondrous  to  behold) 
The  ductile  rind  and  leaves  of.radiant  gold: 
This  from  the  vulgar  branches  must  be  torn, 
And  to  fair  Proserpine  the  present  borne, 
Ere  leave  be  giv'n,  to  tempt  the  nether  skies. 
The  first  thus  rent,  a  second  will  arise ; 
And  the  same  metal  the  same  room  supplies. 
Look  round  the  wood  with  lifted  eyes,  to  see 
The  lurking  gold  upon  the  fatal  tree: 
Then  rend  it  off,  as  holy  rites  command : 
The  willing  metal  will  obey  thy  hand, 
Following  with  ease,  if,  favoured  by  thy  fate, 
Thou  art  foredoom'd  to  view  the  Stygian  state  : 
If  not,  no  labour  can  the  tree  constrain  ^ 
And  strength  of  stubborn  arms,  and  steel,  are 

vain. 

Scarce  had  she  said,  when,  full  before  his  sight, 
Two  doves  descending  from  their  airy  flight, 
Secure  upon  th.e  grassy  plain  alight. 
He  knew  his  mother's  birds,  and  thus  he  pray'd : 
"Be  you  my  guides  with  your  auspicious  aid; 
And  lead  my  footsteps  till  the  branch  be  found. 
Whose  glitt'ring  shadow  gilds  the  sacred  ground. 
And  thou,  great  parent!  with  celestial  care, 
In  this  distress,  be  present  to  my  pray'r." 
Thus  having  said,  he  stopp'd,  with  watchful  sight, 
Observing  still  the  motions  of  their  flight, 
What  course  they  took,  what  happy  signs  they 

show. 

They  fed,  and  fluttering  by  degrees,  withdrew 
Still  farther  from  the  place,  but  still  in  view  : 
Hopping  and  flying  thus  they  led  him  on 
To  the  slow  lake,  whose  baleful  stench  to  shun, 
They  wing'd  their  flight  aloft,  then  stooping  low, 
Perch'd  on  the  double  tree,  that  bears  the  golden 

bough. 
Through  the  green  leaves  the  glitt'ring  shadows 

glow 

As,  on  the  sacred  oak,  the  wintry  mistletoe. 
Such  was  the  glitt'ring;  such  the  ruddy  rind, 
And  dancing  leaves  that  wanton'd  in  the  wind. 
He  seiz'd  the  shining  bough  with  griping  hold, 
And  rent  away,  with  ease,  the  ling'ring  gold, 
Then  to  the  Sibyl's  palace  bore  the  prize. 
*  *  *  #  *  #  * 

Due  rites  perform'd,  the  prince  without  delay, 
Hastes,  to  the  nether  world,  his  destin'd  way. 
Deep  was  the  cave  :  and,  downward  as  it  wont 
From  the  wide  mouth,  a  rocky  rough  descent ; 
And  here  th'  access  a  gloomy  grove  defends ; 
And  here  th'  innavigable  lake  extends, 
O'er  whose  unhappy  waters,  void  of  light, 
No  bird  presumes  to  steer  his  airy  flight: 
And  deadly  stenches  from  the  depth  arise, 
And  streaming  sulphur,  that  infects  the  skies. 
From  hence  the  Grecian  bards  their  legends  make, 
And  give  the  name  Avernus  to  the  lake. 
Four  sable  bullocks,  in  the  yoke  untaught, 
For  sacrifice,  the  pious  hero  brought. 
The  priestess  pours  the  wine  betwixt  their  lions; 
Then  cuts  the  curling  hair;   that  first  oblat  on 
burns, 


VIRGIL. 


449 


Invoking  Hecat  hither  to  repair — 

A  powerful  name  in  hell  and  upper  air. 

The  sacred  priest?,  with  ready  knives,  bereave 

The  beasts  of  life,  and  in  full  bowls  receive 

The  streaming  blood  :  a  lamb  to  Hell  and  XL-lit 

(The  sable  wool  without  a  streak  of  white) 

^Eneas  offers  ;  and  by  Fate's  decree, 

A  barren  heifer,  Proserpine  to  thee. 

With  holocausts  he  Pluto's  altar  fills: 

Seven  brawny  bulls   with    his   own   hand    he 

kills  : 

Then,  on  the  broiling  entrails,  oil  he  pours: 
Which,  ointed  thus,  the  raging  flame  devours. 
Late  the  nocturnal  sacrifice  begun, 
Nor  ended,  till  the  next  returning  sun. 
Then  earth  began  tn  bellow,  trees  to  dance, 
And  howling  dogs  in  glimin'rir.g  light  advance, 
Ere  Hecat  came — -  Far  hence  be  souls  profane!" 
The  Sibyl  cried — '-and  from  the  grove  abstain! 
Now,  Trojan,  take  the  way  thy  fates  afford : 

;ie  thy  courage,  and  unsheath  thy  sword." 
She  said,  and  pass'd  along  the  Bloomy  space : 
The.  prince  pursu'd  her  steps  with  equal  pace. 

yet  unreveal'd  to  human  sight! 
IB,  who  rule  the  regions  of  the  night! 
'ing  ghosts!  permit  me  to  relate 
The  mystic  wonders  of  your  silent  state. 

Obscure  they  went  through  dreary  shades,  that 

spread 

Along  the  waste  dominions  of  the  dead. 
Thus  wander  travellers  in  woods  by  night, 
By  the  moon's  doubtful  and  malignant  light, 
When  Jove  in  dusky  clouds  involves  the  skies. 
And  the  faint  crescent  shoots  by  fits  before  their 

eyes. 

Just  in  the  gate,  and  in  the  jaws  of  hell, 
Revengeful  Cares  and  sullen  Sorrows  dwell, 
And  pale  Diseases,  and  repining  Age, 
Want,  Fear,  and  Famine's  nnresiste.d  rage; 

Toils,  and  Death,  and  Death's  half-brother, 

"P> 

(Forms  terrible  to  view)  their  sentry  keep; 
With  anxious  Pleasures  of  a  guilty  mind, 
Deep  Fraudsbefore.  an. I  open  Force  behind; 
The  Furies'  iron  bods;  and  Strife,  that  shakes 
Her  lii  !  unfi .Ids  her  snakes: 

Full  in  the  midst  of  t!,i-  iiif'-rnal  road, 
An  elm  displays  her  du<ky  arms  abroa  1  : 
The  God  of  Sleep  there  hides  hi<  heavy  head: 
And  empty  dreams  on  ev'ry  leaf  are  spread. 
Of  various  forms,  unnumber'  :  nore. 

Centaurs,  and  double  shaj  the  door. 

Befor  '.re.  horrid  Hyd: 

\\i-\   Bri-irens  with  all  his  hundred  h:> 

with  his  tripl"  1; 

And  v;ii:i  (.'him  -  empty  Ha.: 

The    chief    unsheath'd    his    shining    steel,    pre- 

par'd. 
Though   sei/.'d   with    sudden   fear,  to   force  the 

guard, 

Off'ring  his  brandish'd  weapon,  at  their  face; 
Had  not  the  Sibyl  stopp'd  • 

And  told  him  what  those  empty  phantoms  were — 
Forms  without  bodie<.  and  impa<sive  air. 
Hence  to  deep  Acheron  they  take  their  way. 
Whose  troubled  eddies,  thick  with  oo/.e  and  clay, 
57 


Are  whirl'd  aloft,  and  in  Cocytus  lost: 

There    Charon    stands,    who    rules    the    dreary 

coast — 

A  sordid  god :  down  from  his  hoary  chin 
A  length  of  beard  descends,  uncomb'd,  unclean: 

••$,  like  hollow  furnaces  on  fire  ; 
A  girdle,  foul  with  grease,  binds  his  obscene  attire. 
He  spreads  his  canvas  ;  with  his  pole  he  steers; 
The  freights  of  flitting  ghosts  in  his  thin  bottom 

bears. 

He  look'd  in  years ;  yet,  in  his  years,  were  seen 
A  youthful  vigour,  and  autumnal  green. 
An  airy  crowd  came  rushing  where  he  stood, 
Which  fill'd  the  margin  of  the  fatal  flood — 
Husbands  and  wives,  boys  and  unmarried  maids, 
And  mighty  heroes'  more  majestic  shades, 
And  youths,  entomb'd  Before  their  fathers'  eyes, 
With  hollow  groans,  and  shrieks,  and  feeble  cries. 
Thick  as  the  leaves  in  autumn  strow  the  woods, 
Or  fowls,  by  winter  forc'd,  forsake  the  floods. 
And  wing  their  hasty  flight  to  happier  land- — 
Such,  and  so  thick,  the  shiv'ring  army  stands. 
And  press  for  passage  with  extended  hands. 
Now   these,    now  those,    the    surly   boatmen 

bore: 

The  rest  he  drove  to  distance  from  the  shore. 
The  hero,  who  beheld,  with  wond'ring  eyes, 
The  tumult  mix'd  with  shrieks,  laments,  and 

cries, 
Ask'd  of  his  guide,  what  the  rude  concourse 

meant? 

Why  to  the  shore  the  thronging  people  bent  * 
What  forms  of  law  among  the  ghosts  were  us'd  t 
Why  some  were  ferried  o'er,  and  some  refus'd  ? 
"  Son  of  Anchises !  offspring  of  the  gods  ! 
(The  Sibyl  said)  you  see  the  Stygian  floods, 
The  sacred   streams,  which   heaven's    imperial 

state 

Attests  in  oaths,  and  fears  to  violate. 
The  ghosts  rejected  are  th'  unhappy  crew 
Depriv'd  of  sepulchres  and  fun'ral  due: 
The  boatman,  Charon :  those,  the  buried  host, 
He  ferries  over  to  the  farther  coast ; 
Nor  dares  his  transport  vessel  cross  the  waves 
With   such   whose  bones  are  not  compos'd   in 

•  ves. 

A  him  Irecl  years  they  wander  on  the  shore; 
At  length,  their  penance  done,  are  wafted  o'er." 

Now  nearer  to  the  Stygian  lake  they  draw  : 
Whom,  from  the  shore,  tin-  surly  boatman  saw; 

.  '1  t  ieix  ;  iurh  the  shady  wood, 

1  their  near  app  'he  Hood: 

'hus  he  call'd  aloud,  inflam'd  with  wrath: 
••.Mortal,  whate'er.  who  this  forbidden  path 
In  arms  pre-auii'st  to  tread  !   I  e.harg-  thee,  stand 
And  tell  thy  name,  an  1  !> -i-'ness  in  the  land. 
Kno\v,  this  the  realm  of  night — the  Stygian  shore: 
My  boat  conveys  no  living  1. 
Xor  was  I  pleas'd.  gre  -  once  to  bear, 

(Who  forc'd  a  pa>-a'_v  with  his  pointed  -pear, 

••mg  Aleides — men  of  mighty  fain"  : 
And  from  th'  immort:;  :-  lineage  came ; 

In  fetters  one  the  barking  porter  tied. 
And  took  him  trembling  from  his  sov're-ign's  - 
Two  sought  by  force  to  seize  his  beauteous  bride." 


450 


VIRGIL. 


To  whom  the  Sibyl  thus :  "  Compose  thy  mind  : 
No  frauds  are  here  contriv'd,  nor  force  design'd. 
Still  may  the  dog  the  wandering  troops  constrain 
Of  airy  ghosts,  and  vex  the  guilty  train ; 
And  with  her  grisly  lord  his  lovely  queen  re- 
main. 

The  Trojan  chief,  whose  lineage  is  from  Jove, 
Much  fam'd  for  arms,  and  more  for  filial  love, 
Is  sent  to  seek  his  sire  in  your  Elysian  grove. 
If  neither  piety,  nor  heaven's  command, 
Can  gain  his  passage  to  the  Stygian  land, 
This  fatal  present  shall  prevail,  at  least'' — 
Then  show'd  the  shining  bough,  concealed  within 

her  vest. 

No  more  was  needful :  for  the  gloomy  god 
Stood  mute  with  awe,  to  see  the  golden  rod ; 
Admir'd  the  destin'd  off 'ring  to  his  queen — 
A  venerable  gift,  so  rarely  seen. 
His  fury  thus  appeas'd,  he  puts  to  land : 
The  ghosts  forsake  their  seats  at  his  command : 
He  clears  the  deck,  receives  the  mighty  freight; 
The  leaky  vessel  groans  beneath  the  weight. 
Slowly  she  sails,  and  scarcely  stems  the  tides: 
The  pressing  water  pours  within  her  sides. 
His  passengers  at  length  are  wafted  o'er, 
Expos'd,  in  muddy  weeds,  upon  the  miry  shore 
No  sooner  landed,  in  this  den  they  found 
The  triple  porter  of  the  Stygian  bound, 
Grim  Cerberus,  who  soon  began  to  rear 
His  crested  snake?,  and  arm'd  his  bristling  hair, 
The  prudent  Sibyl  had  before  prepar'd 
A  sop,  in  honey  steep'd,  to  charm  the  guard ; 
Which,  mix'd  with  powerful  drugs,  she  cast  be- 
fore 

His  greedy  grinning  jaws,  just  op'd  to  roar. 
With   three    enormous  mouths    he    gapes ;   and 

straight, 

With  hunger  press'd,  devours  the  pleasing  bait. 
Long  draughts  of  sleep  his  monstrous  limbs  en- 
slave ; 

He  reels,  and  falling,  fills  the  spacious  cave. 
The  keeper  charm'd.  the  chief  without  delay 
Pass'd  on,  and  took  th'  irremeable  way. 
Before  the  gates,  the  cries  of  babes  new-born, 
Whom  Fate  had  from  their  tender  mothers  torn, 
Assault  his  ears  :  then  those,  Whom  form  of  laws 
Condemn'd   to  die,   when   traitors  judg'd   their 

cause. 

Nor  want  they  lots,  nor  judges  to  review 
The  wrongful  sentence,  and  award  anew. 
Minos,  the  strict  inquisitor,  appears  ; 
And  lives  and  crimes,  with  Ids  assessors,  hears. 
Round  in  his  urn,  the  blended  balls  he  rolls, 
Absolves  the  just,  and  dooms  the  guilty  souls. 
The  next  in  place  and  punishment,  are  they 
Who  prodigally  threw  their  souls  away — 
Fools,  who,  repining  at  their  wretched  state, 
And  loathing  anxious  life,  snborn'd  their  fate. 
With  late  repentance,  now  they  would  retrieve 
The  bodies  they  forsook,  and  wish  to  live; 
Their  pains  and  poverty  desire  to  bear, 
To  view  the  light  of  heaven,  and  breathe  the 

vital  air : 

But  Fate  forbids ;  the  Stygian  floods  oppose, 
And  with  nine  circling  streams,  the  captive  souls 
enclose. 


Not  far  from  hence,  the  Mournful  Fields  ap- 
pear, 

So  call'd  from  lovers  that  inhabit  there. 
The  souls,  whom  that  unhappy  flame  invades, 
In  secret  solitude  and  myrtle  shades 
Make  endless  moans,  and,  pining  with  desire, 
Lament  too  late  their  unextinguish'd  fire. 
Here  Procris,  here  Eriphyle  he  found 
Baring  her  breast,  yet  bleeding  with  the  wound 
Made  by  her  son.     He  saw  Pasiphse  there, 
With  Phaedra's  ghost,  a  foul  incestuous  pair. 
There  Laodameia,  with  Evadne,  moves — 
Unhappy  both,  but  loyal  in  their  loves : 
Cseneus,  a  woman  once,  and  once  a  man, 
But  ending  in  the  sex  she  first  began. 
Not  far  from  these  Phoenician  Dido  stood, 
Fresh  from  her  wound,  her  bosom  bath'd  in  blood; 
Whom  when  the  Trojan  hero  hardly  knew, 
Obscure  in  shades,  and  with  a  doubtful  view, 
(Doubtful  as  he  who  sees,  through  dusky  night, 
Or  thinks  he  sees  the  moon's  uncertain  light) 
With  tears  he  first  approach'd  the  sullen  shade; 
And  as  his  love  inspir'd  him,  thus  he  said : 
"  Unhappy  queen !  then  is  the  common  breath 
Of  rumour  true,  in  your  reported  death, 
And  I,  alas !  the  cause  1 — By  heaven,  I  vow, 
And  all  the  powers  that  rule  the  realms  below, 
Unwilling  I  forsook  your  friendly  state, 
Commanded  by  the  Gods,  and  forc'd  by  Fate—- 
Those Gods,  that  Fate,  whose  unresisted  might 
Have  sent  me  to  these  regions  void  of  light, 
Through  the  vast  empire  of  eternal  night. 
Nor  dar'd  I  to  presume,  that,  press'd  with  grief, 
My  flight  should  urge  you  to  this  dire  relief. 
Stay,  stay  your  steps,  and  listen  to  my  vows ! 
'Tis  the  last  interview  that  Fate  allows !" 
In  vain  he  thus  attempts  her  mind  to  move 
With  tears  and  pray'rs,  and  late-repenting  love. 
Disdainfully  she  look'd ;  then  turning  round, 
She  fix'd  her  eyes  unmov'd  upon  the  ground, 
And,  what  he  says  and  swears,  regards  no  more, 
Than  the  deaf  rocks,  when  the  loud  billows  roar; 
But  whirl'd  away  to  shun  his  hateful  sight, 
Hid  in  the  forest,  and  the  shades  of  night ; 
Then  sought  Sichaeus  through  the  shady  grove, 
Who  answer'd  all  her  cares,  and  equall'd  all  her 
love. 

Now  looking  on  the  left  the  hero  spied 
A  lofty  tower,  and  strong  on  ev'ry  side 
With  treble  walls,  which  Phlegethon  surrounds, 
Whose  fiery  flood  the  burning  empire  bounds: 
'And,  press'd   betwixt  the  rocks,  the   bellowing 

noise  resounds. 

Wide  is  the  fronting  gate,  and  rais'd  on  high 
With  adamantine  columns,  threats  the  sky. 
Vain  is  the  force  of  man,  and  heaven's  as  vain. 
To  crush  the  pillars  which  the  pile  sustain. 
Sublime  on  these,  a  tower  of  steel  is  rear'd  ; 
And  dire  Tisiphone  there  keeps  the  ward, 
Girt  in  her  sanguine  gown,  by  night  and  day, 
Observant  of  the  souls  that  pass  the  downward 

way. 
From  hence  are  heard  the  groans  of  ghosts,  th  3 

pains 
Of  sounding  lashes  and. of  dragging  chains. 


VIRGIL. 


451 


The  Trojan  stood  astonish'd  at  their  cries, 

And  ask'd    his  guide,  from  whence  those  yells 

arise ; 

And  what  the  crimes,  and  what  the  tortures  were, 
And  loud  laments  that  rent  the  liquid  air. 
She  thus  replied  :  "  The  chaste  and  holy  race 
Are  all  forbidden  this  polluted  place. 
But  Hecat,  when  she  gave  to  rule  the  woods, 
Then  led  me  trembling  through  these  dire  abodes, 
And  taught  the  tortures  of  th'  avenging  gods. 
These  are  the  realms  of  unrelenting  Fate; 
And  awful  Rhadamanthus  rules  the  state. 
He  hears  and  judges  each  committed  crime  ; 
Inquires  into  the  manner,  place,  and  time. 
The  conscious  wretch  must  all  his  acts  reveal, 
(Loth  to  confess,  unable  to  conceal) 
From  the  first  moment  of  his  vital  breath, 
To  his  last  hour  of  unrepenting  death. 
Straight  o'er  the  guilty  ghost,  the  Fury  shakes 
The  sounding  whip,  and  brandishes  her  snakes, 
And  the  pale  sinner,  with  her  sisters,  takes. 
Then  of  itself,  unfolds  the  eternal  door  : 
With  dreadful  sounds,  the  brazen  hinges  roar. 
You  see,  before  the  gate,  what  stalking  ghost 
Commands  the  guard,  what  sentries  keep  the  post. 
More  formidable  Hydra  stands  within, 
Whose  jaws  with  iron  teeth  severely  grin. 
The  gaping  gulf  low  to  the  centre  lies, 
And  twice  as  deep  as  earth  is  distant  from  the 

skies. 

The  rivals  of  the  gods,  the  Titan  race, 
Here,  sing'd  with   lightning,  roll  within  th'  un- 

fathom'd  space. 

Here  lie  th'  Aloean  twins,  (I  saw  them  both) 
Enormous  bodies  of  gigantic  growth, 
Who  dar'd  in  fight  the  Thund'rer  to  defy, 
Affect  his  heaven,  and  force  him  from  the  sky. 
Salmoneus,  suffering  cruel  pains,  I  found, 
For  emulating  Jove ;  the  rattling  sound 
Of  mimic  thunder,  and  the  glitt'ring  bla/e 
Of  pointed  lightnings,  and  their  forky  rays. 
Through  Elis,  and  the  Grecian  towns  he  flew: 
The  audacious  wretch  four  fiery  coursers  drew : 
He  wav'd  a  torch  aloft,  and,  madly  vain, 
Sought  godlike  worship  from  a  servile  train. 
Ambitious  fool !  with  horny  hoofs  to  pass 
O'er  hollow  arches  of  resounding  brass, 
To  rival  thunder  in  its  rapid  course, 
And  imitate  inimitable  force! 
15ut  he.  the  kinu  of  heaven,  obscure  on  high, 
Bar'd  his  red  arm,  and  launching  from  the  sky 
His  writhen  bolt,  not  shaking  empty  smoke, 
Down  to  the  deep  abyss  the  flaming  felon  struck. 
Here  Titvus  \v:is  to  see,  who  took  his  birth 
From  heaven,  his  nursing  from  the  foodful  earth. 
H.-re  his  gigantic  limbs,  with  large  embrace, 
Infold  nine  acres  of  infernal  s[,:. 
A  rav'nous  vulture,  in  his  opeu'd 
Her  crooked  beak  and  cruel  talons  tried  ; 
Still  for  the  trrowing  liver  digu'd  his  breast: 
The  growing  liver  still  supplied  the  feast; 
Still  are  his  entrails  fruitful  to  their  pains: 
Th'  immortal  hunger  lasts,  th'  immortal  food  re- 
mains. 

Ixion  and  Pirithoiis  I  could  name, 
And  more  Thessalian  chiefs  of  mighty  fame. 


High  o'er  their  heads  a  mould'ring  rock  is  placed, 
That  promises  a  fall,  and  shakes  at  ev'ry  blast 
They  lie  below  on  golden  beds  displayed ; 
And  genial  feasts,  with  regal  pomp  are  made. 
The  queen  of  Furies  by  their  side  is  set, 
And  snatches  from  their  mouths  th'untasted  meat, 
Which  if  they  touch,  her  hissing  snakes  she  rears, 
Tossing  her  torch  and  thund'ring  in  their  ears. — 
Then  they,  who  brothers'  better  claim  disown, 
Expel  their  parents,  and  usurp  the  throne ; 
Defraud  their  clients,  and,  to  lucre  sold, 
Sit  brooding  on  unprofitable  gold — 
Who  dare  not  give,  and  e'en  refuse  to  lend, 
To  their  poor  kindred,  or  a  wanting  friend- 
Vast  is  the  throng  of  these  ;  nor  less  the  train 
Of  lustful  youths,  for  foul  adult'ry  slain — 
Hosts  of  deserters,  who  their  honour  sold, 
And  basely  broke  their  faith  for  bribes  of  gold. 
All  these  within  the  dungeon's  depth  remain, 
Despairing  pardon,  and  expecting  pain. 
Ask  not  what  pains ;  nor  further  seek  to  know 
Their  process,  or  the  forms  of  law  below  : 
Some  roll  a  mighty  stone;  some,  laid  along, 
And   bound  with    burning  wires,  on  spokes  of 

wheels  are  hung, 

Unhappy  Theseus,  doom'd  for  ever  there, 
Is  fix'd  by  Fate  on  his  eternal  chair : 
And  wretched  Phlegyas  warns  the  world  with 

cries, 
(Could  warning  make  the  world  more  just  or 

wise) 
'  Learn   righteousness,  and   dread  th'  avenging 

deities.' 

To  tyrants,  others  have  their  countries  sold, 
Imposing  foreign  lords,  for  foreign  gold : 
Some  have  old  laws  repeal'd,  new  statutes  made, 
Not  as  the  people  pleas'd,  but  as  they  paid. 
With  incest  some  their  daughter's  bed  profan'd. 
All  dar'd  the  worst  of  ills,  and,  what  they  dar'd, 

attain'd. 

Had  I  a  hundred  mouths,  a  hundred  tongues, 
And  throats  of  brass,  inspir'd  with  iron  lungs, 
I  could  not  half  those  horrid  crimes  repeat, 
Nor  half  the  punishment  those  crimes  have  met. 
But  let  us  haste,  our  voyage  to  pursue  •. 
The  walls  of  Pluto's  palace  are  in  view, 
The  gate,  and  iron  arch  above : — it  stands — 
And  anvils  labour'd  by  the  Cyclops'  hands. 
Before  our  farther  way  the  Fates  allow, 
Here  must  we  fix  on  high  the  golden  bough." 
She  said :  and  through  the  gloomy  shades  they 

past, 

And  chose  the  middle  path. — Arriv'd  at  last, 
The  prince,  with  living  water,  sprinkled  o'er 
His  limbs  and  body,  then  approaeh'd  the  door, 

-'d  the  porch,  and  on  the  front  above 
He  fix'd  the  fatal  bough,  requir'd  by  Pluto's  love. 
These  holy  rites  perform 'd.  they  took  their  way, 
Where  long  extended  plains  of  pleasure  lay. 
The  verdant  fields  with  those  of  heaven  may  vie, 
With  ether  vested,  and  a  purple  sky — 
The  blissful  seats  of  happy  souls  below : 
Stars  of  their  own,  arid  their  own  suns,  they 

know. 

Their  airy  limbs  in  sports  they  exercise, 
And,  on  the  green,  contend  th'  wrestler's  prize. 


452 


VIRGIL. 


Some,  in  heroic  verse,  divinely  sing : 

Others  in  artful  measures  lead  the  ring. 

The  Thracian  bard,  surrounded  by  the  rest, 

There  stands  conspicuous  in  his  flowing  vest. 

His  flying  fingers,  and  harmonious  quill, 

Strike  seven   distinguish'd   notes,  and   seven  at 

once  they  fill. 

Here  found  they  Teucer's  old  heroic  race, 
Born,  better  times,  and  happier  years  to  grace, 
Assaracus  and  Illus  here  enjoy 
Perpetual  fame,  with  him  who  founded  Troy. 
The  chief  beheld  their  chariots  from  afar, 
Their  shining  arms  and  coursers  train'd  to  w-ar. 
Their  lances  fix'd  in  earth — their  steeds  around, 
Free  from  their  harness,  graze  the  flowery  ground. 
The  love  of  horses  which  they  had,  alive, 
And  care  of  chariots  after  death,  survive. 
Some  cheerful  souls  were  feasting  011  the  plain ; 
Some  did  the  song,  and  some  the  choir  maintain, 
Beneath  a  laurel  shade,  where  mighty  Po 
Mounts  up  to  woods  above,  and  hides  his  head 

below. 

Here  patriots  live,  who,  for  their  country's  good, 
In  fighting  fields,  were  prodigal  of  blood: 
Priests  of  unblemish'd  lives  here  make  abode, 
And  poets  worthy  their  inspiring  god  ; 
And  searching  wits,  of  more  mechanic  parts, 
Who  grac'd  their  age  with  new-invented  arts; 
Those  who  to  worth,  their  bounty  did  extend, 
And  those  who  knew  that  bounty  to  commend. 
The  heads  of  these,  with  holy  fillets  bound, 
And  all  their  temples  were  with  garlands  crown VI. 
To  these  the  Sibyl  thus  her  speech  address'd, 
And  first  to  him  surrounded  by  the  rest — 
(Tow'ring  his  height,  and  ample  was  his  breast.) 
"  Say,  happy  souls !  divine  Musseus  !  say, 
Where  lives  Anchises,  and  where  lies  our  way 
To  find  the  hero,  for  whose  only  sake 
We  sought  the  dark  abodes,  and  cross'd  the  bitter 

lake." 

To  this  the  sacred  poet  thus  replied : 
"In  no  fix'd  place  the  happy  souls  reside, 
In  groves  we  live,  and  lie  on  mossy  beds, 
By  crystal    streams,  that   murmur    through  the 

meads : 

But  pass  yon  easy  hill,  and  thence  descend  ; 
The  -path  conducts  you  to  your  journey's  end.'' 
This  said,  he  led  them  up  the  mountain's  brow, 
And  shows  them  all  the  shining  fields  below. 
They  wind  the    hill,  and    through  the   blissful 

meadows  go. 

But  old  Anchises,  in  a  flow'ry  vale, 
Review'd  his  muster'd  race,  and  took  the  tale — 
Those  happy  spirits,  which,  ordain'd  by  Fate, 
For  future  being  and  new  bodies  wait — 
With  studious    thought,  observ'd   th'  illustrious 

throng 

In  Nature's  order,  as  they  pass'd  along — 
Their  names,  their  fates,  their  conduct,  and  their 

care, 

In  peaceful  senates,  and  successful  war. 
He,  when  ^Eneas  on  the  plain  appears, 
Meets  him  with  open  arms,  and  falling  tears. 
,  "Welcome,"  he  said,  "the  gods' undoubted  race! 
\0  long  expected  to  my  dear  embrace ; 
X)nce  more,  'tis  giv'n  me  to  behold  your  face ! 


The  love  and  pious  duty  which  you  pay, 
Have  pass'd  the  perils  of  so  hard  a  way. 
'Tis  true,  computing  times,  I  now  believ'd 
The  happy  day  approach'd ;  nor  are  my  hopes 

deceived. 
What  length   of  lands,  what  oceans  have  you 

pass'd, 
What  storms  sustain'd,  and  on  what  shores  been 

cast! 

How  have  I  fear'd  your  fate,  but  fear'd  it  most, 
When  Love  assail'd  you  on  the  Libyan  coast." 
To  this,  the  filial  duty  thus  replies : 
"  Your  sacred  ghost,  before  my  sleeping  eyes, 
Appear'd,   and   often   urg'd   this    painful   enter- 
prise. 

After  long  tossing  on  the  Tyrrhene  sea, 
My  navy  rides  at  anchor  in  the  bay. 
But  reach  your  hand,  oh  parent  shade !  nor  shun 
The  dear  embraces  of  your  longing  son  !'* 
He  said  ;  and  falling  tears  his  face  bedew: 
Then  thrice,  around  his  neck,  his  arms  he  threw  ; 
And  thrice  the  flitting  shadow  slipp'd  away, 
Like  winds,  or  empty  dreams  that  fly  the  day. 
Now,  in  a  secret  vale,  the  Trojan  sees 
A  sep'rate  grove  through  which  a  gentle  breeze 
Plays    with    a   passing    breath,    and    whispers 

through  the  trees : 

And,  just  before  the  confines  of  the  wood, 
The  gliding  Lethe  leads  her  silent  flood. 
About  the  boughs  an  airy  nation  flew, 
Thick  as  the  humming  bees,  that  hunt  the  golden 

dew, 

In  summer's  heat;  on  tops  of  lilies  feed, 
And  creep  within  their  bells,  to  suck  the  balmy 

seed : 

The  winged  army  roams  the  field  around; 
The  rivers  and  the  rocks  remurmur  to  the  sound, 
^neas  wond'ring  stood,  then  ask'd  the  cause, 
Which  to  the  stream  the  crowding  people  draws. 
Then  thus  the  sire :  "  The  souls  that  throng  the 

flood 
Are  those,  to  whom  by  Fate,  are  other  bodies 

ow'd : 

In  Lethe's  lake,  they  long  oblivion  taste, 
Of  future  life  secure,  forgetful  of  the  past. 
Long  has  my  soul  desir'd  this  time  and  place, 
To  set  before  your  sight  your  glorious  race, 
That  this  presaging  joy  may  fire  your  mind, 
To  seek  the  shores  by  destiny  desiim'd." — 
"  O  father !  can  it  be,  that  souls  sublime 
Return  to  visit  our  terrestrial  clime, 
And  that  the  gerrrous  mind,  releas'd  by  death, 
Can  covet  lazy  limbs,  and  mortal  breath  ?" 
Anchises  then,  in  order,  thus  begun 
To  clear  those  wonders  to  his  godlike  son  : 
"  Know,  first,  that  heaven,  and  earth's  compacted 

frame, 

And  flowing  waters,  and  the  starry  flame, 
And  both  the  radiant  lights,  one  common  soul 
Inspires  and  feeds — and  animates  the  whole. 
This  active  mind,  infus'd  through  all  the  space. 
Unites  and  mingles  with  the  mighty  mass. 
Hence  men  and  beasts  the  breath  of  life  obtain, 
And  birds  of  air,  and  monsters  of  the  main. 
Th'  ethereal  vigour  is  in  all  the  same ; 
And  ev'ry  soul  is  fill'd  with  equal  flame — 


VIRGIL. 


453 


As  much  as  earthly  limbs  and  gross  allay 

Of  mortal  members,  subject  to  decay, 

~lunt  not  the  beams  of  heaven  ami  edge  of  day. 

this  coarse  mixture  of  terrestrial  parts, 
Desire  and  fear  by  turns  possess  their  hearts, 
And  grief,  and  joy:  nor  can  the  grov'ling  mind, 
In  the  dark  dungeon  of  the  limbs  confin'd, 

r  the  native  skies,  or  own  its  heavenly  kind: 
Nor  death  itself  can  wholly  wash  their  stains; 
But  long-contracted  filth  e'en  in  the  soul  remains. 
The  relics  of  invet'rate  vice  they  wear; 
And  spots  of  sin  obscene  in  ev'ry  face  appear. 
For  this  are  various  penances  enjoin'd ; 
And  some  are  hung  to  bleach  upon  the  wind, 
Some  plung'd  in  waters,  others  purg'd  in  fires, 
Till  all  the  dregs  are  drain'd,  and  all  the  rust 

expires. 

All  have  their  manes,  and  those  manes  bear: 
The  few,  so  cleans'd,  to  these  abodes  repair, 
And  breathe  in  ample  fields,  the  soft  Elysian  air. 
Then  are  they  happy,  when  by  length  of  time 
The  scurf  is  worn  away  of  each  committed  crime ; 
No  speck  is  left  of  their  habitual  stains; 
But  the  pure  ether  of  the  soul  remains. 
But,  when  a  thousand  rolling  years  are  past, 
(.v-o  long  their  punishments  and  penance  last) 
Whofa  droves  of  minds  are,  by  the  driving  god, 
Compell'd  to  drink  the  deep  Lethean  flood, 
In  large  forgetful  draughts,  to  steep  the  cares 
Of  their  past  labours  and  their  irksome  years, 
That,  unrememb'ring  of  its  former  pain, 
The  soul  may  surfer  mortal  flesh  again." 
Thus  having  said,  the  father-spirit  leads 
The   priestess  and  his   son  through   swarms  of 

shades, 

And  takes  a  rising  ground,  from  thence  to  see 
The  long  procession  of  his  pjogeny. 
"Survey  (pursued  the  sire)  this  airy  throng, 
As.  olier'd  to  the  view,  they  pass  along. 
These  are  th'  Italian  names,  which  Fate  will  join 
With  ours,  and  graif  upon  the  Trojan  line. 
Observe  the  youth  who  first  appears  in  sight, 
And  holds  the  nearest  station  to  the  light, 
Already  seems  to  snuff  the  vital  air, 
And  leans  ju>t  forward  on  a  shining  spear: 
Silvius  is  he,  thy  last  begotten  race, 
But  first  in  order  sent,  to  fill  thy  place — 
An  Alban  name,  but  mix'tl  with  Dardan  blood: 
Born  in  the  covert  of  a  shady  wood. 
Him  fair  Lavinia.  thy  surviving  wife. 
Shall  breed  in  proves,  to  lead  a  solitary  life. 
In  Alba  he  shall  n'x  his  royal  seat. 
And.  born  a  king,  a  race  of  kings  beget  ; — 
Then  Procn-;.  honour  of  the  Tn  jan  name, 
(•'apys.  and  Nmuitor,  of  endless  fame. 

•id  Silvius  after  these  appear- — 
Silvi  .or  thy  name  he  boars — 

For  arms  and  justice  equally  renown'd  ; 

'ho.  late  re.-tor'd,  in  Alba  shall  be  orown'd. 
<w  yreat  they  look!  how  vigorously  they  wield 

icir  weighty  lances,  and  sustain  the  shield! 

it  they,  who  crown  d  with  oaken  wreaths  ap- 
pear. 

Kill  Gabian  walls  and  strong  Fidnrne  rear; 
Nomentum,  Bola,  with  I'ometia,  found; 
And  raise  Collatian  towers  on  rocky  ground. 


And  these  shall  then  be  towns  of  mighty  fame, 
Though  now  they  lie  obscure,  and  lands  without 

a  name.    ' 

See  Romulus  the  great,  born  to  restore 
The  crown  that  once  his  injur'd  grandsire  wore. 
This  prince  a  priestess  of  our  blood  shall  bear; 
And  like  his  sire  in  arms  he  shall  appear. 
Two  rising  crests  his  royal  head  adorn : 
Born  from  a  god,  himself  to  godhead  born : 
His  sire  already  signs  him  for  the  skies, 
And  marks  his  seat  amid  the  deities. 
Auspicious  chief!  thy  race,  in  times  to  come, 
Shall  spread  the  conquests  of  imperial  Rome — 
Rome  whose  ascending  towers  shall  heaven  in- 
vade, 

Involving  earth  and  heaven  into  her  shade ; 
High  as  the  mother  of  the  gods  in  place, 
And  proud,  like  her,  of  an  immortal  race, 
Then,  when  in  pomp  she  makes  the  Phrygian 

round, 

With  golden  turrets  on  her  temples  crown'd : 
A  hundred  gods  her  sweeping  train  supply, 
Her  offspring  all ;  and  all  command  the  sky. 
Now  fix  your  sight,  and  stand  intent,  to  see 
Your  Roman  race,  and  Julian  progeny. 
There  mighty  Caesar  waits  his  vital  hour, 
Impatient  for  the  world,  and  grasps  his  promis'd 

power. 

But  next  behold  the  youth  of  form  divine — 
Caesar  himself,  exalted  in  his  line — 
Augustus,  promis'd  oft,  and  long  foretold, 
Sent  to  the  realm  that  Saturn  rul'd  of  old  5 
Born  to  restore  a  better  age  of  gold. 
Afric  and  India  shall  his  power  obey ; 
He  shall  extend  his  propagated  sway 
Beyond  the  solar  year,  without  the  starry  way. 
Where  Atlas  turns  the  rolling  heavens  around, 
And  his  broad   shoulders  with  their  lights  are 

crown'd. 

At  his  foreseen  approach,  already  quake 
The  Caspian  kingdoms  and  Maeotian  lake. 
Their  seers  behold  the  tempest  from  afar; 
And  threat'ning  oracles  denounce  the  war. 
Nile  hears  him  knocking  at  his  sevenfold  gates, 
And  seeks  his  hidden  spring,  and  fears  his  ne- 
phew's fates. 

Nor  Hercules  more  lands  or  labours  knew, 
Not  though  the  brazen-footed  hind  he  slew, 
Freed  Krymanthus  from  the  foaming  boar, 
And  dipp'd  his  arrows  in  Lernoean  gore. 

•ec-hus.  turning  from  his  Indian  war, 
T.y  timers  drawn  triumphant  in  his  ear. 
From  Nysa's  top  descending  on  the  plain-. 
With  curling  vines  around  his  purple  reins. 
And  doubt  we  yet  through  dangers  to  pursue 
The  paths  of  honour,  and  a  crown  in  view?— 
But  what's  the  man,  who  from  afar  appears, 
His  head  with  olive  crown'd,  his  hand  a  censer 

bea 

His  hoary  beard  and  holy  vestments  bring 
His  lost  idea  back.    I  know  the  Roman  king, 
lie  -hall  to  peaceful  Rome  new  laws  ordain, 
Call'd   from  his  mean  abode,  a  sceptre  to  sus- 
tain. 

Him  Tullus  next  in  dignity  succeeds, 
An  active  prince,  and  prone  to  martial  deeds. 


454 


VIRGIL. 


He  shall  his  troops  for  fighting  fields  prepare, 

Disus'd  to  toils  and  triumphs  of  the  war. 

By  dint  of  sword,  his  crown  he  shall  increase, 

And  scour  his  armour  from  the  rust  of  peace. 

Whom  Ancus  follows  with  a  fawning  air, 

But  vain  within,  and  proudly  popular. 

Next  view  the  Tarquin  kings,  th'  avenging  sword 

Of  Brutus,  justly  drawn,  and  Rome  restor'd. 

He  first  renews  the  rods  and  axe  severe, 

And  gives  the  consuls  royal  robes  to  wear. 

His  sons,  who  seek  the  tyrant  to  sustain, 

And  long  for  arbitrary  lords  again, 

With  ignominy  scourg'd  in  open  sight, 

He   dooms   to   death   deserv'd,  asserting  public 

right. 

Unhappy  man !  to  break  the  pious  laws 
Of  nature,  pleading  in  his  children's  cause ! 
Howe'er  the  doubtful  fact  is  understood, 
'Tis  love  of  honour,  and  his  country's  good, 
The  consul,  not  the  father,  sheds  the  blood. 
Behold  Tarquatus  the  same  track  pursue ; 
And  next  the  two  devoted  Decii  view — 
The  Drusian  line.  Camillus  loaded  home 
With  standards  well  redeem'd,  and  foreign  foes 

o'ercome. 

The  pair  you  see,  in  equal  armour  shine, 
Now,  friends  below,  in  close  embraces  join : 
But,  when  they  leave  the  shady  realms  of  night, 
And,  cloth'd  in  bodies,  breathe  your  upper  light, 
With  mortal  hate  each  other  shall  pursue : 
What  wars,  what  wounds,  what  slaughter,  shall 

ensue  ? 

From  Alpine  heights  the  father  first  descends ; 
His  daughter's  husband  in  the  plain  attends : 
His  daughter's  husband  arms  his  eastern  friends. 
Embrace  again  my  sons!  be  foes  no  more; 
Nor  stain  your  country  with  her  children's  gore! 
And  thou,  the  first,  lay  down  thy  lawless  claim, 
Thou,  of  my  blood,  who  bear'st  the  Julian  name ! 
Another  comes,  who  shall  in  triumph  ride, 
And  to  the  Capitol  his  chariot  guide, 
From  conquer'd  Corinth,  rich  with  Grecian  spoils. 
And  yet  another,  fam'd  for  warlike  toils, 
On  Argos  shall  impose  the  Roman  laws, 
And  on  the  Greeks,  revenge  the  Trojan  cause ; 
Shall  drag  in  chains  their  Achillean  race; 
Shall  vindicate  his  ancestors'  disgrace, 
And  Pallas,  for  her  violated  place. 
Great  Cato  there,  for  gravity  renown'd, 
And  conq'ring  Cossus  goes  with  laurels  crown'd. 
Who  can  omit  the  Gracchi?  who  declare 
The  Scipio's  worth,  those  thunderbolts  of  war, 
The  double  bane  of  Carthage  ?    Who  can  see, 
Without  esteem  for  virtuous  poverty, 
Severe  Fabricius,  or  can  cease  t'  admire 
The  ploughman  consul  in  his  coarse  attire? 
Tired  as  I  am,  my  praise  the  Fabii  claim ; 
And  thou,  great  hero,  greatest  of  thy  name, 
Ordain'd  in  war  to  save  the  sinking  state, 
And,  by  delays,  to  put  a  stop  to  Fate  ! 
Let  others  better  mould  the  running  mass 
Of  metals,  and  inform  the  breathing  brass, 
And  soften  into  flesh,  a  marble  face ; 
Plead  better  at  the  bar ;  describe  the  skies, 
And  when  the  stars  descend,  and  when  they  rise. 
But  Rome !  'tis  thine  alone,  with  awful  sway, 


To  rule  mankind,  and  make  the  world  obey, 
Disposing  peace  and  war,  thy  own  majestic  way : 
To  tame  the  proud,  the  fetter'd  slave  to  free : — 
These  are  imperial  arts  and  worthy  thee." 
He  paus'd — and,  while  with  wond'ring  eyes  they 

view'd 

The  passing  spirits,  thus  his  speech  renew'd : 
"See  great  Marcellus !  how,  untir'd  in  toils, 
He  moves  with  manly  grace,  how  rich  with  regal 

spoils ! 

He,  when  his  country  (threaten'd  with  alarms) 
Requires  his  courage,  and  his  conq'ring  arms, 
Shall  more  than  once  the  Punic  arms  affright; 
Shall  kill  the  Gaulish  king  in  single  fight; 
Then  to  the  Capitol  in  triumph  move : 
And  the  third  spoils  shall  grace  Feretrian  Jove." 
./Eneas  here  beheld,  of  form  divine, 
A  godlike  youth,  in  glitt'ring  armour  shine, 
With  great  Marcellus  keeping  equal  pace : 
But  gloomy  were  his  eyes,  dejected  was  his  face. 
He  saw,  and  wond'ring,  ask'd  his  airy  guide, 
What  arid  of  whence  was  he,  who  press'd  the 

hero's  side? 

"His  son,  or  one  of  his  illustrious  name? 
How  like  the  former,  and  almost  the  same? 
Observe  the  crowds,  that  compass  him  around : 
All  gaze,  and  all  admire,  and  raise  a  shouting 

sound  : 

But  hovering  mists  around  his  brows  are  spread  ; 
And  night  with  sable  shades  involves  his  head." 
"Seek  not  to  know,  (the  ghost  replied  with  tears) 
The  sorrows  of  thy  sons  in  future  years. 
This  youth  (the  blissful  vision  of  a  day) 
Shall  just  be  shown  on  earth,  then  snatch'd  away. 
The  gods  too  high  had  rais'd  the  Roman  state, 
Were  but  their  gifts  as  permanent  as  great. 
What  groans  of  men  shall  fill  the  Martian  Field  ! 
How  fierce  a  blaze  his  flaming  pile  shall  yield! 
What  fun'ral  pomp  shall  floating  Tiber  see, 
When,  rising  from  his  bed,  he  views  the   sad 

solemnity! 

No  youth  shall  equal  hopes  of  glory  give, 
No  youth  afford  so  great  a  cause  to  grieve. 
The  Trojan  honour,  and  the  Roman  boast, 
Admir'd  when  living,  and  ador'd  when  lost! 
Mirror  of  ancient  faith  in  early  youth  ! 
Undaunted  worth,  inviolable  truth  ! 
No  foe,  unpunish'd,  in  the  fighting  field 
Shall   dare   thee,  foot  to   foot,  with  sword  and 

shield  ! 

Much  less  in  arms  oppose  thy  matchless  force, 
When   thy  sharp    spurs  shall  urge  thy  foaming 

horse. 
Ah!   couldst  thou  break  through  Fate's  severe 

decree, 

A  new  Marcellus  shall  arise  in  thee!* 
Full  canisters  of  fragrant  lilies  bring, 
Mix'd  with  the  purple  roses  of  the  spring: 
Let  me  with  fun'ral  flowers  his  body  strow, 
This  gift,  which  parents  to  theirchildren  owe, 
This  unavailing  gift,  at  least  I  may  bestow!" 
Thus  having  said,  he  led  the  hero  round 
The  confines  of  the  blest  Elysian  ground; 


+  Every  one  knows  how  liberally  this  affecting  tribute 
to  the  virtues  of  the  young  Marcellus  was  rewarded  by 
his  mother  Octavia. 


VIRGIL. 


455 


Which  when  Anchises  to  his  son  had  shown, 
And  fir'd  his  mind  to  mount  the  promis'd  throne, 
is  the  future  wars,  ordaiu'd  by  Fate; 

•ngth  and  customs  of  the  Latian  state; 
Tin-  prince,  and  people;  and  forearms  his  care 
With  rules,  to  push  his  fortune,  or  to  bear. 

Two  gates  the  silent  house  of  Sleep  adorn; 
Of  polish'd  iv'ry  this,  that  of  transparent  horn  : 
True  visions  through  transparent  horn  arise, 
Through  polish'd  iv'ry  pass  deluding  lies. 
Of  various  things  discoursing  as  he  pass'd, 
Anchises  hither  bends  his  steps  at  last. 
Then,  through  the  gate  of  iv'ry  he  dismissed 
His  valiant  offspring,  and  divining  gn. 
Straight  to  the  ships  /Eneas  took  his  way, 
Embark  d  his  men,  and  skimm'd  along  the  sea, 
Still  coasting,  till  he  gain'd  Caieta's  bay. 
At  length  on  oo/y  ground  his  galleys  moor: 
Their  heads,  are  turn'd  to  sea,  their  sterns  to  shore. 


Book  VII. 

Juvo,  favouring  Turnus,  sends  Alectoto  stir  up 
a  quarrel,  and  to  break  the  treaty  which  had  been 
made,  between  the  Trojans  and  Latians. 

WHILE  Turnus  urges  thus  his  enterprise, 
The  Stygian  Fury  to  the  Trojans  iiie<  : 
New  frauds  invents,  and  takes  a  sleepy  stand, 
Which  overlooks  the  vale  with  wide  command; 
Where  fair  Ascanius  and  his  youthful  train, 
With  horns  and  hounds,  a  hunting  match  ordain, 
And  pitch  their  toils  around  the  shady  plain. 
The  Fury  fires  the  pack  :  they  snuff,  they  vent, 
And  feed  their  hungry  nostrils  with  the  scent. 
"J'was  of  a  well-grown  stag,  whose  antlers  rise 
High  o'er  his  front,  his  beams  invade  the  skies. 
From  this  light  cause,  th"  infernal  maid  prepares 
The  country  churls  to  mischief,  hat.-,  and  wars. 

The  lately  beast  the  two  Tyrrlmhe  bred, 
Snatch'd  from  his  dam.  and  the  tame  youngling 

fed. 

Their  father  Tyrrhous  did  his  fodder  bring, 
Tyrrhene  chief  ranger  to  the  Latian  king. 
Their  si.-ter  Silvia  cheri.-h'd  with  her  care 
The  little  wanton,  and  did  wreaths  prepare 
To  hang  his  budding  horn-:  with  ribands  tied 
His  tender  neck,  and  eomb'd  his  silken  hide. 
And  bath'd  his  body.      1'aticnt  of  command 
In  time  lie  grew,  and  growing,  n-'d  to  hand, 
He  waited  at  his  ma-ter's  hoard  for  \'< 
Then  sought  his  savage  kindred  in  the  wood, 
Where  trra/.ing;  all  the  day.  at  night  he  came 
To  his  known  Induing*,  and  his  country  dame. 
This   household    beast,  that   us'd    the    woodland 

grounds, 

Was  view'd  at  lirst  by  the  youn  unds. 

As  down  the  stream  he  swam,  to  s«-,-k  retreat 

In  the  cool  waters,  and  to  quench  his  heat. 

Ascanius.  yomiLr.  and  eager  of  hi<  game, 

Soon  bent  his  how,  uncertain  in  hi.-  aim: 

Hut  the  dire  li.-nd  the  fatal  arrow  gin 

Which  pierc'd    his  bowels  through   his  panting 

The  bleeding  creature  issues  from  the  floods, 

M'd  with  fear,  and  seeks  his  known  abodes, 
His  old  familiar  hearth,  and  household  gods. 


He  falls;  he  fills  the  house  with  heavy  groans, 
Implores  their  pity,  and  bis  pain  bemoans. 
Young  Silvia  beats  her  breast,  and  cries  aloud 
For  succour  from  the  clownish  neighbourhood : 
The  churls  assemble ;  for  the  fiend  who  lay 
[n  the  close  woody  covert,  urg'd  their  way. 
One  with  a  brand  yet  burning  from  the  flame, 
Arm'd  with  a  knotty  club  another  came; 
Whate'er  they  catch  or  find,  without  their  care, 
Their  fury  makes  an  instrument  of  war. 
Tyrrheus,  the  foster-father  of  the  beast, 
Then  clench'd  a  hatchet  in  his  horny  fist, 
But  held  his  hand  from  the  descending  stroke, 
And  left  his  wedge  within  the  cloven  oak, 
To  whet  their  courage,  and  their  rage  invoke. 
And  now  the  Goddess,  exercis'd  in  ill, 
Who  watch'd  an  hour  to  work  her  impious  will, 
Ascends  the  roof,  and  to  her  crooked  horn, 
Such  as  was  then  by  Latian  shepherds  borne, 
Adds    all    her    breath.     The   rocks  and  woods 

around, 

And  mountains  tremble  at  tlr  infernal  sound. 
The  sacred  lake  of  Trivia  from  afar, 
The  Veline  fountains,  and  sulphureous  Nar, 
Shake  at   the    baleful  blast,  the   signal  of  the 

war. 

Young  mothers  wildly  stare,  with  fear  possess'd, 
And  strain  their  helpless  infants  to  their  breast. 

CAMILLA  COMES  TO  THE  AID   OF  TTJHNUS. 

LAST  from  the  Volscians  fair  Camilla  came, 
And  led  her  warlike  troops,  a  warrior  dame : 
Unbred  to  spinning,  in  the  loom  unskill'd, 
She  chose  the  nobler  Pallas  of  the  field. 
Mix'd  with  the  first,  the  fierce  Virago  fought, 
Sustain'd  the  toils  of  arms,  the  dangers  sought; 
Outstripp'd  the  winds  in  speed  upon  the  plain, 
Flew  o'er  the  field,  nor  hurt  the  bearded  grain : 
She  swept  the  seas,  and,  as  she  skimm'd  along, 
Her  flying  feet,  unbath'd,  on  billows  hung. 
Men,  boys,  and  women,  stupid  with  surprise, 
Where'er  she  passes  fix  their  wond'rin^ 
Longing  they  look,  and  gaping  at  the  sight, 
Devour  her  o'er  and  o'er  with  vast  delight; 
Her  purple  habit  sits  with  such  a  grace 
On  her  smooth  shoulders,  and  so  suits  her  face; 
Her  head  with  ringlets  of  her  hair  is  crown'd ; 
And  in  a  golden  caul  the  curls  are  bound. 
She  shakes  her  myrtle  jav'liu  :  and.  behind, 
Her  Lycian  quiver  dances  in  the  wind. 

Soon  as  the  prince  appears  without  the  gate, 
The  Volscians,  and  their  virgin  leader,  wait 
Hi-    last    commands.      Then,    with    a    graceful 

mien, 

Lights  from  her  lofty  steed  the  warrior  queen: 
Her  squadron  imitates,  and  each  descends; 
Whose  common  >uit  Camilla  thus  commends: 

use  of  honour,  if  a  soul  secure 
Of  inborn  worth  that  can  all  te-ts  endure, 
Can  promise  aught,  or  on  itself  rely, 
Greatly  to  dare,  to  conquer,  or  to  die ; 
Then.  I  alone,  <u-tain'd  by  these,  will  meet 
The  Tyrrhene  troop?,  and  promise  their  defeat. 
Ours  be  the  danger,  ours  the  sole  renown: 
j  You,  geti'ral,  stay  behind,  and  guard  the  town." 


456 


VIRGIL. 


Book  VIII. 

THE   SHIELD   OF  7ENEAS. 

MOST  he  admires  the  shield's  mysterious  mould, 
And  Roman  triumphs  rising  on  the  gold  : 
For  there,   emboss'd,   the   heavenly   smith   had 

wrought 

(Not  in  the  rolls  of  future  fate  untaught) 
The  wars  in  order,  and  the  race  divine 
Of  warriors  issuing  from  the  Julian  line. 
The  cave  of  Mars  was  dress'd  with  mossy  greens: 
There,  by  the  wolf,  were  laid  the  martial  twins. 
Intrepid  on  her  swelling  dugs  they  hung: 
The  foster  dam  loll'd  out  her  fawning  tongue : 
They  suck'd   secure,   while    bending  back   her 

head, 
She  lick'd  their  tender  limbs,  and  form'd  them  as 

they  fed. 
Not  far  from  thence,  new  Rome  appears,  with 

games 

Projected  for  the  rape  of  Sabine  dames. 
The  pit  resounds  with  shrieks :  a  war  succeeds, 
For   breach   of  public  faith,  and   unexampled 

deeds, 

Here  for  revenge  the  Sabine  troops  contend : 
The  Romans  there  with  arms  their  prey  defend. 
Wearied  with  tedious  war,  at  length  they  cease; 
And  both  the   kings  and   kingdoms  plight  the 

peace. 

The  friendly  chiefs  before  Jove's  altar  stand, 
Both  arm'd,  with  each  a  charger  in  his  hand : 
A  fatted  sow  for  sacrifice  is  led, 
With  imprecations  on  the  perjur'd  head. 
Near  this,  the  traitor  Metius,  stretch'd  between 
Four  fiery  steeds,  is  dragg'd  along  the  green, 
By  Tullus'  doom:  the  brambles  drink  his  blood; 
And  his  torn  limbs  are  left,  the  vulture's  food. 
There,  Porsena  to  Rome  proud  Tarquin  brings, 
And  would  by  force  restore  the  banish'd  kings. 
One  tyrant  for  his  fellow-tyrant  fights : 
The  Roman  youth  assert  their  native  rights. 
Before  the  town  the  Tuscan  army  lies, 
To  win  by  famine,  or  by  fraud  surprise. 
Their  king,  half  threatening,  half  disdaining  stood, 
While  Codes  broke  the  bridge  and  stemm'd  the 

flood, 

The  captive  maids  there  tempt  the  raging  tide, 
Scap'd  from  their  chains,  with  Closlia  for  their 

guide. 

High  on  a  rock  heroic  Manlius  stood, 
To  guard  the  temple  and  the  temple's  god. 
Then  Rome  was  poor ;  and  there  you  might  be- 
hold 
The  palace,  thatch'd  with  straw,  now  roof 'd  with 

gold; 

The  silver  goose  before  the  shining  gate 
There  flew,  and  by  her  cackle,  sav;d  the  state, 
She  told  the  Gauls'  approach :  th'  approaching 

Gauls, 

Obscure  in  night,  ascend,  and  seize  the  walls. 
The  gold  dissembled  well  their  yellow  hair; 
And  golden  chains  on  their  white  necks  they 

wear : 
Gold  are  their  vests :  long  Alpine  spears  they 

wield 
And  their  left  arm  sustains  a  length  of  shield. 


Hard  by,  the  leaping  Salian  priests  advance : 
And  naked  through  the  streets  the  mad  Luperci 

dance 

In  caps  of  wool ;  the  targets  dropt  from  heaven. 
Here  modest  matrons,  in  soft  litters  driv'n, 
To  pay  their  vows  in  solemn  pomp  appear : 
And  od'rous  gums  in  their  chaste  hands  they  bear. 
Far  hence  remov'd,  the  Stygian  seats  are  seen  ; 
Pains  of  the  damn'd;  and  punish'd  Catiline, 
Hung  on  a  rock — the  traitor ;  and  around, 
The  Furies  hissing  from  the  nether  ground. 
Apart  from  these,  the  happy  souls  he  draws, 
And  Cato's  holy  ghost  dispensing  laws. 
Betwixt  the  quarters  flow  a  golden  sea: 
But  foaming  surges  there  in  silver  play. 
The  dancing  dolphins  with  their  tails  divide 
The  glitt'ring  waves,  and  cut  the  precious  tide 
Amid  the  main,  two  mighty  fleets  engage — 
Their  brazen  beaks  oppos'd  with  equal  rage. 
Actium  surveys  the  well-disputed  prize  : 
Leucate's  wat'ry  plain  with  foaming  billows  fries. 
Young  Caesar,  on  the  stern,  in  armour  bright, 
Here  leads  the  Romans  and  their  gods  to  fight : 
His  beamy  temples  shoot  their  flames  afar; 
And  o'er  his  head  is  hung  the  Julian  star. 
Agrippa  seconds  him,  with  prosp'rous  gales, 
And,  with  propitious  gods,  his  foes  assails. 
A  naval  crown,  that  binds  his  manly  brows, 
The  happy  fortune  of  the  fight  foreshows. 

Rang'd  on  the  line  oppos'd,  Antonius  brings 
Barbarian  aids,  and  troops  of  eastern  kings, 
Th'  Arabians  near,  and  Bactrians  from  afar, 
Of  tongues  discordant,  and  a  mingled  war; 
And,  rich  in  gaudy  robes,  amidst  the  strife, 
His  ill  fate  follows  him — th'  Egyptian  wife. 
Moving  they  fight:  with  oars  and  forky  prows 
The  froth  is  gather'd,  and  the  water  glows. 
It  seems,  as  if  the  Cyclades  again 
Were  rooted  up,  and  justled  in  the  main ; 
Or  floating  mountains  floating  mountains  meet ; 
Such  is  the  fierce  encounter  of  the  fleet. 
Fire-balls  are  thrown,  and  pointed  javelins  fly 
The  fields  of  Neptune  take  a  purple  dye. 
The  queen  herself,  amidst  the  loud  alarms, 
With  cymbals  toss'd,  her  fainting  soldiers  warms — 
Fool  as  she  was!  who  had  not  yet  divin'd 
Her  cruel  fate;  nor  saw  the  snakes  behind. 
Her  country  gods,  the  monsters  of  the  sky, 
Great  Neptune,  Pallas,  and  Love's  queen,  defy. 
The  dog  Anubis  barks,  but  barks  in  vain, 
Nor  longer  dares  oppose  th'  ethereal  train. 
Mars  in  the  middle  of  the  shining  shield, 
Is  grav'd,  and  strides  along  the  liquid  field. 
The  Dirre  souse  from  heaven  with  swift  descent: 
And  Discord,  dy'd  in  blood,  with  garments  rent, 
Divides  the  crowd :  her  steps  Bellona  treads, 
And  shakes  her  iron  rod  above  their  heads, 
This  seen,  Apollo,  from  his  Actian  height, 
Pours  down  his  arrows ;  at  whose  winged  flight 
The  trembling  Indians  and  Egyptians  yield, 
And  soft  Sabseans  quit  the  wat'ry  field. 
The  fatal  mistress  hoists  her  silken  sails, 
And  shrinking  from  the  fight,  invokes  the  gales. 
Aghast  she    looks,   and    heaves  her  breast  foi 

breath, 
Panting,  and  pale  with  fear  of  future  death. 


VIRGIL. 


407 


The  god  had  figur'd  her,  as  driven  along 

By  winds  and  waves,  and  scudding  through  the 

throng. 

Just  opposite,  sad  Nilus  opens  wide, 
His  arms  and  ample  bosom  to  the  tide, 
And  spreads  his  mantle  o'er  the  winding  coast, 
In  which   he  wraps  his  queen,  and  hides  the 

flying  host. 

The  victor  to  the  gods,  his  thanks  express'd, 
And  Rome  triumphant  with  his  presence  bless'd. 
Three  hundred  temples  in  th3  town  he  plac'd ; 
With  spoils  and  altars  every  temple  grac'd. 
Three  shining  nights,  and  three  succeeding  days, 
The  fields  resound  with  shouts,  the  streets  with 

praise, 

The  domes  with  songs,  the  theatres  with  plays. 
All  altars  flame:  before  each  altar  lies, 
Drench'd  in  his  gore,  the  destin'd  sacrifice. 
Great  Caesar  sits  sublime  upon  his  throne, 
Before  Apollo's  porch  of  Parian  stone  ; 
Accepts  the  presents  vow'd  for  victory, 
And  hangs  the  monumental  crowns  on  high. 
Vast  crowds  of  vanquished  nations  march  along, 
Various  in  arms,  in  habit,  and  in  tongue. 
Here,  Mulciber  assigns  the  proper  place 
For  Carians,  and  th'  ungirt  Numidian  race ; 
Then  ranks  the  Thracians  in  the  second  row, 
With  Scythians,  expert  in  dart  and  bow. 
And  here  the  tam'd  Euphrates  humbly  glides ; 
And  there  the  Rhine  submits  his  swelling  tides, 
And  proud  Araxes,  whom  no  bridge  could  bind, 
The  Dane's  in iconquer'd  offspring  march  behind; 
And  Morini,  the  last  of  human  kind. 
These  figures  on  the  shield  divinely  wrought, 
By  Vulcan  labour'd,  and  by  Venus  brought, 
With  joy  and  wonder  fill  the  hero's- thought. 
Unknown  the  names,  he  yet  admires  the  grace, 
And  bears  aloft  the  fame  and  fortune  of  his  race. 


Book  IX. 

NISUS  AXD   EURYALUS. 

NIGH  where  the  foes  their  utmost  guards  ad- 
vance. 

To  watch  the  -rate,  was  warlike  Nisus'  chance. 
His  father  Hyrtacus  of  noble  blood  ; 
His  mother  was  a  huntress  of  the  wood, 
And  sent  him  to  the  wars.     Well  could  he  bear 
His  lance  in  fisrht,  and  dart  the  Hying  spear, 
But  better  skill'd  unerring  shafts  t<>  send, 
Beside  him  stood  Euryalns,  his  friend — 
Euryalus,  than  whom  the  Trojan  host 
No  fairer  face,  or  sweeter  air.  could  1> 
Scarce  had  the  down  to  shade  his  cheeks  beirun. 
One  was  their  care,  and  their  delight  was  one. 
One  common  hazard  in  the  war  they  sliar'd; 
And  now  were  both  by  choice  upon  the  iriianl. 

Then  Nisus  thus:  "Or  do  the  gods  inspire 
This  warmth,  or  mak  <  'four  desire? 

A  gen'rous  ardour  boils  within  my  breast, 

i  of  action,  enemy  to  rest: 
This  urges  me  to  light,  and  fires  my  mind, 
To  leave  a  memorable  name  behind. 
Thou  seest  the  foe  secure;  how  faintly  shine 
Their  scatter'd  fires !  the  most,  in  sleep  supine, 
tt 


Along  the  ground,  an  easy  conquest  lie. 
The  wakeful  few  the  fuming  flaggon  ply: 
All  hush'd  around.     Now  hear  what  I  revolve — 
A  thought  unripe — and  scarcely  yet  resolve. 
Our  absent  prince  both  camp  and  council  mourn ; 
By  message  both  would  hatsen  his  return: 
If  they  confer  what  I  demand,  on  thee, 
(For  fame  is  recompense  enough  for  me) 
Methinks,  beneath  yon  hill,  I  have  espied 
A  way  that  safely  will  my  passage  guide." 
Euryalus  stood  listening  while  he  spoke ; 
With  love  of  praise,  and  noble  envy  struck; 
Then  to  his  ardent  friend  expos'd  his  mind: 
"All  this  alone,  and  leaving  me  behind! 
Am  I  unworthy,  Nisus,  to  be  join'd  ? 
Think'st  thou  I  can  my  share  of  glory  yield, 
Or  send  thee  unassisted  to  the  field  ? 
Not  so  my  father  taught  my  childhood  arms — 
Born  in  a  siege,  and  bred  among  alarms, 
The  thing  call'd  life,  with  ease  I  can  disclaim, 
And  think  it  over-sold  to  purchase  fame." 

Then  Nisus  thus  :  "  Alas  !  thy  tender  years 
Would  minister  new  matters  to  my  fears, 
So  may  the  gods,  who  view  this  friendly  strife, 
Restore  me  to  thy  lov'd  embrace  with  life. 
Condemn'd  to  pay  my  vows  (as  sure  I  trust) 
This  thy  request  is  cruel  and  unjust. 
But  if  some  chance — as  many  chances  are, 
And  doubtful  hazards,  in  the  deeds  of  war — 
If  one  should  reach  my  head,  there  let  it  fall, 
And  spare  thy  life:  I  would  not  perish  all. 
Thy  blooming  youth  deserves  a  longer  date  : 
Live  thou  to  mourn  thy  friend's  unhappy  fate, 
To  bear  my  mangled  body  from  the  foe, 
Or  buy  it  back,  and  fun'ral  rites  bestow. 
Or  if  hard  fortune  shall  those  dues  deny, 
Thou  canst  at  least  an  empty  tomb  supply. 
O!  le^not  me  the  widow's  tears  renew  ; 
Nor  let  a  mother's  curse  my  name  pursue — 
Thy  pious  parent,  who.  for  love  of  thee, 
Forsook  the  coasts  of  friendly  Sicily, 
Her  age  committing  to  the  seas  and  wind, 
When  ev'ry  weary  matron  staid  behind." 
To  this,  Euryalus:  "You  plead  in  vain, 
And  but  protract  the  cause  you  cannot  gain. 
No  more  delays !    but   haste !"     With    that   he 

wakes 

The  nodding  watch:  each  to  his  office  takes. 
The  guard  reliev'd,  the  gen'rous  couple  went 
To  find  the  council  at  the  royal  tent. 
All  creatures  else  forgot  their  daily  care, 
And  -lee]>.  the  common  gift  of  nature,  share; 
Except  the  Trojan  peers,  who  wakeful  sate 
In  nightly  counsel  for  the  endanger'd  state. 
They  vote  a  message  to  their  absent  chief, 
Show  their  distress,  and  beg  a  swift  relief. 
Amid  the  camp  a  silent  seat  they  chose, 
Remote  from  clamour,  and  secure  from  foes. 
On   their    left    arms   their  ample    shields    they 

bear, 

Their  right  inclin'd  upon  the  bending  spear. 
Now  Nisus  and  his  friend  approach  the  guard, 
And  beg  admis.-ion,  eager  to  be  heard — 
Th'  affair  important,  not  to  be  deferr'd. 
Ascanius  bids  them  be  conducted  in, 
Ord'ring  the  more  experienc'd  to  begin. 
20 


458 


VIRGIL. 


Then  Nisus  thus:  "Ye  fathers,  lend  your  ears; 
Nor  judge  our  bold  attempt  beyond  our  years. 
The  foe,  securely  drenrh'd  in  sleep  and  wine, 
Neglect  their  watch  ;  the  fires  but  thinly  shine ; 
And,  where  the  smoke  in  cloudy  vapours  flies, 
Cov'ring  the  plain,  and  enrling  to  the  skies, 
Betwixt  two  paths  which  at  the  gate  divide, 
Close  by  the  sea  a  passage  we  have  spied, 
Which  will  our  way  to  great  ./Eneas  guide. 
Expect  each  hour  to  see  him  safe  again, 
Loaded  with  spoils  of  foes  in  battle  slain. 
Snau-li  we  the  lucky  minute  while  we  may: 
Nor  can  we  be  mistaken  in  the  way; 
For,  limiting  in  the  vales,  we  both  have  seen 
The  rising  turrets,  and  the  stream  between ; 
And  know  the  winding  course,  with  ev'ry  ford." 
He  ceas'd:  and  old  Alethes  took  the  word. 
"  Our  country  gods,   in  whom   our   trust  we 

place, 

Will  yet  from  ruin  save  the  Trojan  race, 
While  we  behold  such  dauntless  worth  appear 
In  dawning  youth,  and  souls  so  void  of  fear." 
Then  into  tears  of  joy  the  father  broke ; 
Each  in  his  longing  arms  by  turns  he  took ; 
Panted  arid  paus'd ;  and  thus  again  he  spoke : 
"  Ye  brave  young  men,  what  equal  gifts  can  we, 
Tn  recompense  of  such  desert,  decree  ? 
The  greatest  sure,  and  best  you  can  receive, 
The  gods  and  your  own  conscious  worth  will 

give. 

The  rest  our  grateful  gen'ral  will  bestow, 
And  young  Ascanius,  till  his  manhood,  owe." 
"  And  I,  whose  welfare  in  my  father  lies,'' 
Ascanius  adds,  "  by  the  great  deities, 
By  my  dear  country,  by  my  household  gods, 
By  hoary  Vesta's  rites  and  dark  abodes, 
Adjure  you  both — (on  you  my  fortune  stands; 
That  and  my  faith  I  plight  into  your  hands) — 
Make  me  but  happy  in  his  safe  return, 
Whose  wanted  presence  I  can  only  mourn; 
Your  common  gift  shall  two  large  goblets  be 
Of  silver,  wrought  with  curious  irnag'ry, 
And    high    emboss'd,  which    when   old    Priam 

reign'd, 

My  conqu'ring  sire  at  sack'd  Arisba  gain'd, 
And,  more,  two  tripods  cast  in  antique  mould, 
With  two  great  talents  of  the  finest  gold ; 
Beside  a  costly  bowl,  engrav'd  with  art, 
Which  Dido  gave,  when  first  she  gave  her  heart. 
But,  if  in  conquer'd  Italy  we  reign, 
When  spoils  by  lot  the  victor  shall  obtain — 
Thou  saw'st  the  courser  by  proud  Turuus  press'd, 
That,  Nisus!  and  his  arms,  and  nodding  crest, 
And  shield,  from  chance  exempt,  shall  be  thy 

share ; 
Twelve  lab'ring  slaves,  twelve  handmaids  young 

and  fair, 

All  clad  in  rich  attire,  and  train'd  with  care ; 
And,  last,  a  Latian  field  with  fruitful  plains, 
And  a  large  portion  of  the  king's  domains  : 
But  thou  whose  years  are  more  to  mine  allied, 
No  fate  rny  vow'd  affection  shall  divide 
From  thee,  heroic  youth!    Be  wholly  mine: 
Take  full  possession:  all  rny  soul  is  thine. 
One  faith,  one  fame,  and  fate,  shall  both  attend: 
My  life's  companion,  and  my  bosom  friend — 


My  peace  shall  be  committed  to  thy  care ; 
And,  to  thy  conduct,  my  concerns  in  war." 

Then  thus  the  young  Kuryalns  replied  : 
"Whatever  fortune,  good  or  bad,  betide, 
The  same  shall  be  my  age,  as  now  my  youth : 
No  time  shall  find  me  wanting  to  my  truth. 
This  only  from  your  goodness  let  me  gain — 
(And,  this  ungranted,  all  rewards  are  vain) 
Of  Priam's  royal  race  my  mother  came — 
And  sure  the  best  that  ever  bore  the  name — 
Whom  neither  Troy  nor  Sicily  could  hold 
From  me  departing,  but,  o'erspent  and  old, 
My  fate  she  follow'd.    Ignorant  of  this 
(Whatever)  danger,  neither  parting  kiss 
Nor  pious  blessing  taken,  her  I  leave, 
And  in  this  only  act  of  all  my  life  deceive. 
By  this  right  hand,  and  conscious  night  I  swear, 
My  soul  so  sad  a  farewell  could  not  bear. 
Be  you  her  comfort;  fill  my  vacant  place; 
(Permit  me  to  presume  so  great  a  grace) 
Support  her  age,  forsaken  and  distress'd. 
That  hope  alone  will  fortify  my  breast 
Against  the  worst  of  fortunes,  and  of  fears." 
He  said.    The  rnov'd  assistants  melt  in  tears. 
Then  thus  Ascanius,  wonder-struck  to  see 
That  image  of  his  filial  piety; 
"So  great  beginnings,  in  so  green  an  age, 
Exact  the  faith  which  I  again  engage. 
Thy  mother  all  the  dues  shall  justly  claim, 
Creiisa  had,  and  only  want  the  name. 
Whate'er  event  thy  bold  attempt  shall  have, 
'Tis  merit  to  have  born  a  son  so  brave. 
Now  by  my  head,  a  sacred  oath,  I  swear, 
(My  father  us'd  it)  what,  returning  here 
Crown'd  with  success,  I  for  thyself  prepare, 
That,  if  thou  fail,  shall  thy  lov'd  mother  share." 

He  said,  and  weeping  while  he  spoke  the  word, 
From  his  broad  belt  he  drew  a  shining  sword, 
Magnificent  with  gold.     Lycaon  made, 
And  in  an  iv'ry  scabbard  sheath'd  the  blade. 
This  was  his  gift.     Great  Mnestheus  gave  his 

friend 

A  lion's  hide,  his  body  to  defend  ; 
And  good  Alethes  furnish'd  him  beside, 
With  his  own  trusty  helm,  of  temper  tried. 
Thus  arm'd  they  went.    The  noble  Trojans  wait 
Their  issuing  forth,  and  follow  to  the  gate 
With  prayers  arid  vows.    Above"  the  rest  appears 
Ascanius,  manly  far  beyond  his  years, 
And  messages  committed  to  their  care, 
Which  all  in  winds  were  lost,  and  flitting  air. 

The  trenches  first  they  pass'd ;  then  took  their 

way 

Where  their  proud  foes  in  pitch'd  pavilions  lay ; 
To  many  fatal,  ere  themselves  were  slain. 
They  found  the  careless  host  dispersed  upon  the 

plain, 
Who    gorg'd    and    drunk    with    wine,    supinely 

snore. 

Unharness'd  chariots  stand  along  the  shore : 
Amidst  the  wheels  and  reins,  the  goblet  by, 
A  medley  of  debauch  and  war,  they  lie. 
Observing  Nisus  show'd  his  friend  the  sight, 
"Behold  a  conquest,  gain'd  without  a  fight. 
Occasion  offers  ;  and  I  stand  prepar'd  : 
There  lies  our  way :  be  thou  upon  the  guard, 


VIRGIL. 


459 


And  look  around,  while  I  securely  go, 

And  hew  through  the  sleeping  foe." 

•    :  then,  striding,  took  his  vvay, 
With  hi.-  drawn  sword,  where  haughty  Rhamnes 

lay; 

His  head  raiVd  high  on  tapestry  beneath, 
And    heaving    from    his    breast,    he    drew    his 

breath — 

A  king  and  prophet,  by  King  Turnus  lov'd ; 
lint   late  by  prescience  cannot  be  remov'd. 
Him  and  his  -leeping  -lave'- lie  -lew;  then  spies 
Where  Rhemus,  with  his  rich  retinue,  lies. 

nnoiir-bearer  lir-l.  and   next  IK;  kills 
H  iritrenclrd  betwixt  the  wheels 

And  his  lov'd  horses;  last  invades  their  lord: 
Full  on  his  neck  he  drive-  the  fatal  sword  : 
Tin-  L'a-ping  head   flic-  oil';  a  purple  Hood 
Flows  from  the  trunk,  that  welters  in  the  blood, 
Which,  by  the  spurning  heels  dispers'd  around, 
The  1,,-d  be-prinkles.  and  bedews  the  ground. 
Laniii-  the  bold,  and   Lamyrus  the  strong, 
ii  •.'.'.  and  then  Serranus  fair  and  young. 

From  dice  and  wine  the  youth  retir'd  to  rest, 
And  puif'd  the  fumy  god  from  out  his  breast: 
Men  then  he  dream'd  of  drink  and  lucky  play — 

ucky,  had  it  lasted  till  the  day. 
The  famish'd  lion  thus,  with  hunger  bold, 
O'erleaps  the  fences  of  the  nightly  fold, 
And  tears  the  peaceful  flocks:  with  silent  awe 
Tumbling  they  lie,  and  pant  beneath  his  paw. 

.\or  with  less  rag.-  Kuryalus  employs 
The  wrathful  sword,  or  1'ewer  foes  destroys: 
J5ut  on  ih'  ignoble  crowd  his  fury  flew: 
Hebesus,  and  Rhostus  slew. 
Oppress  (1  with  heavy  sleep  the  former  fall, 
lint  Kliu-tus  wakeful,  and  observing  all: 
Behind  a  IpapiOUfjar  he  slunk  lor  fear: 
The  fatal  iron  found  and   reach'd  him  tliere  ; 
For.  as  he  rose,  it  pierc'd  hi.-  naked  side, 
And,  reeking,  thence  retmn'd  in  crimson  dy'd. 
The   wound    pours  out  a  stream  of  wine  and 

blood. 
The  purple  soul  conies  floating  in  the  floor!. 

.  .  where  .Me-apii-   rpiarter'd,  they  arrive. 
The  HP--  were  fainting  there,  and  ju-t  alive: 
The  warrior-bone*,  ti.-d  in  order,  fed. 

oh-erv'd   the  di.-i-ip!ine.  and   -aid: 
"Our  eager  thirsl  of  blond  may  both  betray; 
And   lofl  the  scatter 'd  dawning  day, 

Foe  to  nocturnal  thefts.     No  more,  my  friend: 
Here  let  our  glutted   execution  end. 
A   lane  through  slaughter  d  bodies  we  have  made 
The  bold  Kuryalus,  though  loth  obey  d. 
Ol'arm-  and  arras,  and  of  plate  they  find 
A   precjous  |o;id  :  but  the-e  they  leave  behind. 
Yet.   fond  of  gaudy  spoil-,  the  b<  .y  \\-ou. 
To  make  the  rich  capari-on  his  | 
Which  rm  the  ste.-d  <•!'  conquer 'd    Ivhamnes  lay. 
Nor  did  hi-  eye-  !es-  longingly  behold 
The  girdle-belt,  wilh  naih  and  burni-h'd  gold. 
Thi-  pre.-ent  Crcdicii-  the  rich  be-tow'd 
On   Kcimilus,  when  friend-hip  first  they  vow'd. 
And.  absent,  join'd   in  ho-pitable 
He,  «lying,  to  hi-  heir  be'|m-ath'd  the  pri/e  ; 
Till  by  the  ennq  ring  . \rdcan  troops  nppre- 
He  fell ;  and  they  the  glorious  gift 


glittering  spoils  (now  made  the  victor's 

gam) 

He  to  his  body  suit-,  but  suit-  in  vain. 
Mesapus'  helm   he    find-  among  the  rest 
And  laces  on.  and  wears  the  waving  < 
Proud  of  their  conquest,  prouder  of  their  prey, 
They  leave  the  camp,  and  take  the  ready  way. 

But  far  they  had  not  pa.-s'd,  before  they  spied 
Three   hundred    hor.-e,   with   Volscens   for   their 

guide, 

The  queen  a  legion  to  King  Turnus  sent: 
But  the  swift  hor.-e  the  slower  foot,  prevent, 
And  now,  advancing.  Bought  the  leader'-  tent. 
They    -aw   the   pair;   forr  through   the   doubtful 

•hade, 

His  shining  helm  Euryalus  betray'd,  * 

On  which  the  moon  with  full  reflection  play'd. 
"Tis  not  for  nought,"  cried  Volscens  from  the 

crowd, 

"  These  men  go  there :"  then  rais'd  his  voice  aloud : 
"Stand!  stand!  why  thus  in  arms?  and  whither 

bent? 
From  whence,  to   whom,  and  on  what  errand 

sent?" 

Silent  they  scud  away,  and  haste  their  flight 
To  neighboring  woods,  and  trust  themselves  to 

night. 

The  speedy  horse  all  passages  belay, 
And   spur   their   smoking  steeds   to  cross   their 

way; 

And  watch  each  entrance  of  the  winding  wood, 
Black  was  the  forest:  thick  with  beech  it  stood, 
Horrid  with  fern,  and  intricate  with  thorn. 
Few  paths  of  human  feet,  or  tracks  of  beasts, 

were  worn. 

The  darkness  of  the  shades,  his  heavy  prey, 
And  fear,  mi-led  the  younger  from  his  way. 
But  Nisus  hit  the  turns  with  happier  I, 
And,  thoughtless  of  his  friend,  the  fore 
And,  Alban  plains  (from  Alba's  name  so  call  'd) 
When-  King  Latinns  then  hi-  oxen  stall'd; 
Till,  turning  at  the  length,  he  stood  hi-  ground, 
And  mi--'d  hi-  friend,  and  cast  his  eyes  around. 
'•Ah  wretch  !"  he  cried — "where  have  I  left  be- 
hind 

Th   unhappy  youth?  where  shall  I  hope  to  find? 
Or  what  way  take  ' "  Again  he  ventures  back. 
And  tread-  the  ma/.es  of  his  former  track. 
HI-  wind-  the  wood,  and,  list'ninir.  hear-  the  noise 
Of  trampling  coursers,  and  the  riders' voice. 
The  -(.mid  approach'd  ;  and  suddenly  he  v, 
The  foes  enclosing,  and  his  friend  pur-. 
Forelaid  and  taken,  while  he  -trove  in  vain 
The  shelter  of  the  friendly  shad 
What  sht.nl. I  he  next  attempt  '  what  armsemploy, 
What  fruitless  force  to  free  the  captive  boy? 
Or  de-p'rate  should  he  rush,  and  lose  his  life, 
With  odds  op], re--'. I.  iii  such  unequal  strife! 
Resolv'd  at   lenL'th.  his  pointed  spear  he  .shook; 
And  ca-ting  on  the  moon  a  mournful  look  : 
"(niardian  of  grove-,  and  godde>-  of  the  nL'ht! 
Fair  queen!"  In-  said,  '-direct  my  dart  aright. 
1 1'  e'er  my  piou-  father  f«.r  my  N 
Did  grateful  oll"rin-s  on  thy  altars  make, 
Or  I  increas'd  them   with  my  silvan  toil-. 
And  hung  thy  holy  rooi  poils, 


460 


VIRGIL. 


Give  me  to  scatter  these."    Then  from  his  ear 
He  pois'd,  and  aim'd,  and  launch'd  the  trembling 

spear. 

The  deadly  weapon,  hissing  from  the  grove, 
Impetuous  on  the  back  of  Sulmo  drove  ; 
Pierc'd  his  thin  armour,  drank  his  vital  blood, 
And  in  his  body  left  the  broken  wood. 
He  staggers  round  :  his  eyeballs  roll  in  death, 
And,  with  short  sobs,  he  gasps  away  his  breath. 
All  stand  amaz'd  : — a  second  jav'lin  flies 
With   equal    strength,  and   quivers  through  the 

skies. 

This  through  thy  temples,  Tagus,  forc'd  the  way, 
And  in  the  brain-pan  warmly  buried  lay. 
Fierce  Volscens  foams  with  rage,  and,  gazing 

round, 

Descried  not  him  who  gave  the  fatal  wound, 
Nor  knew  to  fix  revenge.    "But  thou,"  he  cries, 
"Shalt  pay  for  both,"  and  at  the  pris'ner  flies 
With  his  drawn  sword.    Then,  struck  with  deep 

despair, 

That  cruel  sight  his  comra.de  could  not  bear ; 
But  from  the  covert  rush'd  in  open  view, 
And  sent  his  voice  before  him  as  he  flew : 
"  Me !  me !"  he  cried — "  turn  all  your  swords  alone 
On  me — the  fact  confess'd,  the  fault  my  own. 
He  neither  could  nor  durst,  the  guiltless  youth — 
Ye  moon  and  stars,  bear  witness  to  the  truth ! 
His  only  crime  (if  friendship  can  offend) 
Is  too  much  love  to  his  unhappy  friend." 
Too  late  he  speaks  : — the  sword  with  fury  guides, 
Driven  with  full  force,  had  pierc'd  his  tender 

sides. 
Down   fell  the  beauteous  youth:  the  yawning 

wound 
Gush'd    out   a   purple   stream,  and   stain'd  the 

ground. 

His  snowy  neck  reclines  upon  his  breast, 
Like  a  fair  flow'r  by  the  keen  share  oppress'd — 
Like  a  white  poppy  sinking  on  the  plain, 
Whose  heavy  head  is  overcharg'd  with  rain. 
Despair  and  rage,  and  vengeance  justly  vow'd, 
Drove  Nisus  headlong  on  the  hostile  crowd. 
Volscens  he  seeks ;  on  him  alone  he  bends ; 
Borne  back  andbor'd  by  his  surrounding  friends, 
Onward  he  pressed,  and  kept  him  still  in  sight, 
Then  whirl'd  aloft  his  sword  with  all  his  might: 
Th'  unerring  steel  descended  while  he  spoke, 
Pierc'd  his  wide  mouth,  and  through  his  weasand 

broke. 

Dying  he  slew  ;  and  stagg'ring  on  the  plain, 
With  swimming  eyes  he  sought  his  comrade  slain : 
Then  quiet  on  his  bleeding  bosom  fell, 
Content,  in  death,  to  be  reveng'd  so  well. 

O  happy  friends !  for,  if  my  verse  can  give 
Immortal  life,  your  fame  shall  ever  live. 
Fix'd  as  the  capitol's  foundation  lies, 
And  spread,  where'er  the  Roman  eagle  flies. 

Boo*  X. 

DEATH  OF  PALLAS. 

YOTJJTG  Pallas,  when  he  saw  the  chief  advance 
Within  due  distance  of  his  flying  lance, 
Prepares  to  charge  him  first — resolv'd  to  try 
If  fortune  would  his  want  of  force  supply ; 


And  thus  to  heaven  and  Hercules  address'd : 
"  Alcides,  once  on  earth  Evander's  guest! 
His  son  adjures  thee,  by  those  holy  rites, 
That  hospitable  board,  those  genial  nights, 
Assist  my  great  attempt  to  gain  this  prize, 
And  let  proud  Turnus  view,  with  dying  eyes, 
His  ravish'd  spoils."     'Twas  heard,  the  vain  re- 
quest ; 
Alcides  mourn'd,   and  stiffled  sighs  within  his 

breast. 

Then  Jove,  to  soothe  his  sorrow,  thus  began : 
"  Short  bounds  of  life  are  set  to  mortal  man. 
'Tis  virtue's  work  alone  to  stretch  the  narrow 

span. 

So  many  sons  of  gods,  in  bloody  fight 
Around  the  walls  of  Troy,  have  lost  the  light: 
My  own  Sarpedon  fell  beneath  his  foe  ; 
Nor  I,  his  mighty  sire,  could  ward  the  blow. 
E'en  Turnus  shortly  shall  resign  his  breath, 
And  stands  already  on  the  verge  of  death." 
This  said,  the  god  permits  the  fatal  fight, 
But  from  the  Latian  fields  averts  his  sight. 

Now  with  full  force  his  spear  young  Pallas 

threw  ; 

And,  having  thrown,  his  shining  falchion  drew, 
The  steel  just  graz'd  along  the  shoulder-joint, 
And  mark'd  it  slightly  with  the  glancing  point. 
Fierce  Turnus  first  to  nearer  distance  drew, 
And  pois'd  his  pointed  spear,  before  he  threw : 
Then*as  the  winged  weapon  whizz'd  along, 
"  See  now,"  said  he,  "  whose  arm  is  better  strung. 
The  spear  kept  on  the  fatal  course,  unstay'd 
By  plates  of  iron,  which  o'er  the  shield  were  laid : 
Through   folded  brass,  and  tough  bull-hides,  it 

pass'd, 

His  cors-let  pierc'd,  and  reach'd  his  heart  at  last, 
In  vain  the  youth  tugs  at  the  broken  wood : 
The  soul  comes  issuing  with  the  vital  blood : 
He  falls  :  his  arms  upon  his  body  sound  : 
And  with  his  bloody  teeth  he  bites  the  ground. 
Turnus    bestrode    the    corpse :    "  Arcadians, 

hear," 

Said  he :  "  my  message  to  your  master  bear : 
Such  as  the  sire  desery'd,  the  son  I  send : 
It  cost  him  dear  to  be  the  Phrygian's  friend. 
The  lifeless  body,  tell  him,  I  bestow 
Unask'd,  to  rest  his  wand  "ring  ghost  below." 
He  said,  and  trampled  down,  with  all  the  force 
Of  his  left  foot,  and  spurn'd  the  wretched  corse; 
Then  snatch'd  the  shining  belt,  with  gold  inlaid — 
The  belt  Eury lion's  artful  hands  had  made ; 
Where  fifty  fatal  brides,  express'd  to  sight, 
All  in  the  compass  of  one  mournful  night, 
Depriv'd  their  bridegrooms  of  returning  light. 

In  an  ill  hour  insulting  Turnus  tore 
Those  golden  spoils,  and  in  a  worse  he  wore. 
0  mortals !  blind  in  fate,  who  never  know 
To  bear  high  fortune,  or  endure  the  low  ! 
The  time  shall  come,  when  Turnus,  but  in  vain, 
Shall  wish  untouch'd  the  trophies  of  the  slain — 
Shall  wish  the  fatal  belt  were  far  away, 
And  curse  the  dire  remembrance  of  the  day. 

THE   DEATH  OF  LAUSTJS. 

His  father's  peril  Lausus  view'd  with  grief: 
He  sigh'd,  he  wept,  he  ran  to  his  relief. 


VIRGIL. 


461 


And  here  heroic  youth,  'tis  here  I  must 
T  )  thy  immortal  memory  be  just. 
And  sins  an  art  so  noble  and  so  new, 
'  ity  will  scarce  believe  'tis  true. 
P;iin'd    with    the    wound,  and   useless   for  the 

flght, 

The  father  sought  to  save  himself  by  flight: 
Encumber'd.  slow  he  dragg'd  the  spear  along. 
Which  pierc'd  his  thigh,  and  in  his  buckler  hung. 
The  pious  youth,  resolv'd  on  death,  below 
The  lifted  sword,  springs  forth  to  face  the  foe; 
0  Protects  his  parent,  and  prevents  the  blow, 

ta  of  applause  ran  ringing  through  the  field, 
To  see  the  son  the  vanquish'd  father  shield. 
All  fir'd  with  gen'rous  indignation,  strive, 
And,  with  a  storm  of  darts,  to  distance  drive 
The  Trojan  chief,  who.  held  at  bay  from  far, 
On  his  Vulcanian  orb  sustain'd  the  war. 

when  thick  hail  comes  ratt'ling  in  the  wind. 
The  ploughman,  passemrer,  and  lab'ring  hind, 
For  shelter  to  the  neighb'ring  covert  fly, 
Or.  hous'd.  or  safe  in  hollow  caverns,  lie; 
Put,  that  o'erblown,  when  heaven  above  them 

smiles, 

F.eturn  to  travail,  and  renew  their  toils : 
y'Eneas,  thus  o'erwhelm'd  on  every  side, 
The  storm  of  darts,  undaunted,  did  abide; 
And  thus  to  Lausus  loud  with  friendly  threatening 

cried  : 

••  Why  wilt  thou  rush  to  certain  death,  and  rage, 
In  such  attempts,  beyond  thy  tender  age, 
I'.etray'd  by  pious  love?'' — Nor,  thus  forborn 
The  youth  desists,  but  with  insulting  scorn 
Provokes   the   ling'ring  prince,  whose  patience 

tir'd, 

Gave  place;  and  all  his  breast  with  fury  fir'd. 
For   now   the    Fates   prepar'd    their    sharpen'd 

shears : 

And  lifted  hiirh  the  flaming  sword  app 
Which,  full  de«eendinir.  with  a  frightful  sway, 
Through  shield  and  corslet  forc'd  the  impetuous 

way, 

And  buried  deep  in  his  fair  bosom  lay. 
The  purple    streams  through   the  thin   armour 

ve, 
And  drench '(1  the  embroider'd  coat  his  mother 

wove ; 

And  life  at  length  forsook  his  heaving  heart, 
Loth  from  so  sweet  a  mansion  to  depart. 

But  when,  with  blood  and   paleness  all  o'er- 

spread, 

;>iou-  prince  In-held  yomiL'  Lan~:i<  dead. 
He  griev'd.  he  wept :  (the  si'jht  nn  image  brought 
Of  his  own  filial  love — a  sadly  plea-ing  thought] 
Then   stretch 'd    his  hand  to  hold  him   up.  and 
said  : 

youth  !  what  pr  •  paid 

To  love  BO  L-n>at.  to  siK-h  tran^cendant  - 
Of  early  worth,  and  sure  pr«'-n'_re  of  more  ? 
Accept  whate'er  ^neas  can  atlord  : 
Untouch'd  thy  arm*,  untaken  b«-  thy  sword  ; 
And  all  that  pleas'd  the  living,  still  remain 

•red  to  the  r-laiu. 

Thy  body  on  thy  par  >\v, 

To  rest  tl-y  soul,  at  least,  if  shadows  know, 
Or  have  a  sense  of  human  things  below. 


Book  XL 

THE   HISTORY  AXD   DEATH   OF  CAMILLA. 

MKAXTIMK.  Latonian  Pbrebe,  from  the  skies, 
Beheld  th'  approaching  war  with  hateful  eyes, 
And  call'd  the  lisht-foot  Opis  to  her  aid, 
fter  most  belov'd  and  ever-trusty  maid  ; 
Then  with  a  si-rh  bewail :  "Camilla  goes 
To  meet  her  death  amidst  her  fatal  foes — 
The  nymph  I  lov'd  of  all  my  mortal  train 
Invested  with  Diana's  arms  in  vain. 
\Tor  is  my  kindness  for  the  virgin  new: 
Twas  born  with  her;  and  with  her  years  it  grew, 
rler  father  Metabus,  when  forc'd  away 
From  old  Privernum,  for  tyrannic  sway. 
Snatch'd  up,  and  sav'd  from  his  prevailing  foes, 
This  tender  babe,  companion  of  his  woes. 
Casmilla  was  her  mother:  but  he  drown'd, 
One  hissing  letter  in  a  softer  sound, 
And  calTd  Camilla.    Through  the  woods  he  flies; 
Wrapp'd  in  his  robe,  the  royal  infant  lies. 
His  foes  in  sight,  he  mends  his  weary  pace ; 
With  shouts  and  clamours  they  pursue  the  chase. 
The  banks  of  Amasene  at  length  he  gains : 
The  raging  flood  his  further  flight  restrains, 
Rais'd  o'er  the  borders  with  unusual  rains. 
Prepar'd  to  plunge  into  the  stream,  he  fears, 
Not  for  himself,  but  for  the  charge  he  bears. 
Anxious,  he  stops  a  while,  and  thinks  in  haste, 
Then,  desp'rate  in  distress,  resolves  at  last. 
A  knotty  lance  of  well-boil'd  oak  he  bore : 
The  middle  part  with  cork  he  cover'd  o'er : 
He  clos'd  the  child  within  the  hollow  space, 
With  twigs  of  bending  osier  bound  the  case. 
Then  pois'd  the  spear,  heavy  with  human  weight, 
And  thus  invok'd  my  favour  for  the  freight: 
'Accept,  great  goddess  of  the  woods,'  he  said, 
'  Sent  by  her  sire,  this  dedicated  maid  ! 
Through  air  she  flies,  a  suppliant  to  thy  shrine ; 
And  the  first  weapons  that  she  knows,  are  thine.' 
He  said;  and  with  full  force  the  spear  he  threw: 
Above  the  sounding  waves  Camilla  flew. 
Then,  press'd  by  foes,  he  stemm'd  the  stormy  tide, 
And  gain'd,  by  stress  of  arms,  the  farther  side. 
His  fasten'd  spear  he  pull'd  from  out  the  ground, 
And,  victor  of  his  vows,  his  infant  nymph  un- 
bound : 

Nor,  after  that,  in  towns  which  walls  enclose, 
Would  trust  his  hunted  life  amidst  his  foes; 
But.  rough,  in  open  air  he  chose  to  lie : 
Earth  was  his  couch  ;  his  covering  was  the  sky. 
On  hills  unshorn,  or  in  a  desert  den. 
He  shnnn'd  the  dire  society  of  men. 

nerd's  solitary  life  he  1«'<1  : 
His  daughter  with  the  milk  of  mares  he  fed  ; 
The  dng<  of  bears,  and  ev'ry  savairi-  1 
He  dr-'W.  and  through  her  lips  the  liquor  press'd. 
The  little  Ama/on  could  scarcely  L    — 
He  loads  her  with  a  quiver  and  a 
And,  that  she  might  her  stagg'ring  steps  com- 
mand. 

He  with  a  slender  jav'liu  fills  her  hand. 
Her  flowing  hair  no  golden  fillet  bound; 
Nor  swept  her  trailing  robe  the  dusty  ground. 
Instead  of  these,  a  tiger's  hide  <>'rr<jir- 
Her  back  and  shoulders,  fasten'd  to  her  head. 


462 


VIRGIL. 


The  flying  dart  she  first  attempts  to  fling, 
And  round  her  tender  temples  toss'd  the  sling ; 
Then,  as  her  strength  with  years  increas'd,  began 
To  pierce  aloft  in  air  the  soaring  swan, 
And  from  the  clouds  to  fetch  the  heron  and  the 

crane. 

The  Tuscan  matrons  with  each  other  vied 
To  bless  their  rival  sons  with  such  a  bride : 
But  she  disdains  their  love,  to  share  with  me 
The  sylvan  shades,  and  vow'd  virginity. 
And,  oh!  I  wish,  contented  with  my  cares 
Of  savage  spoils,  she  had  not  sought  the  wars : 
Then  had  she  been  of  my  celestial  train, 
And  shunn'd  the  fate  that  dooms  her  to  be  slain. 
But  since,  opposing  heaven's  decree,  she  goes 
To  find  her  death  among  forbidden  foes, 
Haste  with  these  arms,  and  take  thy  steepy  flight, 
Where  with  the  gods  averse,  the  Latians  fight. 
This  bow  to  thee,  this  quiver,  I  bequeath, 
This  chosen  arrow  to  revenge  her  death  : 
By  whate'er  hand  Camilla  shall  be  slain. 
Or  of  the  Trojan  or  Italian  train, 
Let  him  not  pass  unpunish'd  from  the  plain. 
Then,  in  a  hollow  cloud,  myself  will  aid 
To  bear  the  breathless  body  of  my  maid. 
Unspoil'd  shall  be  her  arms,  and  unprofan'd 
Her  holy  limbs  with  any  human  hand, 
And  in  a  marble  tornb  laid  in  her  native  land." 
She  said.     The  faithful  nymph  descends  from 

high 

With  rapid  flight,  and  cuts  the  sounding  sky: 
Black  clouds  and  stormy  winds  around  her  body 

fly. 

Resistless,  through  the  war  Camilla  rode, 
In  danger  unappall'd,  and  pleas'd  with  blood. 
One  side  was  bare  for  her  exerted  breast; 
One  shoulder  with  her  painted  quiver  press'd. 
Now  from  afar  her  fatal  jav'lins  play : 
Now  with  her  axe's  edge  she  hews  her  way. 
Diana's  arms  upon  her  shoulder  sound ; 
And   when   too   closely  press'd,  she   quits    the 

ground, 

From  her  bent  bow  she  sends  a  backward  wound. 
Her  maids,  in  martial  pomp,  on  either  side, 
Larina,  Tulla,  fierce  Tarpeia,  ride — 
Italians  all — in  peace,  their  queen's  delight, 
In  war,  the  bold  companions  of  the  fight, 

So  march'd  the  Thracian  Amazons  of  old, 
When  Thermodon  with  bloody  billows  roll'd ; 
Such  troops  as  these  in  shining  arms  were  seen, 
When  Theseus  met  in  fight  their  maiden  queen : 
Such  to  the  field  Penthesilea  led, 
From  the  fierce  virgin  when  the  Grecians  fled ; 
With  such  return'd  triumphant  from  the  war, 
Her  maids  with  cries  attend  the  lofty  car ; 
They  clash  with  manly  force  their  moony  shields ; 
With  female  shouts  resound  the  Phrygian  fields. 

Then  Butes  and  Orsilochus  she  slew, 
The  bulkiest  bodies  of  the  Trojan  crew — 
But  Butes  breast  to  breast :  the  spear  descends 
Above  the  gorget,  where  his  helmet  ends, 
And  o'er  the  shield  which  his  left  side  defends. 
Orsilochus,  and  she,  their  coursers  ply; 
He  seems  to  follow,  and  she  seems  to  fly. 


But  in  a  narrower  ring  she  makes  the  race ; 
And  then  he  flies,  and  she  pursues  the  chase. 
Gathering  at  length  on  her  deluded  foe, 
She  swings  her  axe,  and  rises  to  the  blow: 
Full  on  the  helm  behind,  with  such  a  sway 
The  weapon  falls,  the  riven  steel  gives  way: 
He  groans,  he  roars,  he  sues  in  vain  for  grace ; 
Brains,  mingled  with  his  blood,  besmear  his  face. 
Astonish'd  Aunus  just  arrives  by  chance, 
To  see  his  fall,  nor  further  dares  advance  ; 
But,  fixing  on  the  horrid  maid  his  eye, 
He  stares,  and  shakes,  and  finds  it  vain  to  fly; 
Yet,  like  a  true  Ligurian.  born  to  cheat, 
(At  least  while  Fortune  favour'd  his  deceit) 
Cries  out  aloud,  "What  courage  have  you  shown, 
Who  trust  your  courser's  strength,  and  not  your 

own? 

Forego  the  'vantage  of  your  horse,  alight ; 
And  then  on  equal  terms  begin  the  fight: 
It  shall  be  seen,  weak  woman,  what  you  can, 
When,  foot  to  foot,  you  combat  with  a  man." 
He  said.    She  glows  with  anger  and  disdain, 
Dismounts  with  speed  to  dare  him  on  the  plain, 
And  leave's  her  horse  at  large  among  her  train ; 
With  her  drawn  sword  defies  him  to  the  field, 
And,  marching,  lifts  aloft  her  maiden  shield. 
The  youth,  who  thought  his  cunning  did  succeed, 
Reins  round  his  horse,  and  urges  all  his  speed, 
Adds  the  remembrance  of  the  spur,  and  hides 
The  goring  rowels  in  his  bleeding  sides. 
"Vain  fool,  and  coward!"  said  the  lofty  maid, 
"  Caught  in  the  train,  which  thou  thyself  hast  laid ! 
On  others  practise  thy  Ligurian  arts : 
Thin  stratagems,  and  tricks  of  little  hearts, 
Are  lost  on  me:  nor  shalt  thou  safe  retire, 
With  vaunting  lies  to  thy  fallacious  sire." 

At  this,  so  fast  her  flying  feet  she  sped, 
That  soon  she  strain'd  beyond  his  horse's  head : 
Then  turning  short,  at  once  she  seiz'd  the  rein, 
And  laid  the  boaster  grov'ling  on  the  plain. 
Not  with  more  ease  the  falcon  from  above, 
Trusses,  in  middle  air,  the  trembling  dove, 
Then  plumes  the  prey,  in  her  strong  pounces 

bound : 

The  feathers,  foul  with  blood,  come  tumbling  to 
the  ground. 

Then  Arruns,  doom'd  to  death,  his  arts  essay'd, 
To  murder,  unespied,  the  Volscian  maid  : 
This  way  and  that,  his  winding  course  he  bends, 
And,  wheresoe'er  she  turns,  her  steps  attends, 
When  she  retires  victorious  from  the  chase, 
He  wheels  about  with  care,  and  shifts  his  place: 
When,  rushing  on,  she  seeks  her  foes  in  fight, 
He  keeps  aloof,  and  keeps  her  still  in  sight : 
He  threats  and  trembles,  trying  ev'ry  way 
Unseen  to  kill,  and  safely  to  betray. 

Chloreus,  the  priest  of  Cybele,  from  far, 
Glittering  in  Phrygian  arms  amidst  the  war, 
Was  by  the  virgin  view'd.    The  steed  he  press'd 
Was  proud  with  trappings,  and  his  brawny  chest 
With  scales  of  gilded  brass  was  cover'd  o'er : 
A  robe  of  Tyrian  dye  the  rider  wore. 
With  deadly  wounds  he  gall'd  the  distant  fo<; ; 
Gnossian  his  shafts,  and  Lycian  was  his  bow : 
A  golden  helm  his  front  and  head  surrounds ; 
A  gilded  quiver  from  his  shoulder  sounds. 


VIRGIL. 


463 


Go'd  weav'd  with  linen,  on  his  thighs  he  wore, 
With  flowers  of  needle-work  distinguUh'd  o'er, 
With  golden  buckles  bound,  and  gather'd  up  be- 
fore. 

Him  the  fierce  maid  beheld  with  ardent  eyes, 
Fond  and  ambitious  of  so  rich  a  pri/e, 
Or  that  the  temple  might  liis  trophies  hold, 
Or  else  to  shine  herself  in  Trojan  gold. 
Blind  in  her  haste,  she  chases  him  alone, 
And  seeks  his  life,  regardless  of  her  own. 
This  lucky  moment  the  sly  traitor  chose; 
Then,  starting  from  his  ambush,  up  he  rose, 
And  threw,  but  first  to  heaven  address'd  his  vows: 
'•()  patron  of  Soracte's  high  abodes! 
PhuL-bus.  the  ruling  power  among  the  gods! 
Whom,  first  we  serve!  whole  woods  of  unctuous 

pine 

Are  fell'd  for  thee,  and  to  thy  glory  shine ; 
By  thee  protected,  with  our  naked  soles, 
Through   flames  unsing'd  we  march,  and  tread 

the  kindled  coals. 

Give  me,  propitious  Power,  to  wash  away 
Tlie  stains  of  this  dishonourable  day: 
Ncr  spoils,  nor  triumph,  from  the  fact  I  claim; 
But  with  my  future  actions  trust  my  fame. 
Let  me,  by  stealth,  this  female  plague  o'ercome, 
Ar.tl  from  the  field  return  inglorious  home." 

Apollo  heard,  and,  granting  half  his  pray'r, 
Shuffled  in  winds  the  rest,  and  toss'd  in  empty  air. 
Hi  gives  the  death  desir'd :  his  safe  return 
By  southern  tempests  to  the  seas  is  borne. 

when  the-  jav'lin  whizz'd  along  the  skies, 
Bo:h  armies  on  Camilla  turn'd  their  eyes, 

I  by  the  sound.    Of  either  host, 
Tl . '  unhappy  virgin,  though  concern'd  the  most, 
Wis  only  deaf;  so  greedy  was  she  bent 
Or  golden  spoils,  and  on  her  prey  intent; 
Till  in  her  pap  the  winged  weapon  stood 
In  ix'il.  and  dr-'ply  drunk  the  purple  blood. 
Her  sad  attendants  hasten  to  sustain 
Tlii-ir  tlying  lady  drooping  on  the  plain. 
Far  from  their  sight  the  trembling  Arruns  flies, 
With  beating  heart,  and  fear  confus'd  with  joys; 
Nor  dares  he  further  to  pursue  his  blow,- 
Or  c'ni  to  bear  the  sight  of  his  expiring  foe. 

As,  when  the  wolf  has  torn  a  bullock's  hide 
At  unawares,  or  ranch'd  a  shepherd's  side, 
Conscious  of  his  audacious  deed,  he  flies, 
And  elaps  his  quivering  tail  between  his  thighs: 
So,  speeding  once,  the  wr.-trh  no  more  attends 
Bi  t,  spurring  forward,  herds  among  his  friends. 
She  wrtMirh'd  tin- jav'lin  with  her  dying  hands: 
!  within  her  breast  the  wra;>.>n  stands  : 
Tlic   '.  j)"int   n-nr-. 

ri  in  her  seat  with  agoni/ing  \r.\\ 

(.^  gathering  taiat o'ercloudi  :ful  eyes; 

And  from  her  Hi 

Then  turns  to  li-r,  whom.  <  Vie  train, 

She  tru-trd  ino.-t.  and  tliii-  -  -  with  pain  : 

•.  'ti.-  pa-t!  hi-  swims  before  my  si.^ht, 
i')le  Death:  and  claims  his  right. 

my  last  \v  DOS:  fly  with  speed, 

A  id  bid  him  timely  to  my  «  "ed, 

Repel  the  Trojans,  and  the  town  relieve: — 
Farewell!   and   in   this   kiss   my  parting  breath 
recer 


She  said,  and,  sliding,  sunk  upon  the  plain: 
J>yiiiLr.  her  open'd  hand  forsakes  the  rein; 
Short  and  more  short  she  pants:  by  slow  degrees 
Her  mind  the  passage  from  her  body  frees, 
She  drops  her  sword  ;  she  nods  her  plumy  crest, 
Her  drooping  head  declining  on  her  breast: 
In  the  last  sigh  her  struggling  soul  expires, 
And,  murm'ring  with  disdain,  to  Stygian  sounds 
retires. 


Book  XH. 

DEATH  OF  TCRXUS. 

Now  stern  ^Eneas  waves  his  weighty  spear 
Against  his  foe,  and  thus  upbraids  his  fear : 
"What  further  subterfuge  can  Turnus  find? 
What  empty  hopes  are  harbour'd  in  his  mind? 
Tis  not  thy  swiftness  can  secure  thy  flight: 
Not  with  their  feet^but  hands,  the  vah'ant  fight 
Vary  thy  shape  in  thousand  forms,  and  dare 
What  skill  and  courage  can  attempt  in  war: 
Wish  for  the  wings  of  winds,  to  mount  the  sky; 
Or  hid  within  the  hollow  earth  to  lie !" 
The  champion  shook  his  head,  and  made  this 

short  reply : 

"No  threats  of  thine  my  manly  mind  can  move: 
'Tis  hostile  heaven  I  dread,  and  partial  Jove." 
He  said  no  more,  but,  with  a  sigh,  repress'd 
The  mighty  sorrow  in  his  swelling  breast. 
Then,  as  he  roll'd  his  troubled  eyes  around, 
An  antique  stone  he  saw,  the  common  bound 
Of  neighb'ring  fields,  and  barrier  of  the  ground — 
So  vast,  that  twelve  strong  men  of  modern  days 
Th'  enormous  weight  from  earth  could  hardly 

raise. 

He  heav'd  it  at  a  lift,  and,  pois'd  on  high, 
Ran  stagg'ring  on  against  his  enemy. 
But  so  disorder'd,  that  he  scarcely  knew 
His  way,  or  what  unwieldy  weight  he  threw. 
His  knocking  knees  are  bent  beneath  the  load ; 
And  shiv'ring  cold  congeals  his  vital  blood. 
The    stone    drops   from   his  arms,  and,  falling 

short 

For  want  of  vigour,  mocks  his  vain  effort. 
And  as,  when  heavy  sleep  has  closed  the  sight, 
The  sickly  fancy  labours  in  the  night; 
We  seem  to  run  ;  and,  destitute  of  force, 
Our  sinking  limbs  forsake  us  in  the  course: 
In  vain  we  heave  for  breath;  in  vain  we  cry: 
The  nerves,  unbrao'd,  their  usual  strength  deny; 
And  on  the  tongue  th'  falt'ring  accents  die : 
So  Turnus  far'd  :   whatever  means  lie  tried 
All  force  of  arms,  and  points  of  art  employ 'd. 
The  Fury  flew  athwart,  and  made  th'  endeavour 

void. 
A  thousand  various  thoughts  his  soul  confound  : 

•  ir'd  about;  nor  aid.  nor  i«ue  found: 
His  own  men  stop  the  pass;  and  his  own  walls 

surround. 

Once  more  he  pauses,  and  looks  out  again, 
And  seeks  •  --.-hariotecr  in  vain. 

Trembling   hr   views   the   thund'ring   chief  ad- 
vance, 

And  brandishing  aloft  the  deadly  lance: 
Amax'd  he  cowers  beneath  his  conq'ring  foe, 
Forgets  to  ward,  and  waits  the  coming  blow. 


464 


HORACE. 


Astonish'd  while  he  stands,  and  fix'd  with  fear, 
Aim'd  at  his  shield,  he  sees  th'  impending  spear. 

The  hero  measur'd  first,  with  narrow  view, 
The  destirrd  mark ;  and,  rising  as  he  threw, 
With  its  full  swing  the  fatal  weapon  flew. 
Not  with  less  rage  the  rattling  thunder  falls, 
Or  stones  from  batt'ring-engines  break  the  walls, 
Swift  as  a  whirlwind,  from  an  arm  so  strong, 
The  lance  drove  on,  and  bore  the  death  along : 
Nought  could  his  seven-fold  shield  the  prince 

avail, 

Nor  aught  beneath  his  arms,  the  coat  of  mail: 
It  pierc'cl  through  all,  and  with  a  grisly  wound 
Transfix'd  his  thigh,  and  doubled  him  to  ground. 
With  groans  the  Latins  rend  the  vaulted  sky: 
Woods,  hills,  and  valleys,  to  the  voice  reply. 

Now,  low  on  earth,  the  lofty  chief  is  laid, 
With   eyes  cast  upwards,  and  with   arms  dis- 

play'd, 

And,  recreant,  thus  to  the  proud  victor  pray'd. 
"I  know  my  death  deserv'd,  nor  hope  to  live : 
Use  what  the  gods  and  thy  good  fortune  give. 
Yet  think,  oh!  think,  if  mercy  may  be  shown, 
(Thou  hadst  a  father  once,  and  hast  a  son) — 
Pity  my  sire,  now  sinking  to  the  grave. 
And  for  Anchises'  sake,  old  Daunus  save ! 


Or,  if  thy  vow'd  revenge  pursue  my  death, 
Give  to  my  friends  my  body  void  of  breath ! 
The  Latian  chiefs  have  seen  me  beg  my  life : 
Thine  is  the  conquest,  thine  the  royal  wife : 
Against    a    yielded    man,    'tis    mean,    ignoble 

strife." 

In  deep  suspense,  the  Trojan  seem'd  to  stand, 
And,  just  prepar'd  to  strike,  repress'd  his  hand. 
He  rolt'd  his  eyes,  and  ev'ry  moment  felt 
His  manly  soul  with  more  compassion  melt; 
When,  casting  down  a  casual  glance,  he  spied 
The  golden  belt  that  glitter'd  on  his  side, 
The  fatal  spoil  which  haughty  Turnus  tore 
From  dying  Pallas,  and  in  triumph  wore. 
Then  rous'd  anew  to  wrath,  he  loudly  cries, 
(Flames  while  he  spoke,  came  flashing  from  his 

eyes,) 

"Traitor!  dost  thou,  dost  thou  to  grace  pretend, 
Clad  as  thou  art,  in  trophies  of  my  friend  ? 
To  his  sad  soul  a  grateful  off'ring  go! 
'Tis  Pallas,  Pallas  gives  this  deadly  blow." 
He  rais'd  his  arm  aloft,  and  at  the  word, 
Deep  in  his  bosom  drove  the  shining  sword. 
The  streaming  blood  distain'd  his  arms  around ; 
And  the  disdainful  soul  came  rushing  through 

the  wound. 


HORACE. 


[Born  65,— Died  8,  B.  C.] 


QUINTUS  HORATIUS  FtACcus  was  the  son  of 

a  freedman  and  taxgatherer,  and  was  born  at 
Venusium  on  the  frontiers  of  Apulia  and  Luca- 
nia.  His  father,  an  excellent  man  of  whom  the 
son  was  justly  proud,  spared  neither  pains  nor 
expense  in  his  education,  placing  him  Tinder  the 
best  masters  in  Rome,  and  sending  him  after- 
wards to  complete  his  studies  at  Athens.  Quit- 
ting Athens  at  twenty-three,  he  attached  himself 
to  Brutus,  received  from  him  the  rank  of  military 
tribune,  and  was  present  at  the  battle  of  Phi- 
lippi.* — On  the  fall  of  his  noble  leader,  he  lost 
all  his  little  patrimony  which,  like  that  of  his 
friend  Virgil,  was  allotted  to  the  soldiers  of  the 
Triumvirate.  Being  thus  thrown  on  his  own  re- 
sources, he  sought  a  subsistence  from  literature, 
— [Paupertas  impulit  audax  ut  versus  faceret] — 
and  acquired  for  himself  a  name,  which  soon 


*  At  Philippi  he  lost  his  shield,  which  has  given  occa- 
sion to  many  writers  to  bring  against  him  the  charge  of 
cowardice— a  charge,  in  no  way  warranted  by  the  cir- 
cumstances of  the  case.  Had  Horace  been  really  the 
coward  he  is  represented,  he  would  have  been  the  last 
person  to  allude  to  the  battle  in  the  manner  he  has  done. 
See  Book  II.  Ode  VII. 


introduced  him  into  the  best  society  of  Rome. 
Amongst  the  most  intimate  of  his  new  friends 
were  Virgil  and  Varius,  by  whom  he  was  re- 
commended to  Mecsenas  and,  through  him,  to 
Augustus  himself.  From  this  period  Horace 
seems  to  Jiave  led  a  life  of  uninterrupted  enjoy- 
ment and  repose,  mingling  with  the  wise  and 
great  on  terms  of  the  most  perfect  independence, 
and  living  at  the  tables  of  his  illustrious  patrons, 
Augustus  and  Meca?nas,  as  if  he  were  in  his  own 
house.  He  died  in  his  fifty-seventh  year,  only 
three  weeks  after  the  decease  of  the  latter,  whom 
he  had  loved  with  the  most  disinterested  affec- 
tion, arid  whose  loss  he  had,  on  more  than  one 
occasion,  declared  his  inability  to  survive. 

The  works  of  Horace  have  been  always  num- 
bered amongst  the  most  valuable  remains  of  an- 
tiquity. In  his  Odes  there  is  a  ';  Curiosa  Felici- 
tas,"  a  delicacy,  an  elegance  of  expression,  almost 
unrivalled  in  Roman  literature,  while  the  good 
sense,  sound  morality,  and  true  philosophy,  of  his 
satires  and  epistles  have  become  quite  prover- 
bial. 

Horace  was  buried  on  the  Esquiline  hill,  in 
a  tomb  next  to  that  of  his  beloved  Meccenas. 


HORACE. 


465 


FROM  THE  ODES. 
Book  I. 

OIIE  III. TO  THE  SHIP   IX  WHICH  VIRGIL  SAILED 

TO  ATHENS. 

So  may  the  auspicious  Queen  of  Love, 
And  the  twin  Stars  (the  seed  of  Jove), 
And  he  who  rules  the  raging  wind, 
To  thee,  O  sacred  ship,  be  kind, 
And  gentle  breezes  fill  thy  sails, 
Supplying  soft  Etesian  gales, 
As  thou,  to  whom  the  Muse  commends 
The  best  of  poets  and  of  friends, 
Dost  thy  committed  pledge  restore, 
And  land  him  safely  on  the  shore; 
And  save  the  bettor  part  of  me 
From  perishing  with  him  at  sea. 
Sure  he,  who  first  the  passage  tried, 
In  harden'd  oak  his  heart  did  hide, 
And  ribs  of  iron  arm'd  his  side! 
Or  his  at  least,  in  hollow  wood 
Who  tempted  first  the  briny  flood; 
Nor  fear'd  the  winds'  contending  roar, 

:iting  on  the  shore  ; 
Nor  Hyades  portending  rain; 
Nor  all  the  tyrants  of  the  main. 
What  form  of  death  could  him  affright 
Who,  unconcern'd,  with  steadfast  sight, 
Could  view  the  surges  mounting  steep, 
And  monsters  rolling  in  the  deep? 
Could  through  the  ranks  of  ruin  go, 
"With  storms  above,  and  rocks  below  ? 
In  vain  did  Nature's  wi-e  command 

the  waters  from  the  land, 
If  daring  ship*,  and  men  profane, 
Invade  the  invio'able  main; 
The  eternal  fences  overleap, 
And  pass  at  will  the  boundless  deep. 
No  toil,  no  hardship  fan  restrain 
.Ambitious  man  inured  to  pain; 
The  more  confin'd,  the  more  he  tries, 
And  at  forbidden  quarry  II 
Thus  bold  Prometheus  did  aspire, 
And  stole  from  heaven  the  reed  of  fire : 
A  train  of  ills,  a  ghastly  crew, 
The  robbrr's  bla/.iim  track  pursue; 
I'ierce  Famine,  with  her  meagre  face, 
And  fevers  of  the  fiery 

lending  wreteh  surround, 
Ail  brooding  on  the  blasted  ground; 
And  limping  Death,  lash'd  on  by  Fate, 
Come<  ii])  to  shorten  half  our  S 
This  n 

With  borrow'd  winf_rs  to  sail  in  air: 
T.I  hell  Ate  ;   his  way. 

Plunged  through  the  lake,  and  snateh'd  the  prey. 

•lie  from  our  aii' 

We  reaeli  at  Jove's  imperial  crown. 
And  pull  the  unwilling  thunder  down. 

OH!.  V. TO    I'TIIHH  V. 

WHAT  slender  youth,  bede  w'd  v.  ith  liquid  odours, 
-  ihee  on  roses  in  some  pleasan' 
Pyrrha  ?      Y«r  \vh«'ii  bind'-t  thou 
In  wreaths  thy  golden  hair, 


Plain  in  thy  neatness?     O  how  oft  shall  he 
Of  faith  and  changed  gods  complain,  and  seas 

Rough  with  black  winds,  and  storms 

Unwonted  shall  admire ! 
Who  now  enjoys  thee  credulous,  all  gold, 
Who,  always  vacant,  always  amiable 

Hopes  thee,  of  flattering  gales 

Unmindful.     Hapless  they 
To  whom  thou  untried  seem'st  fair.     Me,  in  my 

vow'd 
Picture,  the  sacred  wall  declares  to  have  hung 

My  dank  and  dropping  weeds 

To  the  stern  god  of  sea.* 

ODE   IX. TO  THALIAUCHUS. 

BEHOLD  yon  mountain's  hoary  height, 

Made  higher  with  new  mounts  of  snow  ; 
Again  behold  the  winter's  weight 

Oppress  the  labouring  woods  below  : 
And  streams  with  icy  fetters  bound, 
Benumb'd  and  cramp'd  to  solid  ground. 
With  well-heap'd  logs  dissolve  the  cold, 

And  feed  the  genial  hearth  with  fires ; 
Produce  the  wine,  that  makes  us  bold, 

And  sprightly  wit  of  love  inspires. 
For  what  hereafter  shall  betide, 
God,  if  'tis  worth  his  care,  provide. 
Let  him  alone,  with  what  he  made, 

To  toss  and  turn  the  world  below : 
At  his  command  the  storms  invade ; 

The  winds  by  his  commission  blow; 
Till  with  a  nod  he  bids  them  cease, 
And  then  the  calm  returns,  and  all  is  peace. 
To-morrow  and  her  works  defy, 

Lay  hold  upon  the  present  hour, 
And  snatch  the  pleasures  passing  by, 

To  put  them  out  of  Fortune's  power. 
Nor  Love,  nor  Love's  delights,  disdain; 
Whate'er  thou  gett'st  to-day  is  gain. 
Secure  those  golden,  early  joys, 

That  youth,  unsonr'd  by  sorrow,  bears, 
Ere  withering  Time  the  taste  destroys 

With  sickness  and  unwieldly  years. 
For  active  sports,  for  pleasing  rest, 

ffl  tin-  time  to  1 

The  best  is  but  in  season  best. 
Tin-  appointed  hour  of  promis'cl  bliss, 

The  pleasing  whi-per  in  the  dark, 
The  half-unwilling,  willing  kiss, 

The  laugh  that  guides  thee  to  the  mark, 
When  the  kind  nymph  would  coyness  feign, 
And  hides  but.  to  be  found  auain: 
These,  these  are  joys,  the  gods  for  youth  ordain. 

OI1E  XXII. TO   AllISTirS  FUSCUS. 

THAT  happy  man.  whose  virtuous  heart 

it  and  con.- 
Xri  d-  not  the  poison 'd  Moorish  dart, 

bow.  nor  sword,  nor  deadly  spear. 


*  This  alludes  to  a  custom  amonpthe  Romans  of  offer- 
ng  some  votive   tablrt  or  picture  to  tlie  cod  by  v 
tower   they  had    '  •!    from    shipwreck.     In 

hese  pictures  the  storm  and  circumstances  of  the  escape 
were  generally  represented. 


== 


466 


HORACE. 


Whether  on  shores  that  Ganges  laves, 

Or  Syrtes'  quivering  sands  among} 
Or  where  Hydaspes'  fabled  waves 

In  strange  meanders  wind  along. 
When  free  from  care  I  dared  to  rove, 

And  Lalage  inspired  my  lay; 
A  wolf  within  the  Sabine  grove 

Fled  wild  from  his  defenceless  prey. 
Such  prodigy  the  Daunian  bands 

In  their  drear  haunts  shall  never  trace; 
Nor  barren  Libya's  arid  sands, 

Rough  parent  of  the  lion  race. 
O  place  me  where  no  verdure  smiles, 

No  vernal  zephyrs  fan  the  ground, 
No  varied  scene  the  eye  beguiles, 

Nor  murmuring  rivulets  glide  around! 
Place  me  on  Thracia's  frozen  lands, 

Uncheer'  by  gemal  light  of  day ! 
Place  me  on  Afric's  burning  sands, 

Scorch'd  by  the  sun's  inclement  ray ! 
Love  in  my  heart  shall  pain  beguile, 

Sweet  Lalage  shall  be  my  song ; 
The  gentle  beauties  of  her  smile, 

The  gentle  music  of  her  tongue. 

ODE  XXIV.— -TO  VIRGIL. 

HORACE  admonishes  his  friend  to  bear  with  patience  the 
death  of  Quintilius. 

WHEREFORE  restrain  the  tender  tear  ? 
Why  blush  to  weep  for  one  so  dear? 
Sweet  Muse,  of  melting  voice  and  lyre, 
Do  thou  the  mournful  song  inspire. 
Quintilius — sunk  to  endless  rest, 
With  Death's  eternal  sleep  oppress'd ! 
Oh !  when  shall  Faith,  of  soul  sincere, 
Of  Justice  pure  the  sister  fair, 
And  Modesty,  unspotted  maid, 
And  Truth  in  artless  guise  array'd, 
Among  the  race  of  humankind 
An  equal  to  Quintilius  find  ? 

How  did  the  good,  the  virtuous  mourn, 
And  pour  their  sorrows  o'er  his  urn  ? 
But,  Virgil,  thine  the  loudest  strain ; 
Yet  all  thy  pious  grief  is  vain. 
In  vain  dost  thou  the  gods  implore 
Thy  loved  Quintilius  to  restore ; 
Whom  on  far  other  terms  they  gave, 
By  nature  fated  to  the  grave. 

What  though  thou  canst  the  lyre  command, 
And  sweep  its  tones  with  softer  hand 
Than  Orpheus,  whose  harmonious  song 
Once  drew  the  listening  trees  along, 
Yet  ne'er  returns  the  vital  heat 
The  shadowy  form  to  animate ; 
For  when  the  ghost-compelling  god 
Forms  his  black  troops  with  horrid  rod, 
He  will  not,  lenient  to  the  breath 
Of  prayer,  unbar  the  gates  of  death. 
'Tis  hard ;  but  patience  must  endure, 
And  soothe  the  woes  it  cannot  cure. 

ODE   XXXV. TO  FORTUNE. 

O  THOU,  whom  Antiom's  power  obeys, 
Dread  Goddess !  whose  resistless  breath 

The  wretch  from  lowest  depths  can  raise, 
Or  triumphs  turn  to  flight  and  death! 


Thee  with  fond  vows  the  labouring  swain— 
Thee,  mistress  of  the  stormy  main, 
Bithynia's  mariner  implores, 
As  round  his  wave-rock'd  bark  the  loud  Carpa- 
thian roars. 

Thee  Thrace,  thee  Scythia's  wandering  hordes, 

Thee  widowed  matrons,  lone  and  drear, 
Elealms,  cities,  Latium's  warlike  lords, 
And  purple  tyrants  watch  with  fear, 
Lest  thou  this  standing  pile  o'erthrow  ; 
Lest  rous'd  by  an  aggressive  foe, 
War,  war  invade  the  slumbering  world, 
And  Rome   imperial   sink,  to  shame  and  ruin 
hurl'd. 

Before  thee,  arm'd  with  tortures  dread, 

See  stern  Necessity  appear ! 
With  iron  wedge,  and  liquid  lead, 

Impaling  spikes,  and  hook  severe. — 
Thee  Hope,  thee  white-rob'd  Faith,  (of  friends 
On  earth  the  rarest  found,)  attends ; 

hange  garb,  change  mansions,  at  thy  will, 
Exalt,  oppress,  destroy, — yet  these  are  with  thee 
still. 

Not  so  the  rabble,  false  as  vain, 

The  parasite,  the  painted  whore,— 
Our  wine-cask  to  its  dregs  they  drain, 

Then  off,  to  richer  boards,  for  more.— 
0  Goddess,  on  thy  Csssar  smile, 
Now  bound  for  Britain's  farmost  isle ; 
Make,  too,  our  new-rais'd  hosts  thy  care, 
Who,  wide  o'er  eastern  fields,  Rome's  conquering 
eagles  bear. 

Alas!  for  our  dishonouring  scars, 

And  brothers'  blood  by  brothers  spilt, — 

Foul,  fated  curse  of  civil  wars! 
From  what  extremity  of  guilt 

Have  we  shrunk  back?  what  deeds  not  dar'd? 

What  gods  rever'd?  what  altars  spar'd? 

Oh  ! — if  not  destin'd  to  repose, — 

Be  our  rewhetted  swords  now  flesh'd  on  foreign 
foes ! 


Book  II. 

ODE  III. TO  DEtLIUS. 

WHEN  dangers  press,  a  mind  sustain 
Unshaken  by  the  storms  of  Fate  ; 

And  when  delight  succeeds  to  pain, 
With  no  glad  insolence  elate ; 

For  death  will  end  the  various  toys 

Of  hopes,  and  fears,  and  cares,  and  joys. 

Mortal  alike,  if  sadly  grave 

You  pass  life's  melancholy  day, 

Or,  in  some  green  retired  cave 
Wearing  the  idle  hours  away, 

Give  to  the  Muses  all  your  soul, 

And  pledge  them  in  the  flowing  bowl ; 

Where  the  broad  pine,  and  poplar  white, 
To  join  their  hospitable  shade 

With  intertwisted  boughs  delight; 
And,  o'er  its  pebbly  bed  convey'd, 

Labours  the  winding  stream  to  run, 

Trembling,  and  glittering  to  the  sun. 


HORACE. 


467 


Thy  generous  wine,  and  rich  perfume, 
And  fragrant  roses  hither  bring, 

That  with  the  early  zephyrs  bloom, 
And  wither  with  declining  spring, 

While  joy  and  youth  not  yet  have  fled, 

And  Fate  still  holds  the  uncertain  thread. 

You  soon  must  leave  your  verdant  bowers, 
And  groves  yourself  had  taught  to  grow, 

Your  soft  retreats  from  sultry  hours 
Where  Tiber's  gentle  waters  flow, 

Soon  leave ;  and  all  you  call  your  own 

Be  squander'd  by  an  heir  unknown. 

Whether  of  wealth  and  lineage  proud, 
A  high  patrician  name  you  bear, 

Or  pass  ignoble  in  the  crowd, 

Unshelter'd  from  the  midnight  air, 

'Tis  all  alike ;  no  age  or  state 

Bmred  by  unrelenting  Fate. 
;he  same  port  our  barks  are  bound ; 
ne  final  doom  is  fix'd  for  all : 
universal  wheel  goes  round, 
And,  soon  or  late,  each  lot  must  fall, 
When  all  together  shall  be  sent 
To  one  eternal  banishment. 

ODE  X. TO  LICIXIUS. 

RECEIVE,  dear  friend,  the  truths  I  teach ; 
So  shalt  thou  live  beyond  the  reach 

Of  adverse  Fortune's  power; 
Not  always  tempt  the  distant  deep, 
Nor  always  timorously  creep 

Along  the  treacherous  shore. 

He  that  holds  fast  the  golden  mean, 
And  lives  contentedly  between 

The  little  and  the  great, 
Feels  not  the  wants  that  pinch  the  poor, 
Nor  plagues  that  haunt  the  rich  man's  door, 

Embittering  all  his  state. 

The  tallest  pines  feel  most  the  power 
Of  wintry  blasts  ;  the  loftiest  tower 

Comes  heaviest  to  the  ground  ; 
The  bolts  that  spare  the  mountain's  side, 
His  cloud-capt  eminence  divide, 

And  spread  the  ruin  round. 

The  well-inform'd  philosopher 
yoices  with  a  wholesome  fear, 
And  hopes,  in  spite  of  pain  ; 
winter  bellow  from  the  north, 
Soon  the  sweet  spring  comes  dancing  forth, 
And  Nature  laughs  again. 


in 

:: 


II 


What  if  thine  heaven  be  overcast? 
The  dark  appearance  will  not  last; 

Expect  a  brighter  sky. 
ie  god,  that  strings  the  silver  bow, 
wakes  sometimes  the  Muses  too, 
And  lays  his  arrows  by. 

If  hindrances  obstruct  thy  way, 
Thy  magnanimity  display, 

And  let  thy  strength  be  seen ; 
But  oh!  if  Fortune  fill  thy  sail, 
With  more  than  a  propitious  gale, 

Take  half  thy  canvas  in. 


ODE  XII. TO  MECXSAS. 

DIRE  Hannibal,  the  Roman  dread, 

Numantian  wars,  which  raged  so  long, 

And  seas  with  Punic  slaughter  red, 
Suit  not  the  softer  lyric  song ; 

Nor  savage  centaurs,  mad  with  wine ; 

])jpr  Earth's  enormous  rebel  brood, 
Who  shook  with  fear  the  Powers  divine, 

Till  by  Alcides'  arms  subdued. 

Better,  Mecaenas,  thou  in  prose 
Shalt  Caesar's  glorious  battles  tell ; 

With  what  bold  heat  the  victor  glows, 
What  captive  kings  liis  triumphs  swell. 

Thy  mistress  all  my  Muse  employs ; 

Licinia's  voice,  her  sprightly  turns, 
The  fire  that  sparkles  in  her  eyes, 

And  in  her  faithful  bosom  burns. 

When  she  adorns  Diana's  day, 

And  all  the  beauteous  choirs  advance, 

With  sweetest  airs,  divinely  gay, 

She  shines,  distinguished  in  the  dance ! 

Not  all  Arabia's  spicy  fields 

Can  with  Licinia's  breath  compare ; 

Nor  India's  self  a  treasure  yields, 

To  purchase  one  bright  flowing  hair : 

When  she  with  bending  neck  complies 
To  meet  the  lover's  eager  kiss, 

With  gentle  cruelty  denies, 

Or  snatches  first  the  fragrant  bliss. 

ODE  XIV. — TO  POSTUMUS. 

SWIFT  fly  the  rolling  years,  my  friend ! 
Nor  can  your  anxious  prayers  extend 

The  fleeting  joys  of  youth ; 
The  trembling  hand,  the  wrinkled  cheek, 
Too  plainly  life's  decay  bespeak, 

With  sad  but  silent  truth. 

What  though  your  daily  offerings  rise 
In  fragrant  clouds  of  sacrifice 

To  Jove's  immortal  seat ; 
You  cannot  fly  death's  cold  embrace, 
Where  peasants— chiefs  of  kingly  race 

An  equal  welcome  meet. 

In  vain,  from  battle  fields  afar, 
You  gently  dream  of  raging  war, 

Secure  in  peace  and  wealth  : 
In  vain  you  shun  the  stormy  wave, 
The  scorching  breeze,  that  others  brave, 

Profuse  of  vigorous  health. 

Though  zealous  friends  your  portals  throng, 
They  cannot  still  your  life  prolong 

By  one  short  lingering  hour ; 
Whate'er  our  plans,  whate'er  our  state, 
We  mortals  own  one  common  fate, 

One  stern,  unbending  power. 

When  your  parch'd  lips  shall  faintly  press 
On  your  fond  wife  their  last  caress, 

And  farewell  murmurs  breathe, 
Your  wandering  eyes  shall  feebly  rove, 
O'er  each  loved  wood,  and  well-train'd  grove, 

To  seek  a  funeral  wreath. 


468 


HORACE. 


The  purple  vineyard's  luscious  stores, 
Secured  by  trebly  bolted  doors, 

Excite,  in  vain,  your  care  ; 
Soon  shall  the  rich  and  sparkling  hoard 
Flow  largely  o'er  the  festive  board 

Of  your  unsparing  heir. 

ODE   XT.  £ 

GLEAMING  on  Baise's  golden  shore, 
Yon  marble  domes  their  sunny  wings  expand; 
And  glittering  villas  crown  the  yellow  strand ; 
But,  ah!  its  wealthy  harvests  wave  no  more, 
The  faithful  ploughshare  quits  the  encumber'd 

land. 
Mark  yon  broad  lakes  their  glittering  bosoms 

spread, 

Wide,  as  the  Lucrine  wave,  their  waters  sheen ; 
And  lo  !  the  solitary  plane  is  seen, 
Spreading  its  broad  and  fruitless  boughs  of 

green, 

Were  erst  above  the  maple's  social  head, 
Laden  with  grapes,  the  tendrils  wont  to  twine; 
And  thou,  thy  purple  clusters  shed 

Oh  !  Italy's  beloved  vine  ! 
How  rich  the  balm  Favonius  breathes, 
From  banks  with  rose,  and  spicy  myrtle  set! 
How  fair  his  fragrant  blossoms  wreathes 
Of  the  dark-eyed  violet. 
But,  ah!  the  sons  of  joy  forget, 
(Who  the  fierce  splendours  of  the  summer  sky, 
In  the  green  depth  of  laurel-groves  defy;) 

How   autumn's   ripening  hand  was  wont  to 

pour 

The  orchard  fruits  from  every  golden  tree, 
And  o'er  the  ruddy  fallows  smiled  to  see 

The  olive  drop  its  fat  and  mellow  shower. 
How  stern  old  Cato's  shaggy  brows  would  bend ; 
How  darkly  glare  our  founder's  angry  look ; 
For  ill  could  they  the  conscript  fathers  brook 
To  see  yon  marble  porticos  extend 
Wooing  the  North  his  breezy  shades  to  lend 

From  many  a  mountain  nook. 
The  green  turf  was  their  humble  bed, 

Their  costliest  canopy  the  wild-wood  tree  ; 
While  its  rich  breast  the  marble  quarry  spread, 
And  high  the  temple  rear'd  its  stately  head 
In  honour  of  the  deity. 


Book  III. 

ODE   I. 

HENCE,  ye  profane !  I  hate  you  all ; 
Both  the  great  vulgar,  and  the  small. 
To  virgin  minds,  which  yet  their  native  white- 
ness hold, 
Nor  yet  discoloured  with  the  love  of  gold, 

That  jaundice  of  the  soul, 
(Which  makes  it  look  so  gilded  and  so  foul,) 
To  you,  ye  very  few,  these  truths  I  tell ; 
The  Muse  inspires  my  song ;  hark,  and  observe 

it  well. 

We  look  on  men,  and  wonder  at  such  odds 
'Twixt  things  that  were  the  same  by  birth ; 
We  look  on  kings,  as  giants  of  the  earth, 
These  giants  are  but  pigmies  to  the  gods. 


The  humblest  bush  and  proudest  oak 
Are  but  of  equal  proof  against  the  thunder-stroke. 
Beauty  and  strength,  and  wit,  and  wealth,  and 
power, 

Have  their  short  flourishing  hour ; 

And  love  to  see  themselves,  and  smile, 
And  joy  in  their  pre-eminence  awhile : 

Ev'n  so  in  the  same  land, 

Poor  weeds,  rich  corn,  gay  flowers,  together  stand ; 
Alas !  death  mows  down  all  with  an  impartial 

hand : 
And  all  ye  men,  whom  greatness  does  so  please, 

Ye  feast.  I  fear,  like  Damocles: 

If  ye  your  eyes  could  upwards  move, 
(But  ye,  I  fear,  think  nothing  is  above,) 
Ye  would  perceive  by  what  a  little  thread 

The  sword  still  hangs  over  your  head : 

No  tide  of  wine  would  drown  your  cares ; 
No  mirth  or  music  over-noise  your  fears : 
The  fear  of  death  would  you  so  watchful  keep, 
As  not  't  admit  the  image  of  it,  Sleep. 
Sleep  is  a  god  too  proud  to  wait  in  palaces, 
And  yet  so  humble  too,  as  not  to  scorn 

The  meanest  country  cottages : 

His  poppy  grows  among  the  corn. 

The  halcyon  Sleep  will  never  build  his  nest 

In  any  stormy  breast. 

'Tis  not  enough  that  he  does  find 

Clouds  and  darkness  in  their  mind  ; 

Darkness  but  half  his  work  will  do  : 

'Tis  not  enough ;  he  must  find  quiet  too. 
The  man,  who  in  all  wishes  he  does  make, 

Does  only  Nature's  counsel  take, 
That  wise  and  happy  man  will  never  fear 

The  evil  aspects  of  the  year  ; 
Nor  tremble,  though  two  comets  should  appear ; 
He  does  not  look  in  almanacs,  to  see 

Whether  he  fortunate  shall  be : 
Let  Mars  and  Saturn  in  the  heavens  conjoin, 
And   what  they  please   against  the   world   de- 
sign, 

So  Jupiter  within  him  shine. 
If  of  your  pleasures  and  desires  no  end  be  found, 
God  to  your  cares  and  fears  will  set  no  bound. 

What  would  content  you  ?  who  can  tell  ? 
Ye  fear  so  much  to  lose  what  ye  have  got, 

As  if  ye  liked  it  well : 
Ye  strive  for  more,  as  if  ye  liked  it  not. 

Go,  level  hills,  and  fill  up  seas, 
Spare  nought  that  may  your  wanton  fancy  please : 
But,  trust  me,  when  you  have  done  all  this, 
Much  will  be  missing  still,  and  much  will  be 
amiss. 

ODE   II. TO  HIS  FHIENDS. 

How  bless'd  is  he  who  for  his  country  dies, 
Since  death  pursues  the  coward  as  he  flies ! 
The  youth  in  vain  would  fly  from  fate's  attack, 
With  trembling  knees  and  terror  at  his  back  ; 
Though  fear  should  lend  him  pinions  like  the 

wind, 

Yet  swifter  fate  will  seize  him  from  behind. 
Virtue  repulsed,  yet  knows  not  to  repine, 
But  shall  with  unattainted  honour  shine ; 
Nor  stoops  to  take  the  staff',  nor  lays  it  down, 
Just  as  the  rabble  please  to  smile  or  frown. 


HORACE. 


469 


Virtue,  to  crown  her  favourites,  loves  to  try 
Some  new  untrodden  passage  to  the  sky; 
Where  Jove  a  seat  among  the  gods  will  give 
To  those  who  die  for  meriting  to  live. 

Next,  faithful  silence  hath  a  sure  reward ; 
Within  our  breast  be  every  secret  barr'd  ! 
He  who  betrays  his  friend,  shall  never  be 
Under  one  roof,  or  in  one  ship,  with  me; 
For  who  with  traitors  would  his  safety  trust, 
Lest,  with  the  wicked,  Heaven  involve  the  just? 
And  though  the  villain  'scape  awhile,  he  feels 
Slow  vengeance,  like  a  bloodhound  at  his  heels. 

ODE   VI. TO  THE   ROMANS. 

THOSE  ills  your  ancestors  have  done, 
Romans,  are  now  become  your  own ; 
And  they  will  cost  you  dear, 
Unless  you  soon  repair 

The  falling  temples  which  the  gods  provoke, 
And  statues  sullied  yet  with  sacrilegious  smoke. 
Propitious  Heaven,  that  raised  your  fathers  high, 

For  humble,  grateful  piety, 
(As  it  rewarded  their  respect) 
Hath  sharply  punish'd  your  neglect. 
All  empires  on  the  gods  depend, 
Begun  by  their  command,  at  their  command  they 

end. 

Let  Crassus'  ghost  and  Labienus  tell 
How  twice  by  Jove's  revenge  our  legions  fell, 

And  with  insulting  pride, 

Shining  in  Roman  spoils,  the  Parthian  victors  ride. 
The  Scythian  and  Egyptian  scum 

Had  almost  ruin'd  Rome, 
While  our  seditions  took  their  part, 
Fill'd  each  Egyptian  sail,  and  wing'd  each  Scy- 
thian dart. 

First,  these  ilagitious  times 
(Pregnant  with  unknown  crimes) 
Conspire  to  violate  the  nuptial  bed, 

From  which  polluted  head 
Infectious  streams  of  crowding  sil 
And  through  the  spurious  breed  and  guilty  nation 

ran. 

Behold  a  fair  and  melting  maid 
Bound  'prentice  to  a  common  trade  ; 
in  artists  at  a  mighty  price 
Instni'-t  h'-r  in  the  mysteries  of  vice, 
Wh;r  tie  baits  to  lay, 

with  an  early  hand  they  form  the  temper'd 

.  :i<  these 
That  dy'd  with  Punic  blood  the  emiquer'd  seas, 

And  quash'd  the  stem  /T'.i'.-'ides ; 
Made  the  pnnid  A-ian  monarch 
How  weak  his  .  tiiist  Europe's  steel; 

uibal  to  yield, 
And  won  the  long  disputed  world  at  Zama's  fatal 

But  soldiers  of  a  rustic  mould, 

»'iily,  bold  ; 
Either  they  dug  the  stubborn  ground, 
through   hewn    woods   their  weighty   strokes 

did  sound  ; 

And  after  the  declining  sun 

Had  chang'd   the   shadows,  and   their  task  was 
done, 


Home  with  their  weary  team  they  took  their  way, 
And  drown'd  in  friendly  bowls  the  labour  of  the 

day. 

Time  sensibly  all  things  impairs ; 
Our  fathers  have  been  worse  than  theirs ; 
And  we  than  ours;  next  age  will  see 
A  race  more  profligate  than  we 
(With  all  the  pains  we  take)  have  skill  enough 
to  be. 

ODE  IX. HORACE  AlfD  LTDIA. 

HORACE. 

WHILST  I  was  fond,  and  you  were  kind, 
Nor  any  dearer  youth,  reclined 
On  your  soft  bosom,  sought  to  rest, 
Phraates  was  not  half  so  bless'd. 

LTDIA. 

Whilst  you  adored  no  other  face, 
Xor  loved  me  in  the  second  place, 
My  happy  celebrated  fame 
Outshone  e'en  Ilia's  envied  flame. 

HORACE. 

Me  Chloe  now  possesses  whole, 
Her  voice  and  lyre  command  my  soul; 
Nor  would  I  death  itself  decline, 
Could  her  life  ransom'd  be  with  mine. 

LYDIA. 

For  me  the  lovely  Calais  burns, 
And  warmth  for  warmth  my  heart  returns. 
Twice  would  I  life  with  joy  resign, 
Could  his  be  ransom'd  once  with  mine. 

HORACE. 

What  if  sweet  love,  whose  bands  we  broke, 
Again  should  tame  us  to  the  yoke ; 
Should  banish'd  Chloe  cease  to  reign, 
And  Lydia  her  lost  power  regain  ? 

LTDIA. 

Though  Hesper  be  less  fair  than  he, 
Thou  wilder  than  the  raging  sea, 
Lighter  than  down ;  yet  gladly  I 
With  thee  would  live,  with  thee  would  die. 

OUE   XIII. TO  THE   FOUXTAIX   OF   BAJTDU8IA. 

YE  wave<,  that  gushing  fall  with  purest  stream, 
Bandusian  fount!  to  whom  the  products  sweet 
Of  richest  wines  belong, 
And  fairest  flowers  of  spring; 
To  thee  a  chosen  victim  will  I  slay, 
A  kid,  who  glowing  in  lascivious  youth, 
Just  blooms  with  budding  horn, 
And,  in  vain  thought  elate, 
Yet  destines  future  war:  but.  ah!  too  soon 
His  reeking  blood  with  crimson  shall  enrich 
Thy  pure  translucent  flood, 
And  tinge  thy  crystal  clear. 
Thy  sweet  recess  the  sun  in  mid-day  hour 
Can  ne'er  invade,  thy  streams  the  labour'd  ox 

.'.  ith  cooling  draught, 
And  glad  the  wand'ring  herds. 
Thy  name  shall  shine,  with  endless  honours  graced, 
While  on  my  shell  I  sing,  the  nodding  oak, 
That  o'er  thy  cavern  deep 
Waves  his  embowering  head. 
2P 


470 


HORACE. 


ODE   XVI. TO  MECjEJTAS. 

"THE  lone  gray  tower  on  Argo's  mountain-shore, 
The  faithful  watch  dog  at  the  midnight  door." 
Safe  in  their  guard  imprison'd  love  had  slept, 
Her  baffled  suitors  youthful  Danae  wept. 
But  with  rich  bribes  the  laughing  gods  betray'd 
The  yielding  guardian,  and  the  enamour'd  maid. 
Through  armed  satellites,  and  walls  of  stone 
Gold  wings  its  flight,  resistless  though  alone. 

Ah !  who  the  wiles  of  womankind  hath  tried  ? 
By  gold,  the  priest,  the  blameless  augur  died. 
Mark  Philip's  march !  the  obedient  cities  fall, 
Ope  the  wide  gates,  and  yields  the  embattled 

wall. 

To  gold,  each  petty  tyrant  sank  a  prey, 
King  after  king  confess'd  its  powerful  sway, 
On  wisdom's  patriot  voice  the  siren  hung, 
And  stay'd  the  thunders  of  the  Athenian  tongue, 
The  war-worn  veteran  oft  his  trophies  sold, 
And  venal  navies  own'd  the  power  of  gold. 
Enlarging  wealth  increasing  wishes  share, 
The  gods  have  curs'd  the  miser's  hoard  with 

care; 

To  modest  worth  are  choicest  blessings  sent, 
Heaven  loves  the  humble  virtues  of  content. 
Far  from  the  rich  thy  poet  loves  to  dwell, 
And  share  the  silence  of  the  hermit's  cell. 
The  wild  brook  babbling  down  the  mountain's 

side, 

The  chesnut  copse  that  spreads  its  leafy  pride, 
The  garden  plot  that  asks  but  little  room, 
The  ripening  corn  field,  and  the  orchard's  bloom, 
These  simple  pleasures,  trust  me,  are  unknown 
To  the  rich  palace,  or  the  jewell'd  throne ; 
The  wealthy  lords  of  Afric's  wide  domain 
Would  spurn  my  lowly  roof  and  bounded  plain. 

Cold  are  the  Sabine  hills !  hives  not  for  me 
Its  hoarded  nectar  the  Calabrian  bee. 
Here  no  rich  vines  their  amber  clusters  rain, 
Not  mine  the  fleece  that  decks  Gallicia's  plain. 
Yet  want,  for  once,  avoids  a  poet's  door, 
Content  and  grateful,  can  I  ask  for  more? 
But  should  thy  bard  seek  ampler  means  to  live, 
Patron  and  friend!  thy  liberal  hand  would  give. 

What  if  increasing  wealth  withholds  its  shower, 
If  the  rich  widow  guards  her  jealous  dower; 
Then  wiser  learn  the  effect  is  still  the  same, 
From  humbler  wishes,  and  contracted  aim. 
More  wealthy  thou,  than  if  thy  lands  could  join 
All  Phrygia's  harvests  to  the  Lydian  mine  ; 
Not  want  alone  surrounds  the  opening  door, 
For  pride  and  avarice  are  ever  poor ; 
Delusive  hope,  and  wild  desire  combined, 
Feed   with    vain   thoughts   the   hunger   of   the 

mind. 

But  bless'd  is  he  to  whom  indulgent  Heaven 
Man's  happiest    state,    enough,    not   more,   has 

given. 

ODE   XVIII. TO    FAUIfUS. 

FATTTTUS,  who  lov'st  to  chase  the  light-foot  nymphs, 
Propitious  guard  my  fields  and  sunny  farm, 

And  nurse  with  kindly  care 

The  promise  of  my  flock. 


So  to  thy  power  a  kid  shall  yearly  bleed, 
And  the  full  bowl  to  genial  Venus  flow ; 
And  on  thy  rustic  shrine 
Rich  odours  incense  breathe  : 
So  through  the  vale  the  wanton  herds  shall  bound, 
When  thy  December  comes,  and  on  the  green 
The  steer  in  traces  loose 
With  the  free  village  sport : 
No  more  the  lamb  shall  fly  the  insidious  wolf, 
The  woods  shall  shed  their  leaves,  and  the  glad 

hind 

The  ground,  where  once  he  dug, 
Shall  beat  in  sprightly  dance. 

ODE  XXIX. TO  MECJENAS. 

Paraphrased. 
DESCENDED  of  an  ancient  line, 

That  long  the  Tuscan  sceptre  sway'd, 
Make  haste  to  meet  the  generous  wine, 

Whose  piercing  is  for  thee  delay'd  : 

The  rosy  wreath  is  made  ; 
And  artful  hands  prepare 

The  fragrant  Syrian  oil,  that  shall  perfume  thy  hair. 
When  the  wine  sparkles  from  afar, 

And  the  well-natur'd  friend  cries,  come  away ; 
Make  haste  and  leave  thy  business  and  thy  care, 

No  mortal  interest  can  be  worth  thy  stay. 
Leave,  for  a  while,  thy  costly  country  seat ; 
And,  to  be  great  indeed,  forget 
The  nauseous  pleasures  of  the  great. 

Make  haste  and  come : 
Corne  and  forsake  thy  cloying  store  ; 
Thy  turret  that  surveys,  from  high 

The  smoke,  and  wealth,  and  noise  of  Rome, 
And  all  the  busy  pageantry 
That  wise  men  scorn,  and  fools  adore. 
Come,  give  thy  soul  a  loose,  and  taste  the  plea- 
sures of  the  poor. 
Sometimes  'tis  grateful  for  the  rich  to  try 
A  short  vicissitude,  and  fit  of  poverty  : 

A  savoury  dish,  a  homely  treat, 

Where  all  is  plain,  where  all  is  neat, 
Without  the  stately  spacious  room, 
The  Persian  carpet,  or  the  Tyrian  loom, 

Clear  up  the  cloudy  foreheads  of  the  great. 
The  sun  is  in  the  Lion  mounted  high ; 

The  Syrian  star  barks  from  afar, 
And  with  his  sultry  breath  infects  the  sky ; 
The  ground  below  is  parch'd,  the  heavens  above 
us  fry. 

The  shepherd  drives  his  fainting  flock 

Beneath  the  covert  of  a  rock, 
And  seeks  refreshing  rivulets  nigh  : 
The  sylvans  to  their  shades  retire, 
Those  very  shades  and  streams  new  shades  and 

streams  require, 

And  want  a  cooling  breeze  of  wind  to  fan  the 
raging  fire. 

Thou,  what  befits  the  new  Lord  Mayor  ; 

And  what  the  city  factions  dare, 

And  what  the  Gallic  arms  will  do, 

And  what  the  quiver-bearing  foe, 

Art  anxiously  inquisitive  to  know : 
But  God  has  wisely  hid  from  human  sight 

The  dark  decrees  of  future  fate, 


HORACE. 


471 


And  sown  their  seeds  in  depths  of  night. 
He  laughs  at  all  the  giddy  turns  of  state, 
Where  mortals  search  too  soon,  and  fear  too 
late. 

Enjoy  the  present  smiling  hour, 

And  put  it  out  of  Fortune's  power ; 

The  tide  of  business,  like  the  running  stream, 
Is  sometimes  high  and  sometimes  low, 
A  quiet  ebb  or  a  tempestuous  flow, 

And  always  in  extreme. 

Now  with  a  noiseless  gentle  course 

It  keeps  within  the  middle  bed ; 

Anon  it  lifts  aloft  its  head, 

And  bears  down  all  before  it  with  impetuous 
force  ; 

And  trunks  of  trees  come  rolling  down, 

Sheep  and  their  folds  together  drown: 
Both  house  and  homestead  into  seas  are  borne, 
And  rocks  are  from  their  old  foundations  torn, 
And  woods,  made  thin   with  winds,  their  scat- 
ter'd  honours  mourn. 

Happy  the  man,  and  happy  he  alone, 

He,  who  can  call  to-day  his  own: 

He  who  secure  within,  can  say, 

To-morrow  do  thy  worst,  for  I  have  lived  to-day. 

Be  fair  or  foul,  or  rain  or  shine, 

The  joys  I  have  possess'd,  in  spite  of  fate,  are 

mine. 

NTot  Heaven  itself  upon  the  past  has  power, 
But  what  has  been,  has  been,  and  I  have  had 

my  hour. 

Fortune,  that,  with  malicious  joy, 

Does  man,  her  slave,  oppress, 
Proud  of  her  office  to  destroy, 

Is  seldom  pleased  to  bless : 
Still  various,  and  inconstant  still, 
But  with  an  inclination  to  be  ill, 
Promotes,  degrades,  delights  in  strife, 
And  makes  a  lottery  of  life. 

I  can  enjoy  her  while  she  is  kind ; 

But  when  she  dances  in  the  wind, 
And  shakes  her  wings,  and  will  not  stay, 
I  puff  the  prostitute  away ; 

The  little  or  the  much  she  gave,  is  quietly  re- 

sign'd  : 

Content  with  poverty  my  soul  I  arm, 
And  Virtue,  though  in  rags,  will  keep  me  warm. 

What  is  't  to  me, 

Who  never  sail  in  her  unfaithful  sea, 
If  storms  arise,  and  clouds  grow  black; 
If  the  mast  split,  and  threaten  wreck? 
Then  let  the  greedy  merchant  fear 

For  his  ill-gotten  gain, 
And  pray  to  gods  that  will  not  hear 
While  the  debating  winds  and  billows  bear 

His  wealth  unto  the  main. 
For  me,  secure  from  Fortune's  blows, 
Secure  of  what  I  cannot  lose, 
In  my  small  pinnace  I  can  sail, 

Contemning  all  the  blustering  roar; 
And  running  with  a  merry  gale, 
With  friendly  stars  my  safety  seek 
Within  some  little  winding  creek, 

And  see  the  storm  ashore. 


Book  IV. 

ODE  IV. THE  PRAISES  OF  DRU8TT8. 

As  the  wing'd  minister  of  thund'ring  Jove 

To  whom  he  gave  his  dreadful  bolts  to  bear, 
Faithful  assistant  of  his  master's  love, 

King  of  the  wand'ring  nations  of  the  air, 
When  balmy  breezes  fann'd  the  vernal  sky, 

On  doubtful  pinions  left  his  parent  nest, 
In  slight  essays  his  growing  force  to  try, 

While  inborn  courage  fired  his  generous  breast; 
Then,  darting  with  impetuous  fury  down, 

The  flocks  he  slaughter'd,  an  unpractised  foe; 
Now  his  ripe  valour  to  perfection  grown, 

The  scaly  snake  and  crested  dragon  know ; 
Or,  as  a  lion's  youthful  progeny, 

Wean'd  from  his  savage  dam  and  milky  food, 
The  gazing  kid  beholds  with  fearful  eye, 

Doom'd  first  to  stain  his  tender  fangs  in  blood: 
Such  Drusus,  young  in  arms,  his  foes  beheld, 

The  Alpine  Rhoeti,  long  unmatch  d  in  fight: 
So  were  their  hearts  with  abject  terror  quell'd, 

So  sunk  their  haughty  spirit  at  the  sight. 
Tamed  by  a  boy,  the  fierce  barbarians  find 

How  guardian  prudence  guides  the  youthful 

flame ; 
And  how  great  Ccesar's  fond  paternal  mind 

Each  generous  Nero  forms  to  early  fame ; 
A  valiant  son  springs  from  a  valiant  sire : 

Their  race  by  mettle  sprightly  coursers  prove; 
Nor  can  the  warlike  eagle's  active  fire 

Degenerate  to  form  the  timorous  dove. 
But  education  can  the  genius  raise, 

And  wise  instructions  native  virtue  aid  ; 
Nobility  without  them  is  disgrace, 

And  honour  is  by  vice  to  shame  betray'd. 
Let  red  Metaurus,  stain'd  with  Punic  blood, 

Let  mighty  Asdrubal  subdued,  confess 
How  much  of  empire  and  of  fame  is  owed 

By  thee,  0  Rome,  to  the  Neronian  race. 
Of  this  be  witness  that  auspicious  day 

Which,  after  a  long,  black,  tempestuous  night, 
First  smiled  on  Latium  with  a  milder  ray, 

And  cheer'd  our  drooping  hearts  with  dawn- 
ing light. 
Since  the  dire  African  with  wasteful  ire 

Rode  o'er  the  ravaged  towns  of  Italy ; 
As  through  the  pine  trees  flies  the  raging  fire, 

Or  Eurus  o'er  the  vex'd  Sicilian  sea. 
From  this  bright  era.  from  this  prosperous  field, 

The  Roman  Glory  dates  her  rising  power;. 
From  hence  'twas  given  her  conquering  sword 
to  wield, 

Raise  her  fallen  gods,  and  ruin'd  shrines  re- 
store. 
Thus  Hannibal  at  length  despairing  spoke: 

"Like  stags,  to  ravenous  wolves  an  easy  prey, 
Our  feeble  arms  a  valiant  foe  provoke, 

Whom  to  elude  and  'scape  were  victory : 

"  A  dauntless  nation,  that  from  Trojan  fires, 
Hostile  Ausonia,  to  thy  destined  shore 

Her  gods,  her  infant  sons,  and  aged  sires, 

Through  angry  seas  and  adverse  tempests  bore : 


472 


HORACE. 


"  As  on  high  Algidus  the  sturdy  oak, 

Whose  spreading  boughs  the  axe's  sharpness 

feel, 

Improves  by  lops,  and  thriving  with  the  stroke, 
Draws  health  and  vigour  from  the  wounding 

steel. 
"  Not  Hydra  sprouting  from  her  mangled  head 

So  tired  the  baffled  force  of  Hercules  ; 
Nor  Thebes,  nor  Colchis,  such  a  monster  bred, 

Pregnant  of   ills,  and  famed  for  prodigies. 
"  Plunge  her  in  ocean,  like  the  morning  sun, 
Brighter  she  rises  from  the  depths  below: 
To  earth  with  unavailing  ruin  thrown, 

Recruits  her  strength,  and  foils  the  wond'ring  foe. 
"  No  more  of  victory  the  joyful  fame 

Shall  from  my  camp  to  haughty  Carthage  fly; 
Lost  lost,  are  all  the  glories  of  her  name ! 

With  Asdrubal  her  hopes  and  fortune  die !" 
What  shall  the  Claudian  valour  not  perform 
Which   power  divine  guards  with  propitious 

care ; 
Which  wisdom  steers  through  all  the  dangerous 

storm, 
Through  all  the  rocks  and  shoals  of  doubtful  war  ? 

ODE   VII. TO  TORQ.trATTTS. 

THE  snow,  dissolved,  no  more  is  seen; 
The  fields  and  woods,  behold,  are  green; 
The  changing  year  renews  the  plain ; 
The  rivers  know  their  banks  again  ; 
The  sprightly  Nymph  and  naked  Grace 
The  mazy  dance  together  trace : 
The  changing  year's  successive  plan 
Proclaims  mortality  to  man. 
Rough  winter's  blasts  to  spring  give  way; 
Spring  yields  to  summer's  sovereign  ray; 
Then  summer  sinks  in  autumn's  reign; 
And  winter  chills  the  world  again. 
Her  losses  soon  the  moon  supplies ; 
But  wretched  man,  when  once  he  lies 
Where  Priam  and  his  sons  are  laid, 
Is  nought  but  ashes  and  a  shade. 
Who  knows  if  Jove,  who  counts  our  score, 
Will  rouse  us  in  a  morning  more  ? 
What  with  your  friend  you  nobly  share, 
At  least  you  rescue  from  your  heir. 
Not  you,  Torquatus,  boast  of  Rome, 
When  Minos  once  has  fix'd  your  doom, 
Or  eloquence,  or  splendid  birth, 
Or  virtue,  shall  replace  on  earth. 
Hippolytus,  unjustly  slain, 
Diana  calls  to  life  in  vain; 
Nor  can  the  might  of  Theseus  rend 
The  chains  of  hell  that  hold  his  friend. 

ODE   IX. TO  LOLLIUS. 

THE  poet  endeavours,  by  his  verses,  to  rescue  Lollius* 

name  from  oblivion. 

WHILE  with  the  Grecian  bards  I  vie, 
And  raptured  tune  the  social  string, 
Think  not  the  song  shall  ever  die, 

Which  with  no  vulgar  art  I  sing, 
Though  born   where   Aufid   rolls   his  sounding 

stream, 
In  lands  far  distant  from  poetic  fame. 


What  though  the  Muse  her  Homer  thrones 

High  above  all  th'  immortal  choir, 
Nor  Pindar's  rapture  she  disowns, 

Nor  hides  the  plaintive  Csean  lyre? 
Alcseus  strikes  the  tyrant's  soul  with  dread, 
Nor  yet  is  grave  Stesichorus  unread. 

Whatever  old  Anacreon  sung, 

(However  tender  was  his  lay,) 
In  spite  of  time  is  ever  young, 

Nor  Sappho's  amorous  flames  decay ; 
Her  living  songs  preserve  their  charming  art, 
Her  love  still  breathes  the  passions  of  her  heart. 

Helen  was  not  the  only  fair 

By  an  unhappy  passion  fired, 
Who  the  lewd  ringlets  of  the  hair 
Of  an  adulterous  beau  admired  ; 
Court  arts,  gold  lace,  and  equipage  have  charms 
To  tempt  weak  woman  to  a  stranger's  arms. 

Nor  first  from  Teucer's  vengeful  bow 
The  feather'd  death  unerring  flew, 
Nor  was  the  Greek  the  single  foe 

Whose  rage  ill-fated  Ilion  knew ; 
Greece  had  with  heroes  fill'd  th'  embattled  plain, 
Worthy  the  Muse  in  her  sublimest  strain. 

Nor  Hector  first  transported  heard 

With  fierce  delight  the  war's  alarms, 
Nor  brave  Dei'phobus  appear'd 

Amid  the  tented  field  in  arms, 
With  glorious  ardour  prodigal  of  life, 
To  guard  a  darling  son  and  faithful  wife. 

Before  great  Agamemnon  reign'd, 

Reign'd  kings  as  great  as  he,  and  brave. 
Whose  huge  ambition's  now  contain'd 

In  the  small  compass  of  a  grave  : 
In  endless  night  they  sleep,  unwept,  unknown, 
No  bard  had  they  to  make  all  time  their  own.* 

In  earth  if  it  forgotten  lies, 

What  is  the  valour  of  the  brave  ? 
What  difference,  when  the  coward  dies, 

And  sinks  in  silence  to  his  grave  ? 
Nor,  Lollius,  will  I  not  thy  praise  proclaim, 
But  from  oblivion  vindicate  thy  fame. 
Nor  shall  its  livid  power  conceal 

Thy  toils — how  glorious  to  the  state ! 
How  constant  to  the  public  weal 

Through  all  the  doubtful  turns  of  fate ! 
Thy  steady  soul,  by  long  experience  found 
Erect,  alike  when  fortune  smiled  or  frown'd. 


+  Had  envious  silence  left  unsung 
The  child  from  Mars  and  Ilia  sprung, 
How  had  we  known  the  hero's  fame, 
From  whom  the  Roman  empire  came? 
The  poet's  favour,  voice,  and  lays, 
Could  -Eacus  from  darkness  raise, 
Snatch'd  from  the  Stygian  gulfs  of  hell, 
Among  the  blissful  isles  to  dwell. 
The  Muse  forbids  the  brave  to  die, 
The  Muse  enthrones  him  in  the  sky; 
Alcides,  thus,  in  heaven  is  placed, 
And  shares  with  Jove  the  immortal  feast; 
Thus  the  twin-stars  have  power  to  save 
The  shatter'd  vessel  from  the  wave, 
And  vine-crown'd  Bacchus  with  success 
His  jovial  votaries  can  bless.— From  Ode  nil. 


HORACE. 


473 


Villain?,  in  public  rapine  bold, 

Lollius,  the  just  avciiL'i-r.  . , 
Who  never  by  the  charms  of  gold, 

Shining  seducer!    \vris  mi-led; 
Beyond  thy  year  such  virtue  shnll  extend, 
And  death  alone  thy  consulate  shall  end. 
Perpetual  magistrate  is  lie, 

Who  keeps  strict  justice  full  in  sight ; 
With  scorn  rejects  th'  oii'ender's  fee, 

Nor  weighs  convenienee  against  right; 
Who  bids  the  crowd  at  awful  distance  gaze, 
And  virtue's  arms  victoriously  displays. 
Not  he,  of  wealth  immense  pos- 

Tasteless  who  piles  his  ma.-sy  gold, 
Among  the  number  of  the  bless'd 

Should  have  his  glorious  name  enroll'd ; 
He  better  claims  the  glorious  name  who  knows 
With  wisdom  to  enjoy  what  Heaven  bestows: 
Who  knows  the  wrongs  of  want  to  bear, 

Even  in  its  lowest,  last  extreme ; 
Yet  can  with  conscious  virtue  fear, 

Far  worse  than  death,  a  deed  of  shame ; 
Undaunted,  for  his  country  or  his  friend 
To  sacrifice  his  life — oh  glorious  end ! 


EPODE    II. 

How  happy  in  his  low  degree, 

How  rich,  in  humble  poverty,  is  he, 
Who  leads  a  quiet  country  life; 
Discharg'd  of  business,  void  of  strife, 

And  from  the  griping  scrivener  free  ! 
Thus,  ere  the  seeds  of  vice  were  sown, 

Liv'd  men  in  1>  born, 

Who  plough'd,  with  oxen  of  their  own, 

Their  small  paternal  field  of  corn. 
Nor  trumpets  summon  him  to  war, 

Nor  drums  disturb  his  morning  sleep, 
Nor  knows  he  merchants'  gainful  care, 

Nor  fears  the  dangers  of  the  deep. 
The  clamours  of  contentious  law, 

And  court  and  state  he  wisely  shuns, 
Nor  brib'd  with  hopes,  nor  dar'd  with  awe, 

To  servile  salutations  runs; 
But  either  to  the  clasping  vine 

Does  the  supporting  pop'ar  wed, 
Or  with  his  pruninir  hook  d, 

Unbearing  branches  from  their  ! 

And  grafts  more  happy  in  their  stead  ; 
Or  climbing  to  a  hilly  steep. 

He  views  his  buds  in  vales  afar, 
Or  .-hears  his  ovcrburden'd  sheep, 

Or  mead  for  cooling  drink  prepares 

Of  virgin  honey  in  th- 
Or,  in  the  now  declining  year. 

When  beauteous  Autumn  rears  lii<  head, 
He  joys  to  pull  the  ripen'd  pear, 

And  clust'ring  grapes  with  purple  spread. 
Sometimes  beneath  an  ancient  oak, 

Or  on  the  matted  grass  lie  lies: 
No  God  of  Sleep  he  need  in, 

The  stream,  that  o'er  the  pebble  flies, 

With  gentle  slumber  crowns  his  eyes. 


The  wind,  that  whistles  through  the  sprays, 

Maintains  the  concert  of  the  song: 
And  hidden  birds  with  native  lays, 

The  golden  sleep  prolong. 
But  when  the  blast  of  winter  blows, 

And  hoary  frost  invests  the  year, 
Into  the  naked  woods  he  goes. 

And  seeks  the  tusky  boar  to  rear, 

With  well-mouth'd  hounds  and  pointed  spear 
Or  spreads  his  subtle  nets  from  sight, 

With  twinkling  glasses,  to  betray 
The  larks  that  in  the  meshes  light, 

Or  makes  the  fearful  bear  his  prey. 
Amidst  his  harmless,  easy  joys, 

No  anxious  care  invades  his  health, 
Nor  love  his  peace  of  mind  destroys, 

Nor  wicked  avarice  of  wealth. 
But,  if  a  chaste  and  pleasing  wife, 
To  ease  the  business  of  his  life, 
Divides  with  him  his  household  care, 
Such  as  the  Sabine  matrons  were,      • 
Such  as  the  swift  Apulian's  bride, 

Sunburnt  and  swarthy  though  she  be, 
Will  fire  for  winter  nights  provide, 

And — without  noise — will  oversee 

His  children  and  his  family: 
And  order  all  things  till  lie  come, 
Sweaty  and  overlabour'd  home  ; 
If  she  in  pens  his  flocks  will  fold, 

And  then  produce  her  dairy  store 
With  wine  to  drive  away  the  cold, 

And  unbought  dainties  for  the  poor ; 
Not  oysters  of  the  Lucrine  lake 

My  sober  appetite  would  wish, 

Nor  turbot.  or  the  foreign  fish 
That  rolling  tempests  overtake, 

And  hither  waft  the  costly  dish. 
Not  heathpoult,  or  the  rarer  bird, 

Which  Phasis  or  Ionia  yields 
More  pleasing  morsels  would  afford 

Than  the  fat  olives  of  my  fields; 
Than  shards  or  mallows  for  the  pot, 

That  keep  the  loosened  body  sound, 
Or  than  the  lamb,  that  falls  by  lot 

To  the  just  guardian  of  my  ground. 
Amidst  these  feasts  of  happy  swains, 

The  jolly  shepherd  smiles  to  see 
His  flock  returning  from  the  plains; 

The  farmer  is  as  pleas'd  as  he, 
To  view  his  oxen  sweating  smoke. 
Bear  on  their  necks  the  loosen'd  yoke : 

To  look  upon  his  menial  crew, 
That  sit  around  his  cheerful  hearth. 

And  bodies  spent  in  toil  renew 
With  wholesome  food  and  country  mirth. 

This  Alphius  said  within  himself; 
Resolv'd  to  leave  the  wicked  town, 
And  live  retir'd  upon  his  own, 

He  call'd  his  money  in  : 
But  the  prevailing  love  of  pelf, 
Soon  split  him  on  the  former  shelf,— 
He  put  it  out  again. 
2p3 


474 


HORACE. 


FROM  THE  SATIRES. 
Book  I. 

FROM  SATIRE   I. AVARICE  AND  DISCONTENT. 

MEC-ENAS,  what's  the  cause,  that  no  man  lives 
Contented  with  the  lot  which  reason  gives, 
Or  chance  presents ;  but  all  with  envy  view 
The  schemes  that  others  variously  pursue. 
Happy  the  merchant,  the  old  soldier  cries ; 
The  merchant,  beaten  with  tempestuous  skies, 
Happy  the  soldier ;  one  half  hour  to  thee 
Gives  speedy  death  or  glorious  victory. 
The  lawyer,  knock'd  up  early  from  his  rest 
By  restless  clients,  calls  the  peasant  bless'd ; 
The  peasant,  when  his  labours  ill  succeed, 
Envies  the  mouth  which  only  talk  does  feed. 
'Tis  not  (I  think  you'll  say)  that  I  want  store 
Of  instances,  if  here  I  add  no  more ; 
They  are  enough  to  reach  at  least  a  mile 
Beyond  long  Orator  Fabius  his  style. 
But,  hold,  you  whom  no  fortune  e'er  endears, 
Gentlemen,  mal-contents,  and  mutineers, 
Whom  bounteous  Jove  so  often  cruel  call, 
Behold,  Jove's  now  resolv'd  to  please  you  all. 
Thou,  soldier,  be  a  merchant ;  merchant,  thou 
A  soldier  be ;  and  lawyer,  to  the  plough. 
Change  all  your  stations  straight ;  why  do  you 

stay  ? — 
The  devil   a  man  will  change,  now  when  he 

may. 

Were  I  in  General  Jove's  abused  case, 
By  Jove,  I'd  cudgel  this  rebellious  race : 
But  he's  too  good.     Be  all  then  as  you  were, 
However,  make  the  best  of  what  you  are, 
And  in  that  state  be  cheerful  and  rejoice, 
Which  either  was  your  fate  or  was  your  choice. 
No;  they  must  labour  yet,  and  sweat,  and  toil, 
And  very  miserable  be  awhile ; 
But  'tis  with  a  design  only  to  gain 
What  may  their  age  with  plenteous  ease  main- 
tain. 

The  prudent  pismire  does  this  lesson  teach, 
And  industry  to  lazy  mankind  preach : 
The  little  drudge  does  trot  about  and  sweat, 
Nor  does  he  straight  devour  all  he  can  get, 
But  in  his  temp'rate  mouth  carries  it  home, 
A  stock  for  winter,  which  he  knows  must  come ; 
And  when  the  rolling  world  to  creatures  here 
Turns  up  the  deform'd  wrong  side  of  the  year, 
And  shuts  him  in  with  storms,  and  cold,  and 

wet, 

He  cheerfully  does  his  past  labours  eat, 
And  weighing  justly  a  mortal  ant's  condition, 
Divides  his  life  'twixt  labour  and  fruition. 
Thee  neither  heat,  nor  storms,  nor  wet,  nor  cold, 
From  thy  unnatural  diligence  can  withhold: 
To  th'  Indies  thou  wouldst  run,  rather  than  see 
Another,  though  a  friend,  richer  than  thee. 
Fond  man !  what  good  or  beauty  can  be  found 
In  heaps  of  treasure  buried  under  ground? 
Which  rather  than  dimiriish'd  e'er  to  see, 
Thou  wouldst  thyself,  too,  buried  with  them  be. 
And  what's  the  diff 'rence  ?  Is  it  not  quite  as  bad 
Never  to  use,  as  never  to  have  had  ? 
In  thy  vast  barns  millions  of  quarters  store ; 
Thy  belly,  for  all  that,  will  hold  no  more 


Than  mine    does.      Ev'ry  baker  makes  much 

bread  ; 

What  then  ?  he's  with  no  more  than  others  fed. 
But  pleasant  'tis  to  take  from  a  great  store. 
What,  man !  though  you're  resolv'd  to  take  no 

more 

Than  I  do  from  a  small  one  ?  If  your  will 
Be  but  a  pitcher  or  a  pot  to  fill, 
To  some  great  river  for  it  must  you  go, 
When  a  clear  spring  just  at  your  feet  does  flow? 
Give  me  the  spring  which  does  to  human  use 
Safe,  easy,  and  untroubled  stores  produce  : 
He  who  scorns  these,  and  needs  will  drink  at 

Nile 

Must  run  the  danger  of  the  crocodile, 
And  of  the  rapid  stream  itself,  which  may 
At  unawares  bear  him,  perhaps,  away. 
In  a  full  flood  Tantalus  stands,  his  skin 
Wash'd  o'er  in  vain,  for  ever  dry  within  ; 
He  catches  at  the  stream  with  greedy  lips, 
From   his   touch'd   mouth    the    wanton   torrent 

slips. 

You  laugh,  now,  and  expand  your  careful  brow; 
'Tis  finely  said,  but  what's  all  this  to  you  ? 
Change  but  the  name,  this  fable  is  thy  story; 
Thou  in  a  flood  of  useless  wealth  dost  glory, 
Which  thou  canst  only  touch,  but  never  taste; 
Th'  abundance  still,  and  still  the  want  does  last. 
The  treasures  of  the  gods  thou  wouldst  not  spare, 
But  when  they're  made  thy  own,  they  sacred 

are, 

And  must  be  kept  with  rev'rence,  as  if  thou 
No  other  use  of  precious  gold  didst  know, 
But  that  of  curious  pictures,  to  delight, 
With  the  fair  stamp,  thy  virtuoso  sight. 
The  only  true  and  genuine  use  is  this, 
To  buy  the  things  which  Nature  cannot  miss 
Without  discomfort;  oil,  and  vital  bread, 
And  wine,  by  which  the  life  of  Life  is  fed, 
And  all  those  few  things  else  by  which  we  live ; 
All  that  remains  is  giv'n  for  thee  to  give. 
If  cares  and  troubles,  envy,  grief,  and  fear, 
The  bitter  fruits  be  which  fair  Riches  bear, 
If  a  new  poverty  grow  out  of  store, 
The  plain  old  way,  ye  gods !  let  me  be  poor. 

FROM    SATIRE    III. AIL    CRIMES    NOT    TO    BE 

RANKED  AND  PUNISHED  ALIKE. 

WHO  say  that  crimes  are  sins  alike, 

At  common  sense  and  manners  strike : 

And  e'en  utility  despise, 

Whence  equity  and  law  arise. 

When  creatures  first,  at  Nature's  birth, 

Dumb  and  unseemly  crawl'd  on  earth: 

For  acorns  and  for  beds  of  leaves, 

They  strove  with  fists,  and  then  with  staves : 

Next  use  with  iron  arms  supplied, 

And  wars  were  fought,  and  warriors  died  : 

Then  speech  was  found,  then  language  rose, 

And  peaceful  words  succeeded  blows. 

Now  towns  were  built,  and  laws  were  framed, 

That  punish'd  villany,  or  shamed  ; 

Preserving  all  the  goods  of  life, 

The  person,  property,  and  wife. 

Inquire  of  ages  past  the  cause, 

The  fear  of  crimes  invented  laws : 


HORACE. 


475 


Not  simple  Nature  taught  the  skill. 
To  draw  the  line  'twixt  good  and  ill ; 
!T \vixt  certain  virtues,  certain  sins, 
Whence  merit  ends,  and  crime  begins. 
Nor  reason,  sure  can  say  that  he 
Must  just  as  great  a  villain  be, 
Who  idly  breaks  his  neighbour's  bounds, 
As  he,  who  steals  a  thousand  pounds. 

FROM  SATIRE  IV. HOHACE'8  ACCOUNT  OF  HIS 

FATHER  AXI)  HIMSELF. 

THE  best  of  fathers,  on  my  youthful  breast 
T  10  detestation  of  a  vice  impress'd 
By  strong  examples.    Would  he  have  me  live 
Content  with  what  his  industry  could  give, 
In  frugal,  sparing  sort,  "Behold,  my  stm, 
Y.iung  Albius  there,  how  wretchedly  undone! 
Yet  no  mean  lesson  is  the  spendthrift's  fate 
To  caution  youth  from  squandering  their  estate." 
To  fright  me  from  the  harlot's  vagrant  bed, 
"Behold  Scetanius,  and  his  ruin  dread  ;" 
That  I  might  ne'er  pursue  the  wedded  dame, 
"  A.  lawful  Venus  will  indulge  your  flame. 
My  son,  by  poor  Trebonius  be  advised  ; 
SJTC  'tis  no  pleasant  tale  to  be  surprised/' 

'•'Twixt   right  and   wrong  the   learned  may 

decide, 

\Vith  wise  distinctions  may  your  conduct  guide ; 
Be  mine  the  common  wisdom,  that  inspires 
The  frugal  manners  of  our  ancient  sires, 
.And,  while  your  mouth  may  yet  a  tutor  claim, 
To  guard  your  virtue,  and  preserve  your  fame, 
But  soon  as  time  confirms,  with  stronger  tone, 
Your  strength  and  mind,  your  conduct  be  your 
own." 

Thus  did  he  form  my  youth  with  lenient  hand; 
When  lie  for  virtue  urged  the  soft  command, 
Pointing  some  awful  senator  to  view, 
liHis  grave  example  constantly  pursue." 
Would  he  dissuade  me;  "Can  you  doubt,"  he 

cries, 

"That  equal  ruin  and  dishonour  rise 
From  such  an  action,  when  that  scoundrel's  name 
Is  branded  with  the  flagrant  marks  of  shame  ?" 
A  neighbour's  funeral,  with  dire  affright, 
Checks  the  sick  man's  intemperate  appetite  ; 
So  is  the  shame  of  others  oft  impi 
With  wholesome  terrors  on  the  youthful  breast. 


VTIRE  VI. TO    MECJBN AS, WITH   A  FUR- 

THKR  ACCOUNT   OF  HIS   FATHER  AJ»D   HIMSELF. 

•  ••••• 

NOR  yet  to  chance  my  happiness  I  owe ; 
Friendr-hip  like  yours  it  had  not  to  bestow. 
Fir.-t.  my  best  Virgil,  thru  my  Varius.  told 
Among  my  friends  what  character  1  hold; 
When  introduced,  in  few  and  faltering  words 
(>uch  as  an  infant  modesty  affords) 
I  did  not  tell  you  my  descent  was  ^roat, 
Or  that  1  wander'd  round  my  country  seat 
On  a  proud  steed  in  nrher  pastures  bred; 
But  what  I  really  was,  I  frankly  sai.i. 

Short  was  your  answer,  in  your  usual  strain; 
I  take  my  leave,  nor  wait  on  you  again, 


Till,  nine  months  past,  engaged  and  bid  to  hold 
A  place  among  your  nearer  friends  enroll'd. 
An  honour  this,  methinks,  of  nobler  kind, 
That  innocent  of  heart  and  pure  of  mind, 
Though  with  no  titled  birth,  I  gain'd  his  love, 
Whose  judgment  can  discern,  whose  choice  ap- 
prove. 

If  some  few  venial  faults  deform  my  soul, 
(Like  a  fair  face  when  spotted  with  a  mole,) 
If  none  with  avarice  justly  brand  my  fame 
With  sordidness,  or  deeds  too  vile  to  name : 
If  pure  and  innocent:  if  dear  (forgive 
These  little  praises)  to  my  friends  I  live, 
My  father  was  the  cause,  who,  though  maintain'd 
By  a  lean  farm  but  poorly,  yet  disdain'd 
The  country  schoolmaster,  to  whose  low  care 
The  mighty  captain  sent  his  high-born  heir, 
With  satchel,  copy  book,  and  pelf  to  pay 
The  wretched  teacher  on  th'  appointed  day. 

To  Rome  by  this  bold  father  was  I  brought, 
To  learn  those  arts  which  well-born  youth  are 

taught ; 

So  dress'd  and  so  attended,  you  would  swear 
I  was  some  senator's  expensive  heir ; 
Himself  my  guardian,  of  unblemish'd  truth, 
Among  my  tutors  would  attend  my  youth, 
And  thus  preserv'd  my  chastity  of  mind, 
(That  prime  of  virtue  in  its  highest  kind,) 
Not  only  pure  from  guilt,  but  even  the  shame 
That  might  with  vile  suspicion  hurt  my  fame : 
Nor  fear'd  to  be  reproach'd,  although  my  fate 
Should  fix  my  fortune  in  some  meaner  state, 
From  which  some  trivial  perquisites  arise, 
Or  make  me,  like  himself,  collector  of  excise. 

For  this  my  heart,  far  from  complaining,  pays 
A  larger  debt  of  gratitude  and  praise  ; 
Nor,  while  my  senses  hold,  shall  I  repent 
Of  such  a  father,  nor  with  pride  resent, 
As  many  do,  th'  involuntary  disgrace 
Not  to  be  born  of  an  illustrious  race. 
But  not  with  theirs  my  sentiments  agree 
Or  language;  for  if  Nature  should  decree 
That  we  from  any  stated  point  might  live 
Our  former  years,  and  to  our  choice  should  give 
The  sires,  to  whom  we  wished  to  be  allied, 
Let  others  choose  to  gratify  their  pride; 
While  I,  contented  with  my  own,  resign 
The  titled  honours  of  an  ancient  line. 

FROM   SATIRE   X. ADVICE  TO  AUTHORS. 

WOULD  you  a  reader's  just  esteem  engage, 
Correct  with  frequent  care  the  blotted  page; 
Nor  strive  the  wonder  of  the  crowd  to  raise, 
But  the  few  better  judges  learn  to  please. 
Let  Plotius,  Varius.  and  Mee;.  nas  deign 
With  Virgil,  Vakius  to  approve  my  strain  ; 
Let  good  Octaviu>  even  endure  my  lays; 
Let  Fuscus  read,  and  either  Viscus  praise: 
Let  Pollio  and  Mes.-ala  be.  my  own, 
And  Furnius  for  a  critic's  candour  known; 
Among  my  learned  friends  are  many  more, 
Whose  names  I  pass  in  modest  silence  o'er; 
These  I  can  wi>h  to  smile;  enjoy  their  praise, 
Hope  to  delight,  and  grieve  if  I  displease. 


476 


HORACE. 


Book  IL 

FROM     SATIRE   I. LUCILIUS  ;    AND    HORACE'S    DE- 
SIRE TO   WRITE   LIKE   HIM. 

H.  Tell  me,  Trebatius,  are  not  all  mankind 
To  different  pleasures,  different  whims  inclined1? 
Millonius  dances  when  his  head  grows  light, 
And  the  dim  lamp  shines  double  to  his  sight. 
The  twin-born  brothers  in  their  sports  divide ; 
Pollux  loves  boxing;  Castor  joys  to  ride. 
Indulge  me  then  in  this  my  sole  delight, 
Like  great  and  good  Lucilius,  let  me  write. 

Behold  him  frankly  to  his  book  impart 
As  to  a  friend,  the  secrets  of  his  heart : 
To  write  was  all  his  aim  :  too  heedless  bard, 
And  well  or  ill,  unworthy  his  regard. 
Hence  the  old  man  stands  open  to  your  view, 
Though  with  a  careless  hand  the  piece  he  drew. 

His  steps  I  follow  in  pursuit  of  fame, 
Whether  Lucania  or  Apulia  claim 
The  honour  of  my  birth;  for  on  the  lands, 
By  Samnites  once  possess'd,  Venusium  stands, 
A  forward  barrier,  as  old  tales  relate. 
To  stop  the  course  of  war,  and  guard  the  state. 

Let  this  digression,  as  it  may,  succeed — 
No  honest  man  shall  by  my  satire  bleed ; 
It  guards  me  like  a  sword,  and  safe  it  lies 
Within  the  sheath,  till  villains  round  me  rise. 

Dread  king  and  father  of  the  mortal  race, 
Behold  me,  harmless  bard,  how  fond  of  peace ! 
And  may  all  kinds  of  mischief-making  steel 
In  rust,  eternal  rust,  thy  vengeance  feel ! 
But  who  provokes  me,  or  attacks  my  fame, 
"Better  not  touch  me,  friend/' — I  loud  exclaim  ; 
His  eyes  shall  weep  the  folly  of  his  tongue, 
By  laughing  crowds  in.  rueful  ballad  sung. 

Then,  whether  age  my  peaceful  hours  attend, 
Or  Death  his  sable  pinions  round  me  bend ; 
Or  rich,  or  poor ;  at  Rome ;  to  exile  driven  ; 
Whatever  lot  by  powerful  Fate  is  given, 
Yet  write  I  will. 

T.  Oh  boy,  thy  fate  is  sped, 

And  short  thy  days.    Some  lord  shall  strike  thee 

dead, 
With  freezing  look — 

H.  What !  in  his  honest  page 

When  good  Lucilius  laslrd  a  vicious  age, 
From  conscious  villains  tore  the  mask  away, 
And  stripp'd  them  naked  to  the  glare  of  day, 
Were  Laelius  or  his  friend,  (whose  glorious  name 
From  conquer'd  Carthage  deathless  rose  to  fame,) 
Were  they  displeased,  when  villains  and  their 

crimes 

Were  cover'd  o'er  with  infamy  and  rhymes  ? 
The  factious  demagogue  he  made  his  prize, 
And  durst  the  people  tribe  by  tribe  chastise ; 
Yet  true  to  virtue,  and  to  virtue's  friends, 
To  them  alone  with  reverence  he  bends. 
When  Scipio's  virtue,  and,  of  milder  vein, 
When  Laelius'  wisdom,  from  the  busy  scene, 
And  crowd  of  life,  the  vulgar  and  the  great, 
Could  with  their  favourite  satirist  retreat, 
Lightly  they  laugh'd  at  many  an  idle  jest, 
Until  their  frugal  feast  of  herbs  was  dress'd. 

What  though  with  great  Lucilius  I  disclaim 
All  saucy  rivalship  of  birth  or  fame, 


Spite  of  herself  even  Envy  must  confess 
That  I  the  friendship  of  the  great  possess, 
And,  if  she  dare  attempt  my  honest  fame, 
Shall  break  her  teeth  against  my  solid  name. 
This  is  my  plea;  on  this  I  rest  my  cause.— 

FROM  SATIRE   III. MADMEN. 

FOR  all  are  fools  or  mad,  as  well  as  you, 
At  least,  if  what  Stertinius  says  be  true, 

Whom  vicious  follies,  or  whom  falsehood,  blind, 
Are  by  the  stoics  held  of  maddening  kind. 
And  they,  who  call  you  fool,  with  equal  claim 
May  plead  an  ample  title  to  the  name. 

When  in  a  wood  we  leave  the  certain  way, 
One  error  fools  us,  though  we  various  stray, 
Some  to  the  left,  some  turn  to  t'other  side ; 
So  he,  who  dares  thy  madness  to  deride, 
Though  you  may  frankly  own  yourself  a  fool, 
Behind  him  trails  his  mark  of  ridicule. 

Come  all,  whose  breasts  with  bad  ambition 

rise 

Or  the  pale  passion,  that  for  money  dies, 
With  luxury,  or  superstition's  gloom, 
Whate'er  disease  your  health  of  mind  consume, 
Compose  your  robes;  in  decent  ranks  draw  near, 
And,  that  ye  all  are  mad,  with  reverence  hear. 

If  a  man  fill'd  his  cabinet  with  lyres, 
Whom  neither  music  charms,  nor  muse  inspires; 
Should  he  buy  lasts  and  knives,  who  never  made 
A  shoe;  or  if  a  wight,  who  hated  trade, 
The  sails  and  tackle  for  a  vessel  bought, 
Madman  or  fool  he  might  be  justly  thought. 
But,  prithee,  where's  the  difference  to  behold 
A  wretch,  who  heaps  and  hides  his  darling  gold; 
Who  knows  not  how  to  use  the  massy  store, 
Yet  dreads  to  violate  the  sacred  ore  ? 

With  a  long  club,  and  ever-open  eyes, 
To  guard  his  corn  its  wretched  master  lies, 
Nor   dares,  though  hungry,  touch   the  hoarded 

grain, 

While  bitter  herbs  his  frugal  life  sustain ; 
If  in  his  cellar  lie  a  thousand  flasks 
(Nay,  let  them  rise  to  thrice  a  thousand  casks) 
Of  old  Falernian,  or  the  Chian  vine, 
Yet  if  he  drink  mere  vinegar  for  wine; 
If,  at  fourscore,  of  straw  he  made  his  bed, 
While  moths  upon  his  rotting  carpet  fed, 
By  few,  forsooth,  a  madman  he  is  thought, 
For  half  mankind  the  same  disease  have  caught. 

FROM  SATIRE  VI. COUNTRY  LIFE. 

I  OFTEN  wish'd  I  had  a  farm, 
A  decent  dwelling,  snug  and  warm, 
A  garden,  and  a  spring  as  pure 
As  crystal,  running  by  my  door; 
Besides  a  little  ancient  grove, 
Where  at  my  leisure  I  might  rove. 

The  gracious  gods,  to  crown  my  bliss, 
Have  granted  this,  and  more  than  this: 
I  have  enough  in  my  possessing, 
'Tis  well :  I  ask  no  other  blessing, 
Oh  Hermes !  than  remote  from  strife 
To  have  and  hold  them  for  my  life. 

If  I  was  never  known  to  raise 
My  fortune  by  dishonest  ways  ; 
Nor,  like  the  spendthrifts  of  the  times, 
Shall  ever  sink  it  by  my  crimes : 


HORACE. 


477 


If  thus  I  neither  pray  nor  ponder, — 
Oh!  might  I  have  that  angle  yonder, 
Which  disproportions  now  my  field, 
What  satisfaction  it  would  yield! 
Oh  that  some  lucky  chance  but  threw 
A  pot  of  silver  to  my  view, 
As  lately  to  the  man,  who  bought 
The  very  land  on  which  he  wrought! 
If  I  am  pleased  with  my  condition, 
Oh  hear,  and  grant  this  last  petition: 
Indulgent,  let  my  cattle  batten  ; 
Let  all  things,  but  my  farcy,  fatten; 
And  thou  continue  still  to  guard, 
As  thou  art  wont,  thy  suppliant  bard ! 

Whilst  losing,  in  Rome's  busy  maze, 
The  calm  and  sunshine  of  my  days, 
How  oft,  with  fervour  I  repeat 
'•  U  hen  shall  I  see  my  sweet  retreat? 
Oh,  when  with  books  of  sages  deep, 
Sequester'd  ease  and  gentle  sleep, 

:';.  oblivion,  blissful  balm, 
The  busy  cares  of  life  becalm? 
Oh,  when  shall  I  enrich  my  veins, 
Spite  of  Pythagoras,  with  beans? 
Or  live  luxurious  in  my  cottage 
On  bacon-ham  and  savoury  pottage? 
O  joyous  nights  !  delicious  feasts  ! 
At  which  the  gods  might  be  my  guests!" 
My  friends  and  I  regaled,  my  slaves 
Enjoy  what  their  rich  master  leaves. 
There  every  guest  may  drink  and  fill 
As  much,  or  little,  as  he  will, 
Exempted  from  die  bedlam  rules 
Of  roaring  prodigals  and  fools. 
Whether  in  merry  mood  or  whim, 
}!••  tills  his  bumper  to  the  brim; 
Or,  better  pleased  to  let  it  pass, 
Grows  mellow  with  a  moderate  glass. 

FROM   SATIRE   VII. FIIEEDOX. 

H.  Who  then  is  free  ? 

D.  The  wise,  who  well  maintains 

An  empire  o'er  himself:  whom  neither  chains, 
Nor  want,  nor  death,  with  slavish  f>-ar  inspire, 
Who  boldly  answers  to  his  warm  desire, 
an  ambition's  vainest  gifts  despise, 
Firm  in  himself,  who  on  himself  relies, 
Poli<h'd  and  round,  who  runs  his  proper  course, 
Ami  breaks  mi.-fbrtune  with  superior  force. 

You  ask,  perhaps,  what  sect,  what  chief  1  own; 
I'm  of  nil  sects,  hut  blindly  sw..r:i  to  Q 
For  as  the  t.-mpest  drives  I  shape  my 

active  plunge  into  the  world's  wide 
Now  Virtue's  p1  ''y  defend, 

Nor  to  the  world — the  world  to  me  shall  bend: 
Then  make  some  looser  moralist  my  guide, 
And  to  the  school  less  rigid  smoothly  glide. 


I 


FROM  Tin;   EPISTLES. 
Book  I. 

VIIUM    KIMSTLK    I. Til 


As  night  seems  tedious  to  th'  expecting  youth 
Whose  fair  one  breaks  her  assignation-truth ; 
As  to  a  slave  appears  the  lengthen'd  day, 
Who  owes  his  task — for  he  received  his  pay; 
As,  when  the  guardian  mother's  too  severe, 
Impatient  minors  waste  their  last  long  year; 
So  sadly  slow  the  time  ungrateful  flows 
Which  breaks  th'  important  systems  I  propose; 
Systems,  whose  useful  precepts  might  engage 
Both  rich  and  poor ;  both  infancy  and  age ; 
But  meaner  precepts  now  my  life  must  rule, 
These,  the  first  rudiments  of  Wisdom's  school. 
You  cannot  hope  for  Lynceus'  piercing  < 
But  will   you  then   a  strengthening  salve   des- 
pise? 

You  wish  for  matchless  Glycon's  limbs,  in  vain, 
Yet  why  not  cure  the  gout's  decrepit  pain  ? 
Though  of  exact  perfection  you  despair, 
Yet  every  step  to  virtue's  worth  your  care. 
Even  while    you    fear    to   use    your    present 

store, 

Yet  glows  your  bosom  with  a  lust  of  more  ? 
The  power  of  words,  and  soothing  sounds  can 

ease 

The  raging  pain,  and  lessen  your  disease. 
Is  fame  your  passion?  Wisdom's  powerful  charm, 
If  thrice  read  over,  shall  its  force  disarm. 
The  slave  to  envy,  anger,  wine,  or  love, 
The  wretch  of  sloth,  its  excellence  shall  prove: 
Fierceness  itself  shall  hear  its  rage  away, 
When  listening  calmly  to  th'  instructive  lay. 
Even  in  our  flight  from  vice  some  virtue  lies; 
And,  free  from  folly,  we  to  wisdom  rise. 

Silver  to  gold,  we  own,  should  yield  the  prize, 
And  gold  to  virtue ;  but  loud  Folly  cries, 
"  Ye  sons  of  Rome,  let  money  first  be  sought ; 
Virtue  is  only  worth  a  second  thought.'1 
This  maxim  echoes  through  the  banker's  street, 
While  young  and  old  the  pleasing  strain  repeat : 
For  though  you  boast  a  larger  fund  "of  sense, 
Untainted  morals,  honour,  eloquence, 
Yet  want  a  little  of  the  sum  that  1 
The  titled  honour,  and  you  ne'er  shall  rise  ; 
Yet  if  yoa  want  the  qualifying  right 
Of  such  a  fortune  to  be  made  a  knight, 
You're  a  plebeian  still.      Yet  children  sing, 
Amid  their  sports.  "  Do  riurht,  and  be  a  king/' 

Be  this  thy  bra/en  bulwark  of  <lcf.-; 
Still  to  preserve  thy  conscious  innocei. 
Nor  e'er  turn  pale  with  guilt.      But,  prithee,  tell, 
Shall  Otho's  law  the  children's  song  excel? 
The  sons  of  ancient  Home  first  smii:  the  .-train 
That  bids  the  wi-c.  tin-  brave,  the  virtuous  reign. 

My  friend,  get  money;   get  a  large  estate, 
By  hon  '  any  rate. 

That  you  with  knights  and  senators  may  sit, 
And  view  th"  weeping  scene-  that  Pupius  writ. 
But  is  he  not  a  friend  of  nobler  kind 
Who  wisely  fa-hions.  and  informs  thy  mind, 

ISWer,  with  a  soul  erect  and  brave. 
To  Fortune's  pride,  and  scorn  to  be  her  slave? 

But  should  the  people  ask  me,  while  I  choose 
The  public  converse,  wherefore  I  r 
To  join  the  public  judgment,  and  approve, 
Or  fly  whatever  they  dislike,  or  love ; 


478 


HORACE. 


Mine  be  the  answer  prudent  reynard  made 
To  the  sick  lion — "  Truly,  I'm  afraid, 
When  I  behold  the  steps,  that  to  thy  den 
Look  forward  all,  but  none  return  agen." 

FROM  EPISTLE  ii. 

DANGER  OF  PROCRASTINATION. 

BEGIN  ;  be  bold  ;  and  venture  to  be  wise  ; 
He  who  defers  the  work  from  day  to  day, 
Does  on  a  river's  bank  expecting  stay, 
'Till  the  whole  stream  that  stopp'd  him,  shall  be 

gone, 
That  runs,  and,  as  it  runs,  for  ever  will  run  on. 

FROM  EPISTLE   III. TO  A  PLAGIARIST. 

LET  Celsus  be  admonish'd,  o'er  and  o'er, 
To  search  the  treasures  of  his  native  store, 
Nor  touch  what  Phosbus  consecrates  to  fame, 
Lest,  when  the  birds  their  various  plumage  claim, 
Stripp'd  of  his  stolen  pride,  the  crow  forlorn 
Shall  stand  ridiculous, — the  public  scorn ! — 

FROM  EPISTLE  V. WINE. 

SAY,  what  are  Fortune's  gifts,  if  I'm  denied 
Their  cheerful  use?  for  nearly  are  allied 
The  madman,  and  the  fool,  whose  sordid  care 
Makes  himself  poor,  to  enrich  a  worthless  heir. 
Give  me  to  drink,  and,  crown'd  with  flowers, 

despise 
The  grave  disgrace  of  being  thought  unwise. 

What  cannot  wine  perform  ?    It  brings  to  light 
The  secret  soul ;  it  bids  the  coward  fight ; 
Gives  being  to  our  hopes,  and  from  our  hearts 
Drives  out  dull  sorrow,  and  inspires  new  arts. 
Is  there  a  wretch,  whom  bumpers  have  not  taught 
A  flow  of  words,  and  loftiness  of  thought? 
Even  in  th'  oppressive  grasp  of  poverty 
It  can  enlarge,  and  bid  the  soul  be  free. 

FROM  EPISTLE  VI. VIRTUE  OR  WEALTH  ? 

WOULD  you  not  wish  to  cure  th'  acuter  pains, 
That  rack  yqur  tortured  side,  or  vex  your  reins  ? 
Would  you,  and  who  would  not,  with  pleasure  live? 
If  Virtue  can  alone  the  blessing  give, 
With  ardent  spirit  her  alone  pursue, 
And  with  contempt  all  other  pleasures  view. 
Yet  if  you  think  that  virtue's  but  a  name ; 
That  groves  are  groves,  nor  from  religion  claim 
A  sacred  awe ;  sail  to  the  distant  coast, 
Nor  let  the  rich  Bithynian  trade  be  lost. 
A  thousand  talents  be  the  rounded  sum 
You  first  design'd ;  then  raise  a  second  plumb ; 
A  third  successive  be  your  earnest  care, 
And  add  a  fourth  to  make  the  mass  a  square ; 
For  gold,  the  sovereign  queen  of  all  below, 
Friend,  honour,  birth,  and  beauty  can  bestow  ; 
The  goddess  of  persuasion  forms  a  train, 
And  Venus  decks  the  well-bemonied  swain. 

FROM  EPISTLE   VII. CALABRIAN   HOSPITALITY. 

"THESE  pears  are  excellent, then, prithee, feed." — 
"I've  eaten  quite  enough.'' — "Well,  you  indeed 
Shall  take  some  home — as  many  as  you  please, 
For  children  love  such  little  gifts  as  these." 
"I  thank  you,  sir,  as  if  they  all  were  mine"— 
"Well,  if  you    leave,  you   leave  them  for  the 
swine." 


THE   MOUSE  AND   THE   WEASEL. 

INTO  a  wicker  cask  where  corn  was  kept, 
Perchance  of  meagre  corse,  a  field-mouse  crept; 
But  when  she  fill'd  her  paunch,  and  sleek'd  her 

hide, 

How  to  get  out  again,  in  vain  she  tried. 
A  weasel,  who  beheld  her  thus  distress'd, 
In  friendly  sort  the  luckless  mouse  address'd : 
"  Would  you  escape,  you  must  be  lean  and  thin ; 
Then  try  the  cranny  where  you  first  got  in." 

EPISTLE  VIII. TO  CELSUS  ALBINOVANUS. 

COMPLAINING  OF  ILL  HEALTH. 

To  Celsus,  Muse,  my  warmest  wishes  bear, 
And  if  he  kindly  ask  you  how  I  fare, 
Say,  though  I  threaten  many  a  fair  design, 
Nor  happiness,  nor  wisdom,  yet  are  mine. 
Not  that  the  driving  hail  my  vineyards  beat; 
Not  that  my  olives  are  destroy'd  with  heat ; 
Not  that  my  cattle  pine  in  distant  plains — 
More  in  my  mind  than  body  lie  my  pains. 
Reading  I  hate,  and  with  unwilling  ear 
The  voice  of  comfort,  or  of  health  I  hear ; 
Friends  or  physicians  I  with  pain  endure, 
Who  strive  this  languor  of  my  soul  to  cure. 
Whate'er  may  hurt  me,  I  with  joy  pursue  ; 
Whate'er  may  do  me  good,  with  horror  view. 
Inconstant  as  the  wind,  I  various  rove; 
At  Tibur,  Rome;  at  Rome,  I  Tibur  love. 

Ask  how  he  does ;  what  happy  arts  support 
His  prince's  favour,  nor  offend  the  court ; 
If  all  be  well,  say  first,  that  we  rejoice, 
And  then,  remember,  with  a  gentle  voice 
Instil  this  precept  on  his  listening  ear, 
"  As  you  your  fortune,  we  shall  Celsus  bear." 

EPISTLE  X. TO  FUSCUS  ARISTUS. 

HEALTH  from  the  lover  of  the  country,  me, 
Health  to  the  lover  of  the  city,  thee. 
A  difference  in  our  souls  this  only  proves ; 
In  all  things  else,  we  pair  like  married  doves. 
But  the   warm    nest   and   crowded  dove-house 

thou 

Dost  like :  I  loosely  fly  from  bough  to  bough, 
And  rivers  drink,  and  all  the  shining  day 
Upon  fair  trees  or  mossy  rocks  I  play ; 
In  fine,  I  live  and  reign,  when  I  retire 
From  all  that  you  equal  with  heaven  admire ; 
Like  one  at  last  from  the  priest's  service  fled, 
Loathing  the  honied  cakes,  I  long  for  bread. 
Would  I  a  house  for  happiness  erect, 
Nature  alone  should  be  the  architect ; 
She'd  build  it  more  convenient  than  great, 
And  doubtless  in  the  country  choose  her  seat: 
Is  there  a  place  doth  better  helps  supply 
Against  the  wounds  of  winter's  cruelty  ? 
Is  there  an  aid  that  gentlier  does  assuage 
The  mad  celestial  dog's,  or  lion's  rage  ? 
Is  it  not  there  that  sleep  (and  only  there) 
Nor  noise  without,  nor  cares  within  does  fear? 
Does  art  through  pipes  a  purer  water  bring 
Than  that  which  Nature  strains  into  a  spring  ? 
Can  all  your  tap'stries,  or  your  pictures,  show 
More  beauties  than  in   herbs   and    flowers  do 

grow? 


HORACE. 


479 


Fountains  and  trees  our  wearied  pride  do  please, 

Ev'n  in  the  midst  of  gilded  palaces; 

A  id  in  your  towns  that  prospect  gives  delight 

"Which  opens  round  the  country  to  our  sight. 

Men  to  the  good  from  which  they  rashly  fly, 

Return  at  lust;  and  their  wild  luxury 

Does  but  in  vain  with  those  true  joys  contend, 

Which  Nature  did  to  mankind  recommend. 

:aan  who  changes  gold  for  burnish'd  brass, 
Or  small  right  gems  for  larger  ones  of  glass, 
Is  not  at  length  more  certain  to  be  made 
Ridiculous,  and  wretched  by  the  trade, 
Than  he  who  sells  a  solid  go<xl  to  buy 
The  painted  goods  of  pride  and  vanity. 
If  thou  be  wise,  no  glorious  fortune  choose, 
Which  'tis  but  pain  to  keep,  yet  grief  to  lose ; 
For,  when  we  place  ev'n  trifles  in  the  heart, 
With  trifles,  too,  unwillingly  we  part. 
An  humble  roof,  plain  bed,  and  homely  board, 
More  clear  untainted  pleasures  do  afford 
Than  all  the  tumult  of  vain  greatness  brings 
To  kings,  or  to  the  favourites  of  kings. 
The  horned  deer  by  Nature  arm'd  so  well, 
Did  with  the  horse  in  common  pasture  dwell ; 
And    when    they   fought,    the    field    it    always 

won; 

Till  the  ambitious  horse  begg'd  help  of  man, 
And  took  the  bridle,  and  thenceforth  did  reign 
Bravely  alone,  as  lord  of  all  the  plain. 
But  never  after  could  he  the  rider  get 
FrorrA>ff  his  back,  or  from  his  mouth  the  bit. 
So  they,  who  poverty  too  much  do  fear, 
T    avoid  that  weight,  a  greater  burden  bear; 
That  they  might  power  above  their  equals  have, 
To  cruel  masters  they  themselves  enslave. 
For  gold,  their  liberty  exchang'd  we  see, 
That  fairest  flower  which  crowns  humanity. 
A  nd  all  this  mischief  does  upon  them  light, 
Only,  because  they  know  not  how,  aright, 
That  great,  but  secret,  happiness  to  prize, 
That's  laid  up  in  a  little,  for  the  v 
That  is  the  best  and  easiest  estate 
Which  to  a  man  sits  close,  but  not  too  straight; 
'Tis  like  a  shoe,  it  pinches  and  it  burns, 
Too  narrow ;  and  too  large,  it  overturns. 
My  dearest  friend !  stop  thy  desires  at  last, 
And  cheerfully  enjoy  the  wealth  thou  hast: 
And,  if  me  seeking  still  for  more  you  see, 
Chide  and  reproach,  despise  ;uid  laugh  at  me. 
Money  was  made,  not  to  command  our  will, 
But  all  our  lawful  pleasures  to  fulfil: 
Shame!    woe  to  us,  il"  we  our  wraith  obey: 
The  horse  doth  with  the  horseman  run  away. 

THO*   EPISTLE   XVI. THE  GOOD. 

FALSE  prai.-e  can  charm,  unreal  shame  control — 

Whom,  but  r  a  sickly  soul? 

Who  then  is  L''i'.,l  i — Who  careful  . 

The  senate's  :ces,  nor  ever  swerves 

From  the  known  rules  of  justice  and  the  laws: 

Whose  bail  secures,  whose  oath  decides  a  c:i 

Vet  his  o\vn  hour-e,  his  neighbours,  through  his 

art 

Iiehold  an  inward  baseness  in  his  heart. 
Suppose  .a  slave  should  say.  "I  iicvt-r  steal; 
I  never  ran  away" — -Nor  do  you  feel 


The  flagrant  lash." — "No  human  blood  I  shed" — 
"Nor  on  the  cross  the  ravening  crows  have  fed." — 

Your  honest  man,  on  whom  with  awful  praise 
The  forum  and  the  courts  of  justice  gaze, 
If  e'er  he  made  a  public  sacrifice, 
Dread  Janus,  Phoebus,  clear  and  loud  he  cries ; 
But  when  his  pray'r  in  earnest  is  preferr'd, 
Scarce  moves  his  lips,  afraid  of  being  heard : 
"Beauteous  Laverna,  my  petition  hear; 
Let  me  with  truth  and  sanctity  appear : 
Oh!  give  me  to  deceive,  and  with  a  veil 
Of  darkness  and  of  night  my  crimes  conceal." 

Behold  the  miser  bending  down  to  earth 
For  a  poor  farthing,  which  the  boys  in  mirth 
Fix'd  to  the  ground ;  and  shall  the  caitiff  dare 
In  honest  freedom  with  a  slave  compare  ? 

Whoever  wishes,  is  with  fear  possessed  ; 
And  he,  who  holds  that  passion  in  his  breast 
Is  in  my  sense  a  slave ;  hath  left  the  post 
Where  Virtue  placed  him,  and  his   arms  hath 
lost. 

The  good,  the  wise,  like  Bacchus  in  the  play, 
Dare,  to  the  king  of  Thebes,  undaunted  say, 
"  What  can  thy  power?    Thy  threatenings  I  dis- 
dain." 

King.  I'll  take  away  thy  goods. 

Bac.  Perhaps  you  mean 

My  oattle,  money,  moveables,  or  land. 
Well,  take  them  all. 

K.  But,  slave,  if  I  command, 

A  cruel  jailor  shall  thy  freedom  seize. 

B.  A  god  shall  set  me  free  whene'er  I  please."* 
— Death  is  that  god  the  poet  here  intends, 
That  utmost  bound,  where  human  sorrow  ends. 


Book  II. 

FROM  EPISTLES  I,  II. POETS. 

Now  the  light  people  bend  to  other  aims; 
A  lust  of  scribbling  every  breast  inflames; 
Our  youth,  our  senators,  with  bays  are  crown'd, 
And  rhymes  eternal  at  our  feasts  go  round. 
Even  I,  who  verse  and  all  its  works  deny, 
Can  faithless  Parthia's  lying  sons  outlie ; 
And,  ere  the  rising  sun  displays  his  light, 
I  call  for  tablets,  papers,  pens,  and — write. 

A  pilot  only  dares  a  vessel  steer; 
A  doubtful  drug  unlicensed  doctors  fear; 
Musicians  are  to  sounds  alone  confined, 
And  each  mechanic  hath  his  trade  assigned; 
But  every  desperate  blockhead  dares  to  write; 
Verse  is  the  trade  of  every  living  wight. 

And  yet  this  wandering  frenzy  of  the  brain 
Hath  many  a  gentle  virtue  in  its  train. 
No  cares  of  wealth  a  poet's  heart  control; 
Verse  is  the  only  passion  of  his  soul. 
He  laughs  at  losses,  flight  of  slaves,  or  fires ; 
No  wicked  scheme  his  honest  breast  inspires 
To  hurt  his  pupil,  or  his  friend  betray. 
Brown  bread  and  roots  his  appetite  allay: 
And  though  unlit  for  war's  tumultuous  trade, 
In  peace  his  gentle  talents  are  display'd, 

*  The  whole  passage  is  almost  an  exact  translation 
from  a  scene  in  the  Bacchantes  of  Euripides. 


480 


HORACE. 


If  you  allow  that  things  of  trivial  weight 
May  yet  support  the  grandeur  of  a  state. 

He  forms  the  infant's  tongue  to  firmer  sound, 
Nor  suffers  vile  obscenity  to  wound 
His  tender  ears.    Then  with  the  words  of  truth 
Corrects  the  passions,  and  the  pride  of  youth. 
Th'  illustrious  dead,  who  fill  his  sacred  page, 
Shine  forth  examples  to  each  rising  age ; 
The  languid  hour  of  poverty  he  cheers, 
And  the  sick  wretch  his  voice  of  comfort  hears. 

Did  not  the  muse  inspire  the  poet's  lays, 
How  could  our  youthful  choir  their  voices  raise 
In  prayer  harmonious,  while  the  gods  attend, 
And  gracious  bid  the  fruitful  shower  descend  ; 
Avert  their  plagues,  dispel  each  hostile  fear, 
And  with  glad  harvests  crown  the  wealthy  year? 
Thus  can  the  sound  of  all-melodious  lays 
Th'  offended   powers  of  heaven  and  hell   ap- 
pease. 

Our  ancient  swains,  of  vigorous,  frugal  kind, 
At  harvest-home  used  to  unbend  the  mind 
With  festal  sports ;  those  sports,  that  bade  them 

bear, 

With  cheerful  hopes,  the  labours  of  the  year. 
Their  wives  and  children  shared  their  hours  of 

mirth, 
Who   shared   their  toils;   when  to  the  goddess 

Earth 

Grateful  they  sacrificed  a  teeming  swine,      * 
And  pour'd  the  milky  bowl  at  Syl van's  shrine. 
Then  to  the  genius  of  their  fleeting  hours, 
Mindful  of  life's  short  date,  they  offer'd  wine  and 

flowers. 

Here,  in  alternate  verse,  with  rustic  jest 
The  clowns  their  awkward  raillery  express'd ; 
And  as  the  year  brought  round  the  jovial  day, 
Freely  they  sported,  innocently  gay, 
Till  cruel  wit  was  turn'd  to  open  rage, 
And  dared  the  noblest  families  engage. 
When  some,  who  by  its  tooth  envenom'd  bled, 
Complain'd  aloud,  and  others  struck  with  dread, 
Though  yet  untouch'd,  as  in  a  public  cause, 
Implord  the  just  protection  of  the  laws, 
Which  from  injurious  libels  wisely  guard 
Our  neighbour's    fame;    and  now   the   prudent 

bard, 

Whom  the  just  terrors  of  the  lash  restrain, 
To  pleasure  and  instruction  turns  his  vein. 
When  conquer'd  Greece  brought  in  her  captive 

arts 

She  triumph'd  o'er  her  savage  conqueror's  hearts; 
Taught  our  rough  verse  its  numbers  to  refine, 
And  our  rude  style  with  elegance  to  shine. 

Bad  poets  ever  are  a  standing  jest, 
But  they  rejoice,  and,  in  their  folly  bless'd, 
Admire  themselves ;  nay,  though  you  silent  sit, 
They  bless  themselves  in  wonder  at  their  wit. 
But  he  who  studies  masterly  to  frame 
A  finish'd  piece,  and  build  an  honest  fame, 
Acts  to  himself  the  friendly  critic's  part, 
And  proves  his  genius  by  the  rules  of  art, 
Boldly  blots  out  whatever  seems  obscure, 
Or  lightly  mean,  unworthy  to  procure 
Immortal  honour,  though  the  words  give  way 
With  warm  reluctance,  and  by  force  obey ; 


Though  yet  enshrined  within  his  desk  they  stand, 
And  claim  a  sanction  from  his  parent  hand. 

As  from  the  treasure  of  a  latent  mine, 
Long  darken'd  words  he  shall  with  art  refine; 
Bring  into  light,  to  dignify  his  page, 
The  nervous  language  of  a  former  age, 
Used  by  the  Catos,  and  Cethegus  old, 
Though  now  deform'd   with  dust,  and  cover'd 
o'er  with  mould. 

New  words  he  shall  endenizen.  which  use 
Shall  authorize,  and  currently  produce ; 
Then,  brightly  smooth,  and  yet  sublimely  strong, 
Like  a  pure  river,  through  his  flowing  song 
Shall  pour  the  riches  of  his  fancy  wide, 
And  bless  his  Latium  with  a  vocal  tide ; 
Prune  the  luxuriant  phrase ;  the  rude  refine, 
Or  blot  the  languid,  and  unsinew'd  line. 
Yet  hard  he  labours  for  this  seeming  ease ; 
As  art,  not  nature,  makes  our  dancers  please. 
A  stupid  scribbler  let  me  rather  seem, 
While  of  my  faults  with  dear  delight  I  deem, 
Or  not  perceive,  than  sing  no  mortal  strain, 
And  bear  this  toil,  this  torture  of  the  brain. 

At  Argos  lived  a  citizen,  well  known, 
Who  long  imagined  that  he  heard  the  tone 
Of  deep  tragedians  on  an  empty  stage, 
And  sat  applauding  in  extatic  rage : 
In  other  points  a  person,  who  maintained 
A  due  decorum,  and  a  life  unstain'd, 
A  worthy  neighbour,  and  a  friend  sincere^ 
Kind  to  his  wife,  nor  to  his  slaves  severe, 
Nor  prone  to  madness,  though  the  felon's  fork 
Defaced  the  signet  of  a  bottle  cork  ;* 
And   wise  to  shun  (well  knowing  which  was 

which) 

The  rock  high  pendant,  and  the  yawning  ditch. 
He,  when  his  friends,  at  much  expense  and  pains, 
Had  amply  purged  with  hellebore  his  brains, 
Came  to  himself — "Ah!  cruel  friends!"  he  cried, 
"Is  this  to  save  me?  Better  far  have  died, 
Than  thus  be  robb'd  of  pleasure  so  refined, 
The  dear  delusion  of  a  raptur'd  mind." 

OTHER  VICES    BESIDES   COVETOUSNESS. 

You  are  not  covetous:  be  satisfied. 
But  are  you  tainted  with  no  vice  beside  ? 
From  vain  ambition,  dread  of  death's  decree, 
And  fell  resentment,  is  thy  bosom  free  ? 
Say,  can  you  laugh  indignant  at  the  schemes 
Of  magic  terrors,  visionary  dreams, 
Portentous  wonders,  witching  imps  of  hell, 
The  nightly  goblin,  and  enchanting  spell? 
Can  you  recount  with  gratitude  and  mirth 
The  day  revolved  that  gave  thy  being  birth, 
Indulge  the  failings  of  thy  friends,  and  grow 
More  mild  and  virtuous,  as  thy  seasons  flow  ? 

FROM  THE  ART  OF  POETRY. 

NEW  words,  and  lately  made,  shall  credit  claim, 
If  from  a  Grecian  source  they  gently  stream ; 
For  Virgil,  sure,  and  Varius  may  receive 
That  kind  indulgence,  which  the  Romans  give 

*  The  Romans  generally  sealed  a  full  bottle, *to  prevent 
their  slaves  from  stealing  the  wine. 


HORACE. 


481 


To  Plautus  and  Csecilius :  or  shall  I 
Be  envied,  if  my  little  fund  supply 
Its  frugal  wealth  of  words,  since  bards,  who  sung 
In  ancient  days,  enrich'd  their  native  tongue 
With  large  increase?    An  undisputed  power 
Of  coining  money  from  the  rugged  ore, 
Ncr  less  of  coining  words,  is  still  confess'd, 
If  with  a  legal,  public  stamp  impress'd. 

As  when  the  forest,  with  the  bending  year, 
First  sheds  the  leaves  which  earliest  appear, 
So  an  old  age  of  words  maturely  dies, 
Ot.iers  new-born  in  youth  and  vigour  rise. 

We  and  our  noblest  works  to  fate  must  yield ; 
Even   Caesar's  mole,  which  royal  pride  might 

build, 

Where  Neptune  far  into  the  land  extends, 
And  from  the  raging  north  our  fleet  defends ; 
That  barren  marsh,  whose  cultivated  plain 
Now  gives  the  neighbouring  towns  its  various 

grain; 

Tiber,  who  taught  a  better  current,  yields 
To  Coesar's  power,  nor  deluges  our  fields: 
All  these  must  perish,  and  shall  words  presume 
To  hold  their  honours,  and  immortal  bloom? 
Many  shall  rise,  that  now  forgotten  lie ; 
Others,  in  present  credit,  soon  shall  die, 
If  custom  will,  whose  arbitrary  sway, 
Words,  and  the  forms  of  language,  must  obey. 

Your  style  should  an  important  difference  make 
When  heroes,  gods,  or  awful  sages  speak; 
When  florid  youth,  whom  gay  desires  inflame; 
A  busy  servant,  or  a  wealthy  dame ; 
A  merchant,  wandering  with  incessant  toil, 
Or  he,  who  cultivates  the  verdant  soil ; 
But  if  in  foreign  realms  you  fix  your  scene, 
Their  genius,  customs,  dialects  maintain. 

Or  follow  fame,  or  in  th'  invented  tale 
Lot  seteming,  well-united  truth  prevail: 
If  Homer's  great  Achilles  tread  the  stage, 
Intrepid,  fierce,  of  unforgiving  rage, 
Like  Homer's  hero,  let  him  spurn  all  laws, 
And  by  the  sword  alone  assert  his  cause. 
With  untamed  fury  let  Medea  glow, 
And  Ino's  tears  in  ceaseless  anguish  flow. 
F.rom  realm  to  realm  her  griefs  let  lo  bear, 
Ami  sad  Orestes  rave  in  deep  despair. 
But  if  you  venture  on  an  untried  theme, 
And  form  a  person  yet  unknown  to  fame, 
From  his  first  entrance  to  the  closing  scene, 
L  >t  him  one  equal  character  maintain. 

'Tis  hard  a  new-form'd  fable  to  express, 
And  make  it  seem  your  own.  With  more  success 
You  may  from  Homer  take  the  tale  of  Troy, 
Than  on  an  untried  plot  your  strength  employ. 
Yet  would  you  make   a  common    theme  your 

own, 

Dwell  not  on  incidents  already  known ; 
Nor  word  for  word  translate  with  painful  care, 
Nor  be  confined  in  such  a  narrow  sph- 
From  whence  (while  you  should  only  imitate) 
Sl.iame  and  the  rules  forbid  you  to  retreat. 

Begin  your  work  with  modest  grace  and  plain, 
N  or  like  the  bard  of  everlasting  strain, 
"  I  sing  the  glorious  war  and  Priam's  fate" — 
How  will  the  boaster  hold  this  yawning  rate  ? 
61 


The  mountains  labourd  with  prodigious  throes, 
And,  lo !  a  mouse  ridiculous  arose. 
Far  better  he,  who  ne'er  attempts  in  vain, 
Opening  his  poem  in  this  humble  strain ; 
Muse,  sing  the  man  who,  after  Troy  subdued, 
Manners  and  towns  of  various  nations  view'd ; 
He  does  not  lavish  at  a  blaze  his  fire, 
Sudden  to  glare,  and  in  a  smoke  expire ; 
But  rouses  from  a  cloud  of  smoke  to  light, 
And  pours  his  specious  miracles  to  sight; 
Antiphates  his  hideous  feast  devours, 
Chary  bd  is  barks,  and  Polyphemus  roars. 

He  would  not,  like  our  modern  poet,  date 
His  hero's  wanderings  from  his  uncle's  fate  j 
Nor  sing  ill-fated  Ilium's  various  woes, 
From  Helen's  birth,  from  whom  the  war  arose ; 
But  to  the  grand  event  he  speeds  his  course, 
And  bears  his  readers  with  resistless  force 
Into  the  midst  of  things,  while  every  line 
Opens,  by  just  degrees,  his  whole  design. 
Artful  he  knows  each  circumstance  to  leave 
Which  will  not  grace  and  ornament  receive : 
Then  truth  and  fiction  with  such  skill  he  blends, 
That  equal  he  begins,  proceeds,  and  ends. 

Mine  and  the  public  judgment  are  the  same; 
Then  hear  what  I,  and  what  your  audience  claim. 
If  you  would  keep  us  till  the  curtain  fall, 
And  the  last  chorus  for  a  plaudit  call, 
The  manners  must  your  strictest  care  engage, 
The  levities  of  youth  and  strength  of  age. 
The  child,  who  now  with  firmer  footing  walks, 
And  with  unfaltering,  well-fornvd  accents  talks, 
Loves  childish  sports ;  with  causeless  anger  burns, 
And  idly  pleased  with  every  moment  turns. 

The  youth,  whose  will  no  froward  tutor  bounds, 
Joys  in  the  sunny  field,  his  horse  and  hounds ; 
Yielding,  like  wax,  th'  impressive  folly  bears; 
Rough  to  reproof,  and  slow  to  future  cares ; 
Profuse  and  vain  ;  with  every  passion  warm'd, 
And  swift  to  leave  what  late  his  fancy  charm'd. 

With    strength    improved,   the    manly    spirit 

bends 

To  different  aims,  in  search  of  wealth  and  mends; 
Bold  and  ambitious  in  pursuit  of  fame. 
And  wisely  cautious  in  the  doubtful  scheme. 

A  thousand  ills  the  aged  world  surround, 
Anxious  in  search  of  wealth,  and  when  'tis  found, 
Fearful  to  use  what  they  with  fear  possess, 
While  doubt  and  dread  their  faculties  depress. 
Fond  of  delay,  they  trust  in  hope  no  more, 
Listless,  and  fearful  of  th'  approaching  hour; 
Morose,  complaining,  and  with  tedious  praise 
Talking  the  manners  of  their  youthful  days; 
Severe  to  censure;  earnest  t>  a  I  vise, 
And  with  old  saws  the  present  age  ehastise. 

The  blessings  flowing  in  with  life's  full  tide 
Down  with  our  ebb  of  life  decreasing  glide ; 
Thru  let  not  youth  or  infancy  engage 
To  play  the  parts  of  manhood  or  of  age ; 
For  where  the  proper  characters  prevail, 
We   dwell  with   pleasure  on  the  well-wrcught 
tale. 

The  business  of  the  drama  must  appear 
In  action  or  description.     What  we  hear, 
With  weaker  passion  will  affect  the  heart, 
Than  when  the  faithful  eye  beholds  the  part 
2Q 


482 


TIBULLUS. 


But  yet  let  nothing  on  the  stage  be  brought, 
Which    better    should    behind    the    scenes    be 

wrought; 

Nor  force  th'  unwilling  audience  to  behold 
What  may  with  grace  and  eloquence  be  told. 
Let  not  Medea,  with  unnatural  rage, 
Slaughter  her  mangled  infants  on  the  stage ; 
Nor  Atreus  his  nefarious  feast  prepare, 
Nor  Cadmus  roll  a  snake,  nor  Procne  wing  the 

air; 

For  while  upon  such  monstrous  scenes  we  gaze, 
They  shock  our  faith,  our  indignation  raise. 

Make  the  Greek  bards  your  study  .and  delight, 
Read  them  by  day,  and  meditate  by  night. — 
****** 

Thespis,  inventor  of  the  tragic  art, 
Carried  his  vagrant  players  in  a  cart : 
High  o'er  the  crowd  the  mimic  tribe  appear'd, 
And  play'd  and   sung,  with  lees  of  wine  be- 

smear'd. 

Then  ^Eschylus  a  decent  vizard  used  ; 
Built  a  low  stage ;  the  flowing  robe  diffused. 
In  language  more  sublime  his  actors  rage, 
And  in  the  graceful  buskin  tread  the  stage. 
And  now  the  ancient  comedy  appear'd, 
Nor  without  pleasure  and  applause  was  heard ; 
But  soon  its  freedom  rising  to  excess, 
The  laws  were  forced  its  boldness  to  suppress, 
And,  when  no  longer  licensed  to  defame, 
It  sunk  to  silence  with  contempt  and  shame. 

Good  sense,  the  fountain  of  the  muse's  art, 
Let  the  strong  page  of  Socrates  impart, 
And  if  the  mind  with  clear  conceptions  glow, 
The  willing  words  in  just  expression  flow. 


The  poet,  who  with  nice  discernment  knows 
What  to  his  country  and  his  friends  he  owes ; 
How  various  nature  warms  the  human  breast, 
To  love  the  parent,  brother,  friend  or  guest ; 
What  the  great  offices  of  judges  are, 
Of  senators,  of  generals  sent  to  war ; 
He  surely  knows,  with  nice,  well-judging  art, 
The  strokes  peculiar  to  each  different  part. 

Keep  Nature's  great  original  in  view, 
And  thence  the  living  images  pursue ; 
For  when  the  sentiments  and  diction  please, 
And  all  the  characters  are  wrought  with  ease, 
Your  play,  though  void  of  beauty,  force  and  art, 
More  strongly  shall  delight  and  warm  the  heart, 
Than  where  a  lifeless  pomp  of  verse  appears, 
And  with  sonorous  trifles  charms  our  ears. 

'Tis  long  disputed,  whether  poets  claim 
From  art  or  nature  their  best  right  to  fame; 
But  art,  if  not  enrich'd  by  nature's  vein, 
And  a  rude  genius,  of  uncultured  strain, 
Are  useless  both  ;  but  when  in  friendship  join'd, 
A  mutual  succour  in  each  other  find. 

A  youth  who  hopes  th'  Olympic  prize  to  gain, 
All  arts  must  try,  and  every  toil  sustain ; 
Th'  extremes  of  heat  and  cold  must  often  prove, 
And    shun    the    weakening  joys    of  wine   and 

love. 

Who  sings  the  Pythic  song,  first  learn'd  to  raise 
Each  note  distinct,  and  a  stern  master  please; 
But  now — "Since  I  can  write  the  true  sublime, 
Curse  catch   the  hindmost!"  cries  the  man  of 

rhyme. 

"What!  in  a  science  own  myself  a  fool, 
Because,  forsooth,  I  learn'd  it  not  by  rule  ?" 


TIBULLUS. 


[Born  about  62,— Died  18,  B.  C.] 


ALBIUS  TIBULLUS  was  a  Roman  knight,  and 
a  friend  and  associate  of  Horace,  Propertius,  and 
Ovid.  He  served,  when  young,  under  Brutus 
and  Cassius ;  was  present  with  them  at  Philippi, 
and,  afterwards,  on  the  overthrow  of  their  righte- 
ous cause,  retired  to  his  country  seat  at  Pedum, 
between  which  and  Rome,  except  when  called 
into  the  field  by  his  illustrious  friend  and  patron 
Messala  Corvinus,  he  continued  to  divide  his 
days. 

The  following  portrait  of  him  has  been  left  to 
us  by  Horace  in  one  of  his  Epistles : — 

Albiiis  !  in  whom  my  satires  find 

A  critic,  most  sincere  and  kind, 

What  dost  thou  now  on  Pedan  plains? 

Write  verse,  outvying  Cassius'  strains  1 


Steal,  silent,  through  the  healthful  wood, 

With  thoughts  that  fit  the  wise  and  good! 

Thou  art  not  body  without  mind; 

The  gods  to  thee  a  form  assign 'd, 

But  form,  with  sense  and  worth  combin'd; 

Have  given  thee  wealth,  with  art  to  know 

How  best  to  use  what  they  bestow. 

Then  what  could  fondest  nurse — what  more — 

For  her  dear  foster-child— implore, 

Of  wit  and  eloquence  possest, 

In  health,  grace,  fame,  and  station  blest, 

A  hospitable  board,  with  friends, 

And  means  sufficient  for  his  ends? 

Book  I.  Epistle  IV. 

Tibullus  is  believed  to  have  died  at  the  age  of 
forty-four  or  forty-five,  the  year  after  Virgil's  death, 
and  about  eighteen  years  before  the  Christian  ura. 


TIBULLUS. 


483 


FROM  THE  ELEGIES. 
Book  I. 

FROM  ELEGT  I. TO   DELIA. 

LET  others  heap  of  wealth  a  shining  store, 
And,  much  possessing,  labour  still  for  more; 
L?t  them  disquieted  with  dire  alarms 
Aspire  to  win  a  dang'rous  fame  in  arms; 

mquil  poverty  shall  lull  to  rest, 
Humbly  secure  and  indolently  blest; 
Warrn'd  by  the  blaze  of  my  own  cheerful  hearth 
I'.l  waste  the  wintry  hours  in  social  mirth; 
In  summer  pleas'd,  attend  the  harvest  toils, 
In  autumn,  press  the  vineyard's  purple  spoils, 
And  oft  to  Delia  in  my  bosom  bear 
Some  kid  or  lamb  which  wants  its  mother's  care  : 
With  her  I'll  celebrate  each  gladsome  day 
When  swains  their  sportive  rites  to  Bacchus  pay; 
With  her  new  milk  on  Pales'  altar  pour, 
And  deck,  with  ripen'd  fruits,  Pomona's  bower. 
At  night  how  soothing  would  it  be  to  hear, 
Sufe  in  her  arms,  the  tempest  howling  near; 
Or,  while  the  wintry  clouds  their  deluge  pour, 
S. umber,  assisted  by  the  beating  shower! 
Ah  !  how  much  happier  than  the  fool  who  braves, 
In    search    of   wealth,    the    black    tempestuous 

waves! 

While  I,  contented  with  my  little  store, 
In  tedious  voyage  seek  no  distant  shore; 
But  idly  lolling  on  some  shady  seat, 
Near  cooling  fountains,  shun  the  Dog-star's  heat: 
For  what  reward  so  rich  could  Fortune  give 
That  I  by  absence  should  my  Delia  grieve? 
Let  great  Messala  shine  in  martial  toils, 
And  grace  his  palace  with  triumphal  spoils, 
Me  beauty  holds  in  strong  though  gentle  chains, 
Far  from  tumultuous  war  and  dusty  plains. 
With  thee,  my  love !  to  pass  my  tranquil  days 
E!ow  would  I  slight  ambition's  painful  praise! 
How  would  I  joy  with  thee,  my  love!  to  yoke 
The  ox,  and  feed  my  solitary  flock ! 
On  thy  soft  breast  might  I  but  lean  my  head, 
How  downy  would  I  think  the  woodland  bed! 
Hard  were  his  heart  who  thee,  my  fair!  could 

leave 

For  all  the  honours  prosp'rous  war  can  give, 
Though  through  the  vanquish'd  east  he  spread 

his  I- 

And  Parthian  tyrants  tremble  at  his  name, 
Though  bright  in  arms,  while  hosts  around  him 

bl* 

With  martial  pride  he  prest  the  foaming  steed. 
No  pomps  like  these  my  humble  vows  require; 
With  thee  I'll  live,  and  in  thy  arms  expire. 
Thee,  may  my  closing  eyes  in  death  behold  ! 
Thee  may  my  falt'ring  hand  y«-t  strive  to  hold! 
Then,  Delia!  then  thy  heart  will  melt  in  woe, 
Then,  o'er  my  breathless  clay  thy  tears  will  flow  ; 
Thy  tears  will  flow,  for  gentle  is  thy  mind, 
Nor  dost  thou  think  it  weakness  to  be  kind. 
But  ah  !  fair  mourner !  I  conjure  thee,  spare 
Thy  heaving  breasts  and  loose  dishevell'd  hair; 
Wound  not  thy  form,  lest  on  th'  Elysian  coast 
Thy  anguish  should  disturb  my  peaceful  ghost. 

But  now,  nor  death  nor  parting  should  employ 
Our  sprightly  thoughts,  or  damp  our  bridal  joy : 


We'll  live,  my  Delia !  and  from  life  remove 
All  care,  all  business,  but  delightful  love. 
Old  age  in  vain  those  pleasures  would  retrieve 
Which  youth  alone  can  taste,  alone  can  give: 
Then  let  us  snatch  the  moment  to  be  blest; 
This  hour  is  Love's — be  Fortune's  all  the  rest. 

FROM  ELEGT   III. THE   GOLDKX   AGE. 

How  blest  the  man  in  Saturn's  golden  days, 
Ere  distant  climes  were  join'd  by  lengthened  ways. 
Secure  the  pines  upon  the  mountains  grew, 
Nor  bounding  barks  o'er  ocean's  billows  flew; 
Then  every  clime  a  wild  abundance  bore, 
And  man  liv'd  happy  on  his  native  shore ; 
Then  had  no  steer  submitted  to  the  yoke  ; 
Then  had  no  steed  to  feel  the  bit  been  broke ; 
No  house  had  gates,  (blest  times!)  and,  in  the 

grounds 

No  scanty  landmarks  parcell'd  out  the  bounds ; 
From  every  oak  redundant  honey  ran, 
And  ewes  spontaneous  bore  their  milk  to  man ; 
No  death ful  arms  were  forg'd,  no  war  was  wag'd, 
No  rapine  plunder'd,  no  ambition  rag'd. 
How  chang'd  alas !    Now  cruel  Jove  commands ; 
Gold  fires  the  soul,  and  falchions  arm  our  hands; 
Each  day  the  main  unnumber'd  lives  destroys, 
And  slaughter,  daily,  o'er  her  myriads  joys. 
Yet  spare  me,  Jove;  I  ne'er  disown'd  thy  sway; 
I  ne'er  was  perjur'd, — spare  me,  Jove,  I  pray. 
But,  if  the  Sisters  have  pronounc'd  my  doom, 
Be  this  inscrib'd  upon  ray  humble  tomb: 
"Following  Messala  over  earth  and  wave, 
Here  rests  Tibullus,  in  his  early  grave." 

FROM  ELEGT   X. WAR  AX  D   PEACE. 

WHO  was  the  first  that  forg'd  the  deadly  blade? 
Of  rugged  steel  his  savage  soul  was  made  ; 
Then   slaughter   rag'd,   then   war   his    banners 

rear'd, 

And  shorter  ways  to  dreadful  death  appear'd. 
Yet  wherefore  blame  him?    We're  ourselves  to 

blame; 

Who  turn'd  on  man,  arms  meant  for  savage  game. 
Death-dealing  battles  were  unknown  of  old, 
Death-dealing  battles  took  their  rise  from  gold. 
When  beachen  bowls  on  oaken  tables  stood, 
When  temperate  acorns  were  our  father's  food, 
The  swain  slept  peaceful,  with  his  flocks  around; 
No  trench  was  open'd,  and  no  fortress  frown'd. 

O  had  I  lived  in  gentle  days  like  these, 
To  love  devoted  and  to  home-felt  ease  1 
But  now  I'm  dragg'd  to  war;  perhaps  my  foe 
E'en  now  prepares  the  inevitable  blow. 

Come   then,  paternal  gods,  whose  help  I've 

known 

Ftom  birth  to  manhood,  still  protect  your  own; 
Nor  blush,  my  gods,  though  carv'd  of  ancient 

wood, — 

So  carv'd  in  our  forefathers'  time  ye  stood ; 
And,  though  in  no  proud  temples  ye  were  prais'd, 
Nor  foreign  incense  on  your  altars  blaz'd ; 
Yet  white-robed  Faith  conducted  every  swain, 
Yet  meek-eyed  Piety  seren'd  the  plain, 
While  clustering  grapes  or  wheat-wreaths  round 

your  hair, 
Appeas'd  your  anger  and  engaged  your  care, 


484 


TIBULLUS. 


Or  dulcet  cakes  himself  the  farmer  paid, 
When  crown'd  his  wishes  by  your  powerful  aid ; 
While  his  fair  daughter  brought  with  her  from 

home, 

The  luscious  offering  of  a  honey-comb ; 
If  now  you'll  aid  me  in  the  hour  of  need, 
Your  care  I'll  recompense — a  boar  shall  bleed. 

****** 
In  a  thatch'd  cottage  happier  by  far, 
Who  never  hears  of  arms,  of  gold  or  war; 
His  chaste  embrace  a  numerous  offspring  crown 
He  courts  not   Fortune's  smile  nor  dreads  her 

frown ; 

White  lenient  baths  at  home  his  wife  prepares, 
He,  and  his  sons,  attend  their  fleecy  cares ; 
As  old,  as  poor,  as  peaceful  may  I  be, 
So  guard  my  flocks,  and  such  an  offspring  see ; 
Meantime  may  Peace  descend   and  bless   our 

plains; 
Soft   Peace    to   plough,  with   oxen,  taught   the 

swains ; 

Peace  nurs'd  the  orchard,  and  matur'd  the  vine, 
And,  first,  gay  laughing  press'd  the  ruddy  wine; 
The  father  quaff'd,  deep  quaff'd  his  joyous 

friends ; 
Yet  to  the  son  a  well-stored  vault  descends. 


Boo*  III. 

FROM  ELEGY  II. 

AND  when,  a  slender  shade,  I  shall  aspire 
From  smouldering  embers  and  the  funeral  fire, 
May  sad  Nesera  to  my  pile  repair, 
With  tears  (how  precious !)  and  unbraided  hair, 
Mix'd  with  a  mother's  sighs  her  sorrows  pour, 
And  one  a  husband,  one  a  child  deplore ; 
With  words  of  fond  regret  and  broken  sigh 
Please  the  poor  shade  that  hovering  lingers  nigh, 
With  pious  rites  my  cherish'd  bones  adorn, 
(The  last  sad  remnant  of  the  man  they  mourn.) 
Nor  spare  my  thirsting  ashes  to  enshrine, 
With  purest  milk  bedew'd  and  purple  wine ; 
And  dry  the  shower  by  soft  affection  shed, 
Or  ere  they  place  them  in  their  marble  bed. 
In  that  sad  house  may  every  fragrance  stored, 
That  warm  Assyria's  perfumed  meads  afford, 
And  grief,  from  memory's  tearful  fount  that  flows, 
Soothe  my  charm'd  spirit,  and  my  bones  compose. 


Book  IV. 
SITLPICIA. 

MARS  !  on  thy  calends,  fair  Sulpicia  see, 
Deck'd  in  her  gay  habiliments  for  thee. 
Come — Venus  will  forgive :  descend,  if  wise  : 
To  view  her  beauties  leave  thyself  the  skies. 
But  oh,  beware!  lest,  gazing  on  her  charms, 
Fierce  as  thou  art,  thou  meanly  drop  thine  arms. 
For,  from  her  eyes,  when  gods  are  Cupid's  aim, 
He  lights  two   lamps  that  burn  with   keenest 

flame. 

Whate'er  she  does,  where'er  her  steps  she  moves, 
There  Grace  attends,  and  every  act  improves. 
Graceful  her  locks,  in  loose  disorder  spread ; 
Graceful  the  smoother  braid  that  binds  her  head. 


Whether  rich  Tyrian  robes  her  charms  invest, 

all  in  snowy  white  the  nymph  is  drest, 
All,  all  she  graces,  still  supremely  fair, 
Still  charms  spectators  with  a  fond  despair. 
A  thousand  dresses  thus  Vertumnus  wears, 
And  beauteous  equally  in  each  appears. 

SULPICIA  ON   CERIKTHUS  GOIXG  TO  THE   CHASE. 

WHETHER,  fierce  boars,  in  flowery  meads  ye  stray, 
3r  haunt  the  shady  mountain's  devious  way, 
Whet   not   your   teeth   against   my   dear   one's 

charms, 

But  oh,  let  faithful  Love  restore  him  to  my  arms. 
What  madness  'tis  the  trackless  wilds  to  beat, 
And  wound  with  pointed  thorns  thy  tender  feet: 
Oh !  why  to  savage  beast  thy  charms  oppose  ? 
With  toils  and   bloodhounds  why  their  haunts 

enclose  ? 

Yet,  yet  with  thee,  Cerinthus,  might  I  rove, 
Thy  nets  I'd  trail  through  every  mountain  grove, 
Would  track  the  bounding  stags  through  tainted 

grounds, 

Beat  up  their  covers  and  unchain  thy  hounds. 
But  most  to  spread  our  artful  toils  I'd  joy, 
For,  while  we  watch'd  them,  I  could  clasp  my 

boy! 

0,  without  me,  ne'er  taste  the  joys  of  love, 
But  a  chaste  hunter  in  my  absence  prove ; 
And  0,  may  boars  the  wanton  fair  destroy, 
Who  would  Cerinthus  to  her  arms  decoy ! 
Yet,  yet  I  dread  ! — Be  sports  thy  father's  care ; 
But  thou,  all  love !  to  these  fond  arms  repair ! 

TO    SULPICIA. 

"  NEVER  shall  woman's  smile  have  power 
To  win  me  from  those  gentle  charms  !"— 

Thus  swore  I  in  that  happy  hour 

When  Love  first  gave  them  to  my  arms. 

And  still  alone  thou  charm'st  my  sight — 

Still,  though  our  city  proudly  shine 
With  forms  and  faces  fair  and  bright, 

I  see  none  fair  or  bright  but  thine. 
Would  thou  wert  fair  for  only  me 

And  could'st  no  heart  but  mine  allure ! — 
To  all  men  else  unpleasing  be, 

So  shall  I  feel  my  prize  secure. 
Oh  love  like  mine  ne'er  wants  the  zest 

Of  others'  envy,  others'  praise; 
But,  in  its  silence  safely  blest, 

Broods  o'er  a  bliss  it  ne'er  betrays. 
Charm  of  my  life!  by  whose  sweet  power 

All  cares  are  hush'd,  all  ills  subdued — 
My  light,  in  even  the  darkest  hour, 

My  crowd  in  deepest  solitude ! 
No ;  not  though  Heaven  itself  sent  down 

Some  maid  of  more  than  heavenly  charms, 
With  bliss  undreamt  thy  bard  to  crown, 

Would  I  for  her  forsake  those  charms. 

*  **  This  and  the  two  preceding  poems  hs.ve 
been  considered  by  some  as  the  compositions  of 
another  writer.  Dissenius,  however,  center  ds 
for  Tibullus,  and  supposes  them  to  have  been 
written  by  him,  under  the  assumed  characters  of 
Cerinthus  and  Sulpicia. 


PROPERTIUS. 


[Born  52,-Died  14,  B.  C.J 


OF  Sextus  Aurelius  Propertius  we  only  know 
that  he  was  the  son  of  a  Roman  knight,  and  a 
native  of  Umbria;  that  he  early  relinquished 
forensic  for  poetical  pursuits;  acquired  the  favour 
of  Mecsenas  5  and  was  on  terms  of  intimacy  with 


FROM  THE  ELEGIES. 
Book  II. 

FROM  ELEOY   I. 

YET  would  the  tyrant  Love  but  let  me  raise 
My  feeble  voice,  to  sound  the  victor's  praise, 
To  paint  the  hero's  toil,  the  ranks  of  war, 
The  laurell'd  triumph,  and  the  sculpturd  car ; 
No  giant  race,  no  tumult  of  the  skies, 
No  mountain-structures  in  my  verse  should  rise, 
Nor  tale  of  Thebes,  nor  Ilium  should  there  be, 
Nor  how  the  Persian  trod  the  indignant  sea; 
Not  Marius'  Cimbrian  wreaths  would  I  relate, 
Ncr  lofty  Carthage  struggling  with  her  fate. 
Here  should  Augustus  great  in  arms  appear, 
And  thou,  Mecoenas,  be  my  second  care  ; 
Here  Mutina  from  Jlarnes  and  famine  free, 
And  there  the  ensanguin'd  war  of  Sicily, 
And  seepter'd  Alexandria's  captive  shore, 
And  sad  Philippi,  red  with  Roman  gore : 
Then,  while  the  vaulted  skies  loud  i'os  rend, 
In  golden  chains  should  loaded  monarchs  bend, 
And  hoary  Nile  with  pensive  aspect  seem 
To  mourn  the  glories  of  his  seven-fold  stream, 
While  prows,  that  late  in  fierce  encounter  met, 
Move  through  the  sacred  way,  and  vainly  threat. 
Thee,  too,  the  Muse  should  consecrate  to  fame, 
And  with  her  garlands  weave  thy  ever-faithful 

name. 

But  nor  Callimachus'  enervate  strain 
May  tell  of  Jove,  and  Phlegm's  blasted  plain; 
Nor  I  with  unarcnstom'd  vigour  trace 
Buck  to  its  source  divine  the  Julian  race- 
rs, to  tell  of  winds  and  seas  delight, 
-iiepherd  of  the  Hock,  the  >oldier  of  the  fight, 
A  milder  warfare  I  in  \vrse  display; 
Kadi  iii  his  proper  art  should  waste  the  day: 
A  ir  thou  my  gentle  calling  disapprove, 
T>  die  is  glorious  in  the  Led  of  love. 

Happy  the  youth,  and  not  unknown  to  fame, 
Whose  heart  has  never  fi-lt  a  second  ilame. 
O  i  might  that  envied  happine>s  be  mine! 
To  Cynthia  all  my  wishes  I'd  confine  ; 
Or  if,  alas!  it  be  my  fate  to  try 
Another  love,  the  quicker  let  me  die: 
But  she  the  mistress  of  my  faithful  breast, 
Has  oft  the  charms  of  constancy  con; 
Condemns  her  lickle  sex's  fond  mistake. 
A  nd  hates  the  tale  of  Troy  for  Helen's  sake. 


Virgil,  Ovid,  and  Bassus. — Considered  as  a  writer 
of  amorous  elegy,  Propertius  must  be  ranked 
below  Tibullus,  having  little  or  none  of  that  un- 
studied ease  and  elegance  which  we  so  much 
admire  in  the  latter. 


Me  from  myself  the  soft  enchantress  stole ; 
Ah  !  let  her  ever  my  desires  control, 
Or  if  I  fall  the  victim  of  her  scorn, 
From  her  loved  door  may  my  pale  corse  be  borne. 
The  power  of  herbs  can  other  harms  remove, 
And  find  a  cure  for  every  ill  but  love. 
The  Lemnian's  hurt  Machaon  could  repair, 
Heal  the  slow  chief,  and  send  again  to  war ; 
To  Chiron  Phoenix  owed  his  long-lost  sight, 
And  Phoebus'  son  recalled  Androgeon  to  the  light. 
Here  arts  are  vain,  e'en  magic  here  must  fail, 
The  powerful  mixture,  and  the  midnight  spell; 
The  hand  that  can  my  captive  heart  release, 
And  to  this  bosom  give  its  wonted  peace, 
May  the  long  thirst  of  Tantalus  allay, 
Or  drive  the  infernal  vulture  from  his  prey. 
For  ills  unseen,  what  remedy  is  found  ? 
Or  who  can  probe  the  undiscover'd  wound  ? 
The  bed  avails  not,  nor  the  leech's  care, 
Nor  changing  skies  can  hurt,  nor  sultry  air. 
'Tis  hard  th'  elusive  symptoms  to  explore ; 
To-day  the  lover  walks,  to-morrow  is  no  more ; 
A  train  of  mourning  friends  attend  his  pall, 
And  wonder  at  the  sudden  funeral. 

When  then,  the  Fates  that  breath  they  gave, 

shall  claim, 

And  the  short  marble  but  preserve  a  name, 
A  little  verse  my  all  that  shall  remain ; 
Thy  passing  courser's  slacken'd  course  restrain  f 
(Thou  envied  honour  of  thy  poet's  days, 
Of  all  our  youth  the  ambition  and  the  praise!) 
Then  to  my  quiet  urn  awhile  draw  near, 
And  say,  while  in  that  place  you  drop  the  tear, 
Love  and  the  fair  were  of  his  youth  the  pride; 
He  liv'd  while  she  was  kind,  and  when  she 

frown'd,  he  died. 

Book  II. 

ELEOY  IX. THE   EFFIOT  OF  LOVE. 

HAD  he  not  hands  of  rare  device,  whoe'er 

First  painted  Love  in  figure  of  a  boy? 
He  saw  what  thoughtless  beings  lovers  were, 

Who  blessings  lo<e,  whilst  lightest  cares  employ. 
Nor  added  he  those  airy  wings  in  vain, 

And  bade  through  human  hearts  the  godhead 

fly; 
For  we  are  tost  upon  a  wavering  main  ; 

Our  gale,  inconstant,  veers  around  the  sky. 
2Q2  485 


486 


OVID. 


Nor,  without  cause,  he  grasps  those  barbed  darts, 

The  Cretan  quiver  o'er  his  shoulder  cast ; 
Ere  .we  suspect  a  foe,  he  strikes  our  hearts; 

And  those  inflicted  wounds  for  ever  last. 
In  me  are  fix'd  those  arrows, — in  my  breast ; 

But,  sure,  his  wings  are  shorn,  the  boy  remains; 
For  never  takes  he  flight,  nor  knows  he  rest ; 

Still,  still  I  feel  him  warring  through  my  veins. 
In  these  scorch'd  vitals  dost  thou  joy  to  dwell1? 

Oh  shame !  to  others  let  thine  arrows  flee ; 
Let  veins,  untouch'd,  with  all  thy  venom  swell ; 

Not  me  thou  torturest,  but  the  shade  of  me., 
Destroy  me  ; — who  shall  then  describe  the  fair  ? 

This  my  light  Muse  to  thee  high  glory  brings ; 
When  the  nymphs'  tapering  fingers,  flowing  hair, 

And  eyes  of  jet,  and  gliding  feet,  she  sings. 

Book  III. 

FHOM  ELEGY  III. 

LONG  as  of  youth  the  joyous  hours  remain, 

Me  may  Castalia's  sweet  recess  detain, 

Fast  by  the  umbrageous  vale  lull'd  to  repose, 

Where  Aganippe  warbles  as  it  flows; 

Or  roused  by  sprightly  sounds  from  out  the  trance, 

I'd  in  the  ring  knit  hands,  and  join  the  Muses' 

dance. 

Give  me  to  send  the  laughing  bowl  around, 
My  soul  in  Bacchus'  pleasing  fetters  bound ; 
Let  on  this  head  unfading  flowers  reside, 
There  bloom  the  vernal  rose's  earliest  pride; 
And  when,  our  flames  commission'd  to  destroy, 
Age  steps  'twixt  Love  and  me,  and  intercepts 

the  joy ; 
When  my  changed  head  these  locks  no  more 

shall  know, 

And  all  its  jetty  honours  turn  to  snow  ; 
Then  let  me  rightly  speak  of  Nature's  ways ; 
To  Providence,  to  Him  my  thoughts  I'd  raise 


Who  taught  this  vast  machine  its  steadfast  laws, 
That  first,  eternal,  universal  cause ; 
Search  to  what  regions  yonder  star  retires, 
That  monthly  waning  hides  her  paly  fires, 
And  whence,  anew  revived,  with  silver  light, 
Relumes  her  crescent-orb   to   cheer  the  dreary 

night : 

How  rising  winds  the  face  of  ocean  sweep, 
Where  He  the  eternal  fountains  of  the  deep, 
And  whence  the  cloudy  magazines  maintain 
Their  wintry  war,  or  pour  the  autumnal  rain. 
How  flames  perhaps,  with  dire  confusion  hurl'd, 
Shall  sink  this  beauteous  fabric  of  the  world ; 
What  colours  paint  the  vivid  arch  of  Jove ; 
What  wondrous  force  the  solid  earth  can  move. 
When  Pindus'  self  approaching  ruin  dreads, 
Shakes  all  his  pines,  and  bows  his  hundred  heads ; 
Why  does  yon  orb,  so  exquisitely  bright, 
Obscure  his  radiance  in  a  short-lived  night; 
Whence  the  Seven-Sisters'  congregated  fires, 
And  what  Bootes'  lazy  waggon  tires ; 
How  the  rude  surge  its  sandy  bounds  control ; 
Who  measured  out  the  year,  and  bade  the  sea- 
sons roll. 

If  realms  beneath  those  fabled  torments  know, 
Pangs  without  respite,  fires  that  ever  glow, 
Earth's  monster  brood  stretch'd  on  their  iron  bed, 
The  hissing  terrors  round  Alecto's  head, 
Scarce  to  nine  acres  Tityus'  bulk  confined, 
The  triple  dog  thai  scares  the  shadowy  kind, 
All  angry  heaven  inflicts,  or  hell  can  feel, 
The  pendant  rock,  Ixion's  whirling  wheel, 
Famine  at  feasts,  or  thirst  amid  the  stream ; 
Or  are  our  fears  the  enthusiasts'  empty  dream, 
And  all  the  scenes  that  hurt  the  grave's  repose 
But  pictured  horror  and  poetic  woes  1 
These  soft  inglorious  joys  my  hours  engage ; 
Be  love  my  youth's  pursuit,  and  science  crown 
my  age. 


OVID. 


[Born  43,  B.  C.,— Died  16,  A.  D.] 


PUBLICS  OVIDIUS  NASO  was  born  of  an  ho- 
nourable family  at  Sulmo,  a  town  in  the  territory 
of  the  Peligni,  in  Italy.  He  was  educated  at 
Rome  and  Athens,  under  the  best  masters ;  ac- 
quired some  reputation  by  his  eloquence  at  the 
bar;  and  served  a  campaign  under  Marcus  Varro, 
in  Asia.  His  earliest  inclinations  had  been 
always  for  poetry;*  but  this  was  a  luxury  which 
he  was  scarcely  at  liberty  to  indulge,  until  after 
the  deaths  of  his  father  and  elder  brother,  from 
the  latter  of  whom  he  inherited  an  ample  fortune. 


*  To  deter  him  from  it,  his  father  was  in  the  habit  of 
declaiming  on  the  unprofitableness  of  the  study,  and  ge- 
neral poverty  of  its  professors — 

Saepe  Pater  dixit,  "Studium  quid  inutile  tentas? 

Mteonides  nullas  ipse  reliquit  opes." — Trist.  L.  iv. 


\      After  many  years  spent  at  Rome — in  the  en- 

j  joyment  of  some  of  its  best  society,  and  in  the 

practice  of  most  of  its  worst  vices — he  by  some 

unascertained  accident  or  offence,  drew  down  on 

j  himself  the  displeasure  of  the  emperor,  and  was 

|  banished  to   Totni,   a   town  of  Pontus,  on   tie 

I  Euxine   sea,   where,  notwithstanding    his    own 

pathetic  epistles,  and  the  unceasing  intercession 

j  of  his  friends,  he  was  doomed  to  linger  out  h  s 

j  days. — He  died  in  the  eighth  year  of  his  exile  ; 

j  in  the  fifty-ninth  of  his  age;  and  in  the  sixteenth 

of  the  Christian  era.     Ovid  had  three  wives;  he 

was  divorced  from  the  two  first,  but  seems  t3 

have  entertained  something  like  tenderness  for 

the  third. 

Dryden,  who  has  translated  considerable  poi- 


OVID. 


487 


tions  of  his  works,  thus  speaks  of  him  as  a  poet — 
"  [f  the  imitation  of  nature,"  says  he,  "be  the 
business  of  a  poet,  I  know  no  author  who  can 
justly  be  compared  with  Ovid,  especially  in  the 
d ascription  of  the  passions:  and,  to  prove  this,  I 
shall  need  no  other  judges  than  the  generality 
of  his  readers:  for  all  passions  being  inborn  with 
us,  we  are  almost  equally  judges  when  we  are 
concerned  in  the  representation  of  them.  Now, 
I  will  appeal  to  any  man,  who  has  read  this 
poet,  whether  he  finds  not  the  natural  emotion 
of  the  same  passion  in  himself,  which  the  poet 
describes  in  his  feigned  persons?  His  thoughts, 
which  are  the  pictures  and  results  of  those  pas- 
sions, are  generally  such  as  naturally  arise  from 
those  disorderly  motions  of  our  spirits.  Yet  not 
to  speak  too  partially  in  his  behalf,  I  will  confess, 
tiat  the  copiousness  of  his  wit  was  such  that  he 
often  'wrote  too  pointedly  for  his  subject,  and 
riade  his  persons  speak  more  eloquently  than 
t  10  violence  of  their  passion  would  admit;  so  that 
he  is  frequently  witty  out  of  season  ;  leaving  the 
imitation  of  nature,  and  the  cooler  dictates  of 
his  judgment,  for  the  false  applause  of  fancy. 


Yet  he  seems  to  have  found  out  this  imperfection 
in  his  riper  age;  for  why  else  should  he  complain 
that  his  Metamorphoses  were  left  unfinished? 
Nothing  sure  can  be  added  to  the  wit  of  that 
poem,  or  of  the  rest;  but  many  things  ought  to 
have  been  retrenched,  which  I  suppose  would 
have  been  the  business  of  his  age,  if  his  misfor- 
tunes had  not  come  too  fast  on  him.  But  take 
him  uncorrected  as  he  is  transmitted  to  us,  and 
it  must  be  acknowledged  that  Seneca's  cen- 
sure will  stand  good  against  him:  'He  never 
knew  how  to  give  over,  when  he  had  done  well :' 
but  continually  varying  the  same  sense  a  hun- 
dred ways,  and  taking  up  in  another  place  what 
he  had  more  than  enough  inculcated  before, 
he  sometimes  cloys  his  readers  instead  of  satis- 
fying them.  This  then  is  the  alloy  of  Ovid's 
writing,  which  is  sufficiently  recompensed  by 
his  other  excellences;  nay,  this  very  fault  is  not 
without  its  beauties;  for  the  most  severe  censor 
cannot  but  be  pleased  with  the  prodigality  of 
his  wit,  though,  at  the  same  time,  he  could  have 
wished  that  the  master  of  it  had  been  a  better 
manager." 


FROM  THE  METAMORPHOSES. 
Book  I, 

CREATION  OF  THE   WORLD. 

OF  bodies  changed  to  various  forms  I  sing: 
Ye  gods,  from  whom  these  miracles  did  spring, 
'inspire  my  numbers  with  celestial  heat, 
Till  I  my  long  laborious  work  complete; 
And  add  perpetual  tenor  to  my  rhymes, 
.Deduced  from  Nature's  birth  to  Cii'sar's  times. 

Before  the  seas,  and  this  terrestrial  ball, 
And  heaven's  high  canopy  that  covers  all, 
One  was  the  face  of  Nature;  if  a  face: 
Rather  a  rnde  and  indigested  mn 
A  lifeless  lump,  unfashion'd  and  unframed, 
Of  jarring  seeds,  and  justly  Chaos  named. 
No  sun  was  lighted  up  the  world  to  view, 
No  moon  did  yet  her  blunted  horns  renew. 
Nor  yet  was  earth  suspended  in  the  sky, 
Nor  poised,  did  on  her  own  foundations  lie, 
Nor  seas  about  the  shores  their  arms  Imd  thrown; 
But  earth,  and  air,  and  water  were  in  one. 
Thus  air  v  light,  and  earth  unstable, 

And  water's  dark  aUyss  in. navigable. 
No  certain  form  on  any  was  iinpr 
All  were  confused,  and  each  di-turb'd  the  rest. 
For  hot  and  fold  were  in  one  body  f;-> 
And    soil    with    hard,    and    light    with    heavy, 
mix'd. 

But  God.  or  Nature,  while  they  t'ms  contend, 
To  these  int.  •  ut  an  end. 

Then  earth  from  air,  and  seas  from   earth,  were 

driven. 

And  grosser  air  sunk  from  ethereal  heaven. 
Thus  disembroil'd,  they  take  tlieir  proper  place; 
The  next  of  kin  contiguously  embrace; 
And  foes  are  sunder'd  by  a  larger  space. 


The  force  of  fire  ascended  first  on  high, 
And  took  its  dwelling  in  the  vaulted  sky: 
Then  air  succeeds,  in  lightness  next  to  fire, 
Whose  atoms  from  inactive  earth  retire; 
Earth  sinks  beneath,  and  draws  a  numerous  throng 
Of  ponderous,  thick,  uuwieldly,  seeds  along. 
About  her  coasts  unruly  waters  roar, 
And,  rising  on  a  ridge,  insult  the1  shore. 
Thus  when  the  god,  whatever  god  was  he, 
Had  fbrnrd  the  whole,  and  made  the  parts  agree, 
That  no  unequal  portions  might  be  found, 
He  moulded  earth  into  a  spacious  round: 
Then,  with  a  breath,  he  gave  the  winds  to  blow, 
And  bade  the  congregated  waters  flow. 
He  adds  the  running  springs,  and  standing  lakes  ; 
And  bounding  banks  for  winding  rivers  makes. 
Some  parts  in  earth  are  swallow'd  up,  the  most 
In  ample  oceans  disembogued,  are  lo-t. 
He  shades  the  woods,  the  valleys  he  restrains 
With  rocky  mountains,  and  extends  the  plains. 
And  as  five  zones  the  rthereal  regions  bind, 
Five,  correspondent,  are  to  earth  as>ign'd  : 
The  sun,  with  rays  directly  darting  down, 
Fires  all  beneath,  and  Cries  the  middle  zone; 
The  two  beneath  the  di.-tant  ]><>]<•>  complain 
Of  endless  winter,  and  perpetual  rain. 
Betwixt  tl  haj. pier  climates  hold 

The  temper  that  partakes  of  hot  and  cold. 
The  fields  of  liquid  air,  enclo-ing  all, 
Surround  the  compass  of  this  earthly  ball: 
The  lighter  parts  lie  next  the  lires  above, 
The  grosser  near  the  watery  surface  move: 
Thick  clouds  are  spread,  and  storms  engender 

there, 
!  And   thunder's  voice,  which  wretched  mortals 

fear, 
And  winds,  that  on  their  wings  cold  winter  bear. 


488 


OVID. 


Nor  were  those  blust'ring  brethren  left  at  large, 
On  seas  and  shores  their  fury  to  discharge: 
Bound  as  they  are,  and  circumscribed  in  place, 
They   rend    the    world,   resistless,  where    they 


And  mighty  marks  of  mischief  leave  behind  j 
Such  is  the  rage  of  their  tempestuous  kind. 
First  Eurus  to  the  rising  morn  is  sent 
(The  regions  of  the  balmy  continent,) 
And  eastern  realms,  where,  early,  Persians  run 
To  greet  the  bless'd  appearance  of  the  sun. 
Westward,  the  wanton  Zephyr  wings  his  flight, 
Pleased  with  the  remnants  of  departing  light. 
Fierce  Boreas,  with  his  offspring,  issues  forth 
To  invade  the  frozen  wagon  of  the  north ; 
While  frowning  Auster  seeks  the  southern  sphere, 
And  rots,  with  endless  rain,  the  unwholesome 

year. 

High  o'er  the  clouds,  and  empty  realms  of  wind, 
The  god  a  clearer  space  for  heaven  design'd ; 
Where  fields  of  light,  and  liquid  ether  flow, 
Purged  from  the  ponderous  dregs  of  earth  below. 
Scarce  had  the  power  distinguish'd  these,  when 

straight 

The  stars,  no  longer  overlaid  with  weight, 
Exert  their  heads  from  underneath  the  mass, 
And  upward  shoot,  and  kindle  as  they  pass, 
And  with  diffusive  light  adorn  their  heavenly 

place. 

Then,  every  void  of  nature  to  supply, 
With  forms  of  gods  he  fills  the  vacant  sky ; 
New  herds  of  beasts  he  sends   the  plains  to 

share ; 

New  colonies  of  birds  to  people  air ; 
And  to  their  oozy  beds  the  finny  fish  repair. 

A  creature  of  a  more  exalted  kind 
Was  wanting  yet,  and  then  was  Man  design'd : 
Conscious  of  thought,  of  more  capacious  breast, 
For  empire  form'd,  and  fit  to  rule  the  rest: 
Whether  with  particles  of  heavenly  fire 
The  God  of  nature  did  his  soul  inspire, 
Or  earth,  but  new  divided  from  the  sky, 
And  pliant,  still  retained  the  ethereal  energy, 
Which  wise  Prometheus  temper'd  into  paste, 
And,  mix'd    with    living   streams,  the   godlike 

image  cast. 

Thus,  wlrile  the  mute  creation  downward  bend 
Their  sight,  and  to  their  earthly  mother  tend, 
Man  looks  aloft,  and  with  erected  eyes 
Beholds  his  own  hereditary  skies. 
From  such  rude  principles  our  form  began, 
And  earth  was  metamorphosed  into  man. 

GOLDEN   AGE. 

THE  golden  age  was  first,  when  man,  yet  new, 
No  rule  but  uncorrupted  reason  knew, 
And,  with  a  native  bent,  did  good  pursue. 
Unforced  by  punishment,  unawed  by  fear, 
His  words  were  simple,  and  his  soul  sincere; 
Needless  was  written  law,  where  none  oppress'd ; 
The  law  of  man  was  written  on  his  breast : 
No  suppliant  crowds  before  the  judge  appear'd, 
No  court  erected  yet,  nor  cause  was  heard, 
But  all  was  safe :  for  conscience  was  their  guard. 
The  mountain  trees  in  distant  prospect  please, 
Ere  yet  the  pine  descended  to  the  seas ; 


Ere  sails  were  spread  new  oceans  to  explore, 
And  happy  mortals,  unconcern'd  for  more, 
Confined  their  wishes  to  their  native  shore. 
No  walls  were  yet,  nor  fence,  nor  moat,  nor 

mound, 

Nor  drum  was  heard,  nor  trumpet's  angry  sound, 
Nor  swords  were  forged;  but,  void  of  care  and 

crime, 

The  soft  creation  slept  away  their  time. 
The  teeming  earth,  yet  guiltless  of  the  plough, 
And  unprovoked,  did  fruitful  stores  allow  : 
Content  with  food  which  Nature  freely  bred, 
On  wildings  and  on  strawberries  they  fed ; 
Cornels  and  brambleberries  gave  the  rest, 
And  falling  acorns  furnished  out  a  feast. 
The   flowers  unsown,  in  fields  and  meadows 

reign'd  ; 

And  western  winds  immortal  spring  maintain'd. 
In  following  years  the  bearded  corn  ensued 
From  earth  unask'd,  nor  was  that  earth  renew'd. 
From  veins  of  valleys  milk  and  nectar  broke, 
And  honey  sweating  through  the  pores  of  oak. 

SILVER    AGE. 

BUT  when  good  Saturn,  banish'd  from  above, 
Was  driven  to  hell,  the  world  was  under  Jove. 
Succeeding  times  a  silver  age  behold, 
Excelling  brass,  but  more  excelled  by  gold. 
Then  summer,  autumn,  winter,  did  appear, 
And  spring  was  but  a  season  of  the  year ; 
The  sun  his  annual  course  obliquely  made, 
Good  days  contracted,  and  enlarged  the  bad. 
Then  air  with  sultry  heats  began  to  glow, 
The  wings  of  winds  were  clogg'd  with  ice  and 

snow; 

And  shivering  mortals  into  houses  driven, 
Sought  shelter  from  the  inclemency  of  heaven. 
Those  houses,  then,  were  caves  or  homely  sheds, 
With  twining  osiers  fenced,  and  moss  their  beds. 
Then  ploughs,  for  seed,  the  fruitful  furrows  broke, 
And  oxen  laboured  first  beneath  the  yoke. 

BRAZEN  AGE. 

To  this  came  next  in  course  the  brazen  age; 
A  warlike  oft'spring,  prompt  to  bloody  rage, 
Not  impious  yet. 

IRON  AGE. 

HARD  steel  succeeded  then, 
And  stubborn  as  the  metal  were  the  men. 
Truth,  modesty,  and  shame,  the  world  forsook ; 
Fraud,  avarice,  and  force,  their  places  took. 
Then  sails  were  spread  to  every  wind  that  blew, 
Raw  were  the  sailors  and  the  depths  were  new; 
Trees,  rudely  hollow'd,  did  the  waves  sustain, 
Ere  ships  in  triumph  plough'd  the  watery  plain. 

Then  landmarks  limited  to  each  his  right; 
For  all  before  was  common  as  the  light. 
Nor  was  the  ground  alone  required  to  bear 
Her  annual  income  to  the  crooked  share, 
But  greedy  mortals  rummaging  her  store, 
Digg'd  from  her  entrails  first  the  precious  ore 
(Which  next  to  hell  the  prudent  gods  had  laid,) 
And  that  alluring  ill  to  sight  display'd. 
Thus  cursed  steel,  and  more  accursed  gold, 
Gave  mischief  birth,  and  made  that  mischief  bold : 


OVID. 


489 


And  double  death  did  wretched  man  invade, 

Ey  steel  assaulted,  and  by  gold  betrayed. 

Now   (brandish'd   weapons    glittering    in    their 

hands) 

Mankind  is  broken  loose  from  moral  bands : 
No  rights  of  hospitality  remain  ; 
The  guest,  by  him  who  harbour'd  him,  is  slain; 
The  son-in-law  pursues  the  father's  life ; 
The  wife  her  husband  murders,  he  the  wife ; 
The  stepdame  poison  for  the  son  prepares ; 
The  son  inquires  into  his  father's  years ; 
Faith  flies,  and  piety  in  exile  mourns ; 
And  Justice,  here  oppress'd,  to  heaven  returns. 

THE  DELUGE. 

ALREADY  had  Jove  toss'd  the  flaming  brand, 
And  roll'd  the  thunder  in  his  spacious  hand; 
Preparing  to  discharge  on  seas  and  land : 
But  stopp'd,  for  fear,  thus  violently  driven, 
The  sparks  should  catch  his  axle-tree  of  heaven. 
Rememb'ring,  in  the  Fates,  a  time,  when  fire 
Should  to  the  battlements  of  heaven  aspire, 
And  all  his  blazing  worlds  above  should  burn, 
And  all  the  inferior  globe  to  cinders  turn. 
His  dire  artillery  thus  dismiss'd,  he  bent 
His  thoughts  to  some  securer  punishment: 
Concludes  to  pour  a  wat'ry  deluge  down ; 
And,  what  he  durst  not  burn,  resolves  to  drown. 

The  Northern  breath,  that  freezes  floods,  he 

binds; 

With  all  the  race  of  cloud-dispelling  winds : 
The  South  he  loos'd,  who  night  and  horror  brings ; 
And  fogs  are  shaken  from  his  flaggy  wings. 
From  his  divided  beard  two  streams  he  pours; 
His  head  and  rheumy  eyes  distil  in  showers. 
The  skies,  from  pole  to  pole,  with  peals  resound : 
And    showers    enlarg'd    come   pouring   on   the 

ground. 

Then  clad  in  colours  of  a  various  dye, 
Junonian  Iris  breeds  a  new  supply 
To  feed  the  clouds:  impetuous  rain  descends; 
The  bearded  corn  beneath  the  burthen  bends: 
Defrauded  clowns  deplore  their  perish'd  grain ; 
And  the  long  labours  of  the  year  are  vain. 

Nor  from  his  patrimonial  heaven  alone 
Is  Jove  content  to  pour  his  vengeance  down: 
Aid  from  his  brother  of  the  seas  he  craves, 
To  help  him  with  auxiliary  waves. 
The  wat'ry  tyrant  calls  his  brooks  and  floods, 
Who  roll  from  mossy  caves,  their  moist  abodes ; 
And  with  perpetual  urns  his  palace  fill : 
To  whom,  in  brief,  he  thus  imparts  his  will. 

Small  exhortation  needs;  your  powers  employ: 
A.nd  this  bad  world  (so  Jove  requires]  destroy. 
Let  loose  the  reins  to  all  your  wat'ry  store: 
Bear  down  the  dams,  and  open  every  door. 

The  floods,  by  nature  enemies  to  land, 
And  proudly  swelling  with  their  new  command, 
Remove  the  living  stones  that  stnpp'd  their  way, 
And,  gushing  from  their  source,  augment  the  sea. 
Then,  with  his  mace,  their  monarch  struck  the 

ground  : 

With  inward  trembling  earth  receiv'd  the  wound ; 
And  rising  streams  a  ready  passage  found. 
The  expanded  waters  gather  on  the  plain, 
They  float  the  fields,  and  overtop  the  grain ; 


Then  rushing  onwards,  with  a  sweepy  sway, 
Bear  flocks,  and  folds,  and  lab'ring  hinds  away. 
Nor  safe  their  dwellings  were;  for,  sapp'd  by 

floods, 

Their  houses  fell  upon  their  household  gods. 
The  solid  piles,  too  strongly  built  to  fall, 
High  o'er  their  heads  behold  a  wat'ry  wall. 
Now  seas  and  earth  were  in  confusion  lost; 
A  world  of  waters,  and  without  a  coast. 

One  climbs  a  cliff;  one  in  his  boat  is  borne, 
And  ploughs  above,  where  late  he  sow'd  his  corn. 
Others  o'er  chimney  tops  and  turrets  row, 
And  drop  their  anchors  on  the  meads  below : 
Or  downward  driven,  they  bruise  the  tender  vine, 
Or  toss'd  aloft,  are  knock'd  against  a  pine. 
And  where  of  late  the  kids  had  cropp'd  the 

grass, 

The  monsters  of  the  deep  now  take  their  place. 
Insulting  Nereids  on  the  cities  ride, 
And  wondering  dolphins  o'er  the  palace  glide. 
On    leaves,    and    masts    of  mighty   oaks,    they 

browse ; 

And  their  broad  fins  entangle  in  the  boughs. 
The  frighted  wolf  now  swims  among  the  sheep  ; 
The  yellow  lion  wanders  in  the  deep  : 
His  rapid  force  no  longer  helps  the  boar : 
The  stag  swims  faster  than  he  ran  before. 
The  fowls,  long  beating  on  their  wings  in  vain, 
Despair  of  land,  and  drop  into  the  main. 
Now  hills  and  vales  no  more  distinction  know, 
And  levell'd  nature  lies  oppress'd  below. 
The  most  of  mortals  perish  in  the  flood, 
The  small  remainder  dies  for  want  of  food. 
A  mountain  of  stupendous  height  there  stands 
Betwixt  the  Athenian  and  Boeotian  lands, 
The  bound  of  fruitful  fields,  while  fields  they 

were, 

But  then  a  field  of  waters  did  appear : 
Parnassus  is  its  name ;  whose  forky  rise 
Mounts  through  the  clouds,  and  mates  the  lofty 

skies. 

High  on  the  summit  of  this  dubious  cliff, 
Deucalion,  wafted,  moor'd  his  little  skiff. 
He  with  his  wife  were  only  left  behind 
Of  perish 'd  man;  they  two  were  human  kind. 
The  Mountain-nymphs  and  Themis  they  adore, 
And  from  her  oracles  relief  implore. 
The  most  upright  of  mortal  men  was  he  ; 
The  most  sincere  and  holy  woman,  she. 

When  Jupiter,  surveying  earth  from  high, 
Beheld  it  in  a  lake  of  water  lie, 
That,  where  so  many  millions  lately  liv'd, 
But  two,  the  best  of  either  sex,  surviv'd, 
He  loos'd  the  northern  wind;  fierce  Boreas  flies 
To  puff  away  the  clouds,  and  purge  the  skies: 
Serenely,  while  he  blows,  the  vapours  driven 
Discover  heaven  to  earth,  and  earth  to  heaven. 
The  billows  fall,  while  Neptune  lays  his  mace 
On  the  rough  sea,  and  smooths  its  furrow'd  face. 
Already  Triton,  at  his  call,  appears 
Above  the  waves;  a  Tyrian  robe  he  wears; 
And  in  his  hand  a  crooked  trumpet  bears. 
The  sovereign  bids  him  peaceful  sounds  inspire, 
And  give  the  waves  the  signal  to  retire. 
The  waters,  listening  to  the  trumpet's  roar, 
Obey  the  summons,  and  forsake  the  shore. 


490 


OVID. 


A  thin  circumference  of  land  appears ; 
And  Earth,  but  not  at  once,  her  visage  rears, 
And  peeps  upon  the  seas  from  upper  grounds : 
The    streams,   but  just   contain'd   within   their 

bounds, 

By  slow  degrees  into  their  channels  crawl ; 
And  earth  increases  as  the  waters  fall. 
In  longer  time  the  tops  of  trees  appear, 
Which  mud  on  their  dishonoured  branches  bear. 

At  length  the  world  was  all  restor'd  to  view, 
But  desolate,  and  of  a  sickly  hue: 
Nature  beheld  herself,  and  stood  aghast, 
A  dismal  desert,  and  a  silent  waste. 

TRANSFORMATION  OF  DAPHNE  INTO  A  LAUREL. 

THE  first  and  fairest,  of  his  loves  was  she 
Whom  not  blind  Fortune,  but  the  dire  decree 
Of  angry  Cupid  forced  him  to  desire ; 
Daphne  her  name,  and  Peneus  was  her  sire. 
Swell'd  with  the  pride  that  new  success  attends, 
He  sees  the  stripling,  while  his  bow  he  bends, 
And  thus  insults  him:  "Thou  lascivious  boy, 
Are  arms  like  these  for  children  to  employ? 
Know,  such  achievements  are  my  proper  claim, 
Due  to  my  vigour  and  unerring  aim ; 
Resistless  are  my  shafts,  and  Python  late, 
In  such  a  feather'd  death  has  found  his  fate. 
Take  up  thy  torch  (and  lay  my  weapons  by,) 
With  that  the  feeble  souls  of  lovers  fry." 
To  whom  the  son  of  Venus  thus  replied: 
"Phffibus,  thy  shafts  are  sure  on  all  beside, 
But  mine  on  Phoebus;  mine  the  fame  shall  be 
Of  all  thy  conquests,  when  I  conquer  thee.': 

He  said,  and  soaring,  swiftly  wing'd  his  flight, 
Nor  stopp'd,  but  on  Parnassus'  airy  height. 
Two  different  shafts  he  from  his  quiver  draws, 
One  to  repel  desire,  and  one  to  cause. 
One  shaft  is  pointed  with  refulgent  gold, 
To  bribe  the  love  and  make  the  lover  bold ; 
One  blunt,  and  tipp'd  with  lead,  whose  base  allay 
Provokes  disdain,  and  drives  desire  away. 
The  blunted  bolt  against  the  nymph  he  dress'd, 
But' with  the  sharp  transfix'd  Apollo's  breast. 

The  enamour'd  deity  pursues  the  chase; 
The  scornful  damsel  shuns  his  loath'd  embrace: 
In  hunting  beasts  of  prey  her  youth  employs, 
And  Phcebe  rivals  in  her  rural  joys  : 
With  naked  neck  she  goes,  and  shoulders  bare, 
And  with  a  fillet  binds  her  flowing  hair. 
By  many  suitors  sought,  she  mocks  their  pains, 
And  still  her  vow'd  virginity  maintains. 
On  wilds  and  woods  she  fixes  her  desire; 
Nor  knows  what  youth  and  kindly  love  inspire. 
Her  father  chides  her  oft:  "Thou  owest,"  says  he, 
"A  husband  to  thyself,  a  son  to  me." 
She,  like  a  crime,  abhors  the  nuptial  bed ; 
She  glows  with  blushes,  and  she  hangs  her  head: 
Then,  casting  round  his  neck  her  tender  arms, 
Soothes    him    with    blandishments     and    filial 

charms. 

"Give  me,  my  lord,"  she  said,  "to  live  and  die 
A  spotless  maid,  without  the  marriage  tie ; 
'Tis  but  a  small  request;  I  beg  no  more 
Than  what  Diana's  father  gave  before." 
The  good  old  sire  was  soften'd  to  consent; 
But  said  her  wish  would  prove  her  punishment ; 


For  so  much  youth  and  so  much  beauty  join'd, 
Opposed  the  state  which  her  desires  design'd. 

The  god  of  light,  aspiring  to  her  bed, 
Hopes  what   he   seeks,  with  flattering  fancies 

fed, 

And  is,  by  his  own  oracles,  misled. 
And  as  in  empty  fields  the  stubble  burns, 
Or  nightly  travellers,  when  day  returns, 
Their  useless  torches  on  dry  hedges  throw, 
That  catch  the  flames,  and  kindle  all  the  row, 
So  burns  the  god,  consuming  in  desire, 
And  feeding  in  his  breast  a  fruitless  fire : 
Her  well-turn'd  neck  he  view'd  (her  neck  was 

bare,) 

And  on  her  shoulders  her  dishevell'd  hair : 
"0  were  it  comb'd,"  said  he,  "with  what  a  grace 
Would  every  waving  curl  become  her  face !" 
He  view'd  her  eyes,  like  heavenly  lamps  that 

shone, 

He  view'd  her  lips,  too  sweet  to  view  alone. 
Swift  as  the  wind  the  damsel  fled  away, 
Nor  did  for  these  alluring  speeches  stay. 
"Stay,  nymph,"  he  cried,  "I  follow,  not  a  foe. 
Thus  from  the  lion  trips  the  trembling  doe; 
Thus  from  the  wolf  the  frighten'd  lamb  removes, 
And  from  pursuing  falcons  fearful  doves : 
Thou  shunn'st  a  god,  and  shunn'st  a  god  that 

loves. 

Ah,  lest  some  thorn  should  pierce  thy  tender  foot, 
Or  thou  shouldst  fall  in  flying  my  pursuit ! 
To  sharp  uneven  ways  thy  steps  decline ; 
Abate  thy  speed,  and  I  will  bate  of  mine. 
Yet  think  from  whom  thou  dost  so  rashly  fly; 
Nor  basely  born,  nor  shepherd's  swain  am  I. 
Perhaps  thou  know'st  not  my  superior  state ; 
And  from  that  ignorance  proceeds  thy  hate. 
Me  Claros,  Delphos,  Tenedos,  obey; 
These  hands  the  Patareian  sceptre  sway: 
The  king  of  gods  begot  me :  what  shall  be, 
Or  is,  or  ever  was,  in  fate,  I  see : 
Mine  is  the  invention  of  the  charming  lyre : 
Sweet  notes,  and  heavenly  numbers,  I  inspire: 
Sure  is  my  bow,  unerring  is  my  dart; 
But  ah !  more  deadly  his  who  pierc'd  my  heart. 
Medicine  is  mine;  what  herbs  and  simples  grow 
In  fields  and  forests,  all  their  powers  I  know, 
And  am  the  great  physician  call'd  below. 
Alas !  that  fields  and  forests  can  afford 
No  remedies  to  heal  their  love-sick  lord: 
To  cure  the  pains  of  love  no  plant  avails; 
And  his  own  physic  the  physician  fails." 

She  heard  not  half,  so  furiously  she  flies; 
And  on  her  ear  the  imperfect  accent  dies. 
Fear  gave  her  wings;  and,  as  she  fled,  the  wind 
Increasing,  spread  her  flowing  hair  behind. 
As  when  the  impatient  greyhound,  slipp'd  from 

far, 

Bounds  o'er  the  glebe,  to  course  the  fearful  hare, 
She  in  her  speed  does  all  her  safety  lay; 
And  he  with  double  speed  pursues  the  prey; 
O'erruns  her  at  the  sitting  turn,  and  licks 
His  chaps  in  vain,  and  blows  upon  the  flix: 
She  scapes,  and  for  the  neighb'ring  covert  strives, 
And,  gaining  shelter,  doubts  if  yet  she  lives. 
If  little  things  with  great  we  may  compare, 
Such  was  the  god,  and  such  the  flying  fair ; 


OVID. 


491 


She,  urg'd  by  fear,  her  feet  did  swiftly  move, 
But  he  more  swiftly,  who  was  urged  by  love. 
He  gathers  ground  upon  her  in  the  chase ; 
Now  breathes  upon  her  hair,  with  nearer  pace ; 
And  just  is  fastening  on  the  wish'd  embrace. 
The  nymph  grew  pale,  and,  in  a  mortal  fright, 
Spent  with  the  labour  of  so  long  a  flight, 
A  nd  now  despairing,  cast  a  mournful  look 
Upon  the  streams  of  her  pateraal  brook: 
<;O  help,"  she  cried,  "in  this  extremest  need! 
If  water-gods  are  deities  indeed ; 
(Jape  earth,  and  this  unhappy  wretch  entomb ; 
Or  change  that  form,  whence  all  my  sorrows 

come." 

Scarce  had  she  finish'd,  when  her  feet  she  found 
Benumb'd  with  cold,  and  fasten'd  to  the  ground  ; 
A  filmy  rind  about  her  body  grows ; 
Her  hair  to  leaves,  her  arms  extend  to  boughs : 
The  nymph  is  all  into  a  laurel  gone ; 
The  smoothness  of  her  skin  remains  alone. 
Yet  Phcebus  loves  her  still,  and,  casting  round 
Her  bole  his  arms,  some  little  warmth  he  found. 
The  tree  still  panted  in  the  unfinish'd  part, 
Not  wholly  vegetive,  and  heaved  her  heart. 
He  fix'd  his  lips  upon  the  trembling  rind; 
It  swerved  aside,  and  his  embrace  declined: 
To  whom  the  god,  "Because  thou  canst  not  be 
My  mistress,  I  espouse  thee  for  my  tree : 
Be  thou  the  prize  of  honour  and  renown; 
The  deathless  poet,  and  the  poem,  crown : 
Thou  shalt  the  Roman  festivals  adorn, 
And,  after  poets,  be  by  victors  worn  : 
Thou  shalt  returning  Caesar's  triumph  grace, 
When  pomps  shall  in  a  long  procession  pass; 
Wreath'd  on  the  post  before  his  palace  wait, 
And  be  the  sacred  guardian  of  the  gate : 
Secure  from  thunder,  and  unharm'd  by  Jove; 
Unfading  as  the  immortal  powers  above : 
And  as  the  locks  of  Phoebus  are  unshorn, 
So  shall  perpetual  green  thy  boughs  adorn." 
The  grateful   tree  was   pleased  with  what  he 

said, 
And  shook  the  shady  honours  of  her  head. 

IO  TRANSFORMED   1XTO  A  COW. 

Ox  leaves  of  trees  and  bitter  herbs  she  fed  : 
Heaven  was  her  canopy;  bare  earth  her  bed: 
So  hardly  lodged: — and  to  digest  her  food, 
She  drank  from  troubled  streams,  defiled  with 

mud. 

Her  woeful  story  fain  she  would  have  told, 
With  hands  upheld  ;  but  had  no  hands  to  hold. 
Her  head  to  her  ungentle  keeper  bow'd, 
She  strove  to  speak  ;  >he  sjxike  not,  but  she  low'd  : 
Allrighted  with  the  noise,  she  look'd  around, 
And  seein'd  to  inquire  the  author  of  the  sound. 

Once  on  the  bank>  where  often  she  had  play'd 
(Her  father's  banks)  she  came,  ami  there  survey 'd 
Her  alter'd  visage,  and  her  branching  head  ; 
And,  starting,  from  herself  she  would  have  fled. 
Her  fellow-nymphs,  familiar  to  her  eyes, 
Beheld,  but  knew  her  not  in  this  disguise; 
M'en  Inaehus  himself  wa>  ignorant, 
And  in  his  daughter  did  his  daughter  want. 
She  followed  where  her  fellows  went,  as  she 
Were  still  a  partner  of  the  company: 


They  stroke  her  neck ;  the  gentle  heifer  stands, 
And  her  neck  offers  to  their  stroking  hands. 
Her  father  gave  her  grass ;  the  grass  she  took, 
And  lick'd  his  palms,  and  cast  a  piteous  look, 
And  in  the  language  of  her  eyes  she  spoke. 
She  would  have  told  her  name,  and  ask'd  relief, 
But,  wanting  words,  in  tears  she  tells  her  grief; 
Which,  with  her  foot  she  makes  him  understand  ; 
And  prints  the  name  of  lo  in  the  sand. 

"Ah  wretched  me!"  her  mournful  father  cried ; 
"She  with  a  sigh  to  wretched  me  replied." 
About  her  milk-white  neck  his  arms  he  threw, 
And  wept 

Book  VIII. 

8TORT  OF   BAUCIS  AND  PHILEMON. 

THEN  Lelex  rose,  an  old  experienced  man, 
And  thus,  with  sober  gravity,  began : 
"Heaven's  power  is  infinite:  earth,  air,  and  sea, 
The  manufactur'd  mass,  the  making  power  obey : 
By  proof  to  clear  your  doubt ;  in  Phrygian  ground 
Two  neighbouring  trees,  with  walls  encompass'd 

round, 

Stand  on  a  moderate  rise,  with  wonder  shown  j 
One  a  hard  oak,  a  softer  linden  one : 
I  saw  the  place,  and  them,  by  Pittheus  sent 
To  Phrygian  realms,  my  grandsire's  government. 
Not  far  from  thence  is  seen  a  lake,  the  haunt 
Of  coots,  and  of  the  fishing  cormorant : 
Here  Jove  with  Hermes  came ;  but  in  disguise 
Of  mortal  men  conceal'd  their  deities ; 
One  laid  aside  bis  thunder,  one  his  rod, 
And  many  toilsome  steps  together  trod  : 
For  harbour  at  a  thousand  doors  they  knock'd; 
Not  one  of  all  the  thousand  but  was  lock'd. 
At  last  a  hospitable  house  they  found, 
A  homely  shed;  the  roof,  not  far  from  ground, 
Was  thatch'd,  with  reeds  and   straw   together 

bound. 

There  Baucis  and  Philemon  lived,  and  there 
Had  lived  long  married,  and  a  happy  pair: 
Now  old  in  love,  though  little  was  their  store, 
Inured  to  want,  their  poverty  they  bore, 
Nor  ainrd  at  wealth,  professing  to  be  poor. 
For  master  or  for  servant  here  to  call 
Were  all  alike,  where  only  two  were  all. 
Command  was  none,  where  equal  love  was  paid, 
Or  rather  both  commanded,  both  obey'd. 

"From  lofty  roofs  the  gods  repulsed  before, 
Now  stooping,  enter'd  through  the  little  door : 
The  man  (their  hearty  welcome  iirst  expres-'d) 
A  common  settle  drew  for  either  guest, 
Inviting  each  his  weary  limbs  to  rest. 
But  ere  they  sat,  officious  Baucis  lays 
Two  cushions  sturTd  with  straw,  the  seat  to  raise ; 
Coarse,  but  the  best  she  had  ;  then  rakes  the  load 
Of  ashes  from  the  hearth,  and  spreads  abroad 
The  living  coals;  and,  lest  they  should  expire, 
With  leaves  and  bark  she  feeds  her  infant  fire. 
It  smokes;  and  then  with  trembling  breath  she 

blo\ 

Till  in  a  cheerful  blaze  the  flames  arose. 
With  brushwood  and  with  chips  she  strengthens 

these, 
And  adds  at  last  the  boughs  of  rotten  trees. 


492 


OVID. 


The  fire  thus  Ibrm'd,  she  sets  the  kettle  on 
(Like  burnish'd  gold  the  little  seether  shone;) 
Next  took  the  coleworts  which  her  husband  got 
From  his  own   ground   (a  small,  well-water'd 

spot;) 

She  stripp'd  the  stalks  of  all  their  leaves ;  the  best 
She  cull'd,  and  them  with  handy  care  she  dress'd. 
High  o'er  the  hearth  a  chine  of  bacon  hung ; 
Good  old  Philemon  seized  it  with  a  prong, 
And  from  the  sooty  rafter  drew  it  down, 
Then  cut  a  slice,  but  scare  enough  for  one ; 
Yet  a  large  portion  of  a  little  store, 
Which  for  their  sakes  alone  he  wish'd  were  more. 
This  in  the  pot  he  plunged  without  delay, 
To  tame  the  flesh,  and  drain  the  salt  away. 
The  time  between,  before  the  fire  they  sat, 
And  shorten'd  the  delay  by  pleasing  chat. 

"A  beam  there  was,  on  which  a  beechen  pail 
Hung  by  the  handle,  on  a  driven  nail : 
This  fill'd  with  water,  gently  warmed,  they  set 
Before  their  guests;  in  this  they  bathed  their  feet, 
And  after  with  clean  towels  dried  their  sweat. 
This  done,  the  host  produced  the  genial  bed, 
Sallow  the  feet,  the  borders,  and  the  sted, 
Which  with  no  costly  coverlet  they  spread, 
But  coarse  old  garments ;  yet  such  robes  as  these 
They  laid  alone  at  feasts  on  holydays. 
The  good  old  housewife,  tucking  up  her  gown 
The  table  sets ;  the  invited  gods  lie  down. 
The  trivet-table  of  a  foot  was  lame, 
A  blot  which  prudent  Baucis  overcame, 
Who  thrust  beneath  the  limping  leg  a  sherd ; 
So  was  the  mended  board  exactly  rear'd : 
Then  rubb'd  it  o'er  with  newly-gather'd  mint, 
A  wholesome  herb,  that  breathed  a  grateful  scent. 
Pallas  began  the  feast,  where  first  was  seen 
The  party-colour'd  olive,  black  and  green : 
Autumnal  cornels  next  in  order  serv'd, 
In  lees  of  wine  well  pickled  and  preserved. 
A  garden  salad  was  the  third  supply, 
Of  endive,  radishes,  and  succory : 
Then  curds  and  cream,  the  flower  of  country  fare, 
And  new-laid  eggs,  which  Baucis'  busy  care 
Turn'd  by  a  gentle  fire,  and  roasted  rare. 
All  these  in  earthenware  were  served  to  board, 
And,  next  in  place,  an  earthen  pitcher  stored 
With  liquor  of  the  best  the  cottage  could  afford. 
This  was  the  table's  ornament  and  pride, 
With  figures  wrought :  like  pages  at  his  side 
Stood  beechen  bowls ;  and  these  were  shining 

clean, 

Varnish'd  with  wax  without,  and  lined  within. 
By  this  the  boiling  kettle  had  prepared, 
And  to  the  table  sent  the  smoking  lard  ; 
On  which  with  eager  appetite  they  dine, 
A  sav'ry  bit,  that  serv'd  to  relish  wine ; 
The  wine  itself  was  suiting  to  the  rest, 
Still  working  in  the  must,  and  lately  press'd. 
The  second  course  succeeds  like  that  before, 
Plums,  apples,  nuts;  and  of  their  wintry  store 
Dry  figs,  arid  grapes,  and  wrinkled  dates  were  set 
In  canisters,  to  enlarge  the  little  treat : 
All  these  a  milkwhite  honey-comb  surround, 
Which  in  the  midst  a  country  banquet  crown'd  : 
But  the  kind  hosts  their  entertainment  grace 
With  hearty  welcome,  and  an  open  face  : 


In  all  they  did,  you  might  discern  with  ease 
A  willing  mind,  and  a  desire  to  please. 

"Meanwhile  the  beechen  bowls  went  round, 

and  still, 

Though  often  emptied,  were  observed  to  fill : 
I  Fill'd  without  hands,  and,  of  their  own  accord, 
Ran  without  feet,  and  danced  about  the  board. 
Devotion  seiz'd  the  pair,  to  see  the  feast 
With  wine,  and  of  no  common  grape,  increased  ; 
And  up  they  held  their  hands,  and  fell  to  pray'r, 
Excusing,  as  they  could,  their  country  fare. 
"One  goose  they  had   ('twas  all  they  could 

allow,) 

A  wakeful  sentry,  and  on  duty  now, 
Whom  to  the  gods  for  sacrifice  they  vow : 
Her  with  malicious  zeal  the  couple  view'd; 
She  ran  for  life,  and  limping  they  pursued : 
Full  well  the  fowl  perceived  their  bad  intent, 
And  would  not  make  her  master's  compliment; 
But  persecuted,  to  the  powers  she  flies, 
And  close  between  the  legs  of  Jove  she  lies: 
He  with  a  gracious  ear  the  suppliant  heard, 
And  saved  her  life ;  then  what  he  was  declared, 
And  own'd  the  god.  'The  neighbourhood,'  said  he, 
'Shall  justly  perish  for  impiety: 
You  stand  alone  exempted  :  but  obey 
With  speed,  and  follow  where  we  lead  the  way: 
Leave  these  accursed,  and  to  the    mountain's 

height 

Ascend,  nor  once  look  backward  in  your  flight.' 
"They  haste,  and  what  their  tardy  feet  denied, 
The  trusty  staff  (their  better  leg)  supplied. 
An  arrow's  flight  they  wanted  to  the  top, 
And  there  secure,  but  spent  with  travel,  stop ; 
They  turn  their  now  no  more  forbidden  eyes; 
Lost  in  a  lake  the  floated  level  lies : 
A  watery  desert  covers  all  the  plains, 
Their  cot  alone,  as  in  an  isle,  remains. 
Wondering,  with  weeping  eyes,  while  they  de- 
plore 

Their  neighbours'  fate,  and  country  now  no  more ; 
Their  little  shed,  scarce  large  enough  for  two, 
Seems,  from  the  ground  increased,  in  height  and 

bulk  to  grow. 

A  stately  temple  shoots  within  the  skies, 
The  crotches  of  their  cot  in  columns  rise ; 
The  pavement  polish'd  marble  they  behold, 
The  gates  with  sculpture  graced,  the  spires  and 

tiles  of  gold. 

"Then  thus  the  sire  of  gods,  with  looks  serene : 
'Speak  thy  desire,  thou  only  just  of  men; 
And  thou,  0  woman,  only  worthy  found 
To  be  with  such  a  man  in  marriage  bound.' 

"Awhile  they  whisper;  then,  to  Jove  address'd, 
Philemon  thus  prefers  their  joint  request: 
'We  crave  to  serve  before  your  sacred  shrine, 
And  offer  at  your  altar  rites  divine: 
And  since  not  any  action  of  our  life 
Has  been  polluted  with  domestic  strife, 
We  beg  one  hour  of  death,  that  neither  she 
With  widow's  tears  may  live  to  bury  me, 
Nor  weeping  I,  with  wither'd  arms,  may  bear 
My  breathless  Baucis  to  the  sepulchre. 
The  godheads  sign  their  suit.     They  run  their 

race, 
In  the  same  tenor,  all  the  appointed  space : 


OVID. 


493 


Then,  when  their  hour  was  come,  while  they 

relate 

These  past  adventures  at  the  temple  gate, 
Old  Baucis  is  by  old  Philemon  seen 
Sprouting  with  sudden  leaves  of  sprightly  green  : 
Old  Baucis  look'd  where  old  Philemon  stood, 
A:id  saw  his  lengthen'd  arms  a  sprouting  wood  : 
Naw  roots  their  fasten'd  feet  begin  to  bind, 
Their  bodies  stiffen  in  a  rising  rind : 
Then,  ere  the  bark  above  their  shoulders  grew, 
They  give  and  take  at  once  their  last  adieu. 
'At  once  farewell,  0  faithful  spouse,'  they  said; 
At  once  the  encroaching  rinds  their  closing  lips 

invade. 

E'en  yet,  an  ancient  Tyanaean  shows 
A  spreading  oak,  that  near  a  linden  grows ; 
The  neighbourhood  confirm  the  prodigy, 
Grave  men,  not  vain  of  tongue,  or  like  to  lie. 
I  saw  myself  the  garlands  on  their  boughs, 
And  tablets  hung  for  gifts  of  granted  vows; 
And  offering  fresher  up,  with  pious  prayer, 
'The  good,'  said  I,  'are  God's  peculiar  care, 
And   such  as  honour  Heaven,  shall   heavenly 

honour  share.' " 


Book  X. 

PTGMALIOJT   AXD    HIS    STATUE. 

PTGMALIOX,  loathing  their  lascivious  life,* 
Abhorr'd  all  womankind,  but  most  a  wife ; 
So  single  chose  to  live,  and  shunn'd  to  wed, 
Well  pleased  to  want  a  consort  of  his  bed ; 
Yet  fearing  idleness,  the  nurse  of  ill. 
la  sculpture  exercised  his  happy  skill, 
And  carved  in  ivory  such  a  maid,  so  fair, 
As  Nature  could  not  with  his  art  compare, 
Were  she  to  work ;  but,  in  her  own  defence, 
Must  take  her  pattern  here,  and  copy  hence. 
Pleased  with  his  idol,  he  commends,  admires, 
Adores,  and  last,  the  thing  adored  desires : 
A  very  virgin  in  her  face  was  seen, 
And  had  she  moved,  a  living  maid  had  been : 
One  would  have  thought  she  could  have  stirr'd, 

but  strove 

With  modesty,  and  was  ashamed  to  move : 
Art  hid  with  art,  so  well  perform'd  the  cheat, 
It  caught  the  carver  with  his  own  deceit: 
He  knows  'tis  madness,  yet  he  must  adore, 
And  still  the  more  he  knows  it.  loves  the  more. 

The  feast  of  Venus  came,  a  solemn  day, 
To  which  the  Cypriots  due  devotion  pay; 
With  gilded  horns  the  milk  white  luMtcrs  led, 
Slaughtered  before  the  sacred  altars  hi 

Pygmalion  offering,  first  approach'd  the  shrine, 
And   then  with   prayers  implored  the  powers 

divine: 

Almighty  gods,  if  all  we  mortals  want, 
If  all  we  can  require,  be  yours  to  grant, 
Make  this  fair  statue  mine,  he  would  have  said, 
But  changed  his  words  for  shame,  and  only  pray'd, 
'Give  me  the  likeness  of  my  ivory  maid." 

The  golden  goddess,  present  at  the  prayer, 
Well  knew  he  meant  th'  inanimated  fair, 

*  The  life  of  the  Cyprian  women. 


And  gave  the  sign  of  granting  his  desire; 
For  thrice  in  cheerful  flames  ascends  the  fire. 
The  youth,  returning  to  his  mistress,  hies, 
And,  impudent  in  hope,  with  ardent  eyes, 
And  beating  breast,  by  the  dear  statue  lies. 
He  kisses  her  white  lips,  renews  the  bliss, 
And  looks,  and  thinks  they  redden  at  the  kiss ; 
He  thought  them  warm  before,  nor  longer  stays, 
But  next  his  hand  on  the  hard  substance  lays; 
Hard  as  it  was,  beginning  to  relent, 
It  seem'd  the  block  beneath  his  fingers  bent : 
He  felt  again — his  fingers  made  a  print — 
'Tvvas  flesh,  but  flesh  so  firm,  it  rose  against  the 

dint : 

The  pleasing  task  he  fails  not  to  renew ; 
Soft,  and  more  soft,  at  every  touch  it  grew; 
Like  pliant  wax,  when  chafing  hands  reduce 
The  former  mass  to  form,  and  frame  for  use. 
He  would  believe,  but  yet  is  still  in  pain, 
And  tries  his  argument  of  sense  again, 
Presses  the  pulse,  and  feels  the  leaping  vein: 
Convinced,   o'erjoyed,  his    studied    thanks   and 

praise, 

To  her  who  made  the  miracle,  he  pays: 
Then  lips  to  lips  he  join'd ;  now  freed  from  fear, 
He  found  the  savour  of  the  kiss  sincere. 
At  this  the  waken'd  image  oped  her  eyes, 
And  view'd  at  once  the  light  and  lover  with 

surprise. 

The  goddess,  present  at  the  match  she  made, 
So  bless'd  the  bed,  such  fruitfulness  convey'd, 
That  ere  ten  months  had  sharpen'd  either  horn, 
To  crown  their  bliss,  a  lovely  boy  was  born : 
Paphos   his   name,    who,   grown    to    manhood, 

wall'd 
The  city  Paphos,  from  the  founder  call'd. 


Book  XL 

THE   HOUSE   OF   SLEEP. 

DEEP  in  a  cavern  dwells  the  drowsy  god, 
Whose  gloomy  mansion,  nor  the  rising  sun, 
Nor  setting,  visits,  nor  the  lightsome  noon  : 
But  lazy  vapours  round  the  region  fly, 
Perpetual  twilight,  and  a  doubtful  sky; 
No  crowing  cock  does  there  his  wings  display, 
Nor  with  his  horny  bill  provoke  the  day, 
Nor  watchful  dogs,  nor  the  more  wakeful  geese, 
Disturb  with  nightly  noise  the  sacred  peace, 
Nor  beast  of  nature,  nor  the  tame  are  nigh, 
Nor  trees  with  tempests  rock'd,  nor  human  cry, 
But  safe  repose,  without  an  air  of  breath, 
Dwells  here,  and  a  dumb  quiet  next  to  death. 

An  arm  of  Lethe,  with  a  gentle  flow 
Arising  upwards  from  the  rock  below, 
The  palace  moats,  and  o'er  the  pebbles  creeps, 
And  with  soft  murmurs  calls  the  coming  sleeps. 
Around  its  entry  nodding  poppies  grow, 
And  all  cool  simples  that  sweet  rest  bestow ; 
Night  from  the  plants  their  sleepy  virtue  drains, 
And,  passing,  sheds  it  on  the  silent  plains. 
No  door  there  was,  the  unguarded  house  to  keep, 
On  creaking  hinges  turn'd,  to  break  his  sleep. 

But  in  the  gloomy  court  was  raised  a  bed, 

Stuff 'd  with  black  plumes,  and  on  an  ebon  'sted; 

IB 


494 


OVID. 


Black  was  the  covering  too,  where  lay  the  god, 

And  slept  supine,  his  limbs  display'd  abroad ; 

About  his  head  fantastic  visions  fly, 

Which  various  images  of  things  supply, 

And  mock  their  forms,  the  leaves  on  trees  not 

more, 
Nor  bearded  ears  in  fields,  nor  sands  upon  the 

shore. 

The  virgin  entering  bright,  indulged  the  day 
To   the   brown  cave,  and  brush'd   the   dreams 

away; 

The  god,  disturbed  with  this  new  glare  of  light, 
Cast  sudden  on  his  face,  unseal'd  his  sight, 
And  raised  his  tardy  head,  which  sunk  again, 
And,  sinking,  on  his  bosom  knock'd  his  chin; 
At  length  shook  off  himself,  and  ask'd  the  dame 
(And  asking  yawn'd)  for  what  intent  she  came. 


Book  XII. 

THE  HOUSE  OF  FAME. 

FULL  in  the  midst  of  this  created  space, 
Between  heaven,  earth,  and  skies,  there  stands  a 

place, 

Confining  on  all  three,  with  triple  bound, 
Whence  all  things,  though  remote,  are  view'd 

around, 

And  thither  bring  their  undulating  sound. 
The  palace  of  loud  Fame,  her  seat  of  power, 
Placed  on  the  summit  of  a  lofty  tower  ; 
A  thousand  winding  entries,  long  and  wide 
Receive,  of  fresh  reports,  a  flowing  tide. 
A  thousand  crannies  in  the  walls  are  made, 
Nor  gate,  nor  bars,  exclude  the  busy  trade : 
'Tis  built  of  brass,  the  better  to  diffuse 
The  spreading  sounds,  and  multiply  the  news; 
Where  echoes  in  repeated  echoes  play; 
A  mart  for  ever  full,  and  open  night  and  day. 
Nor  silence  is  within,  nor  voice  express, 
But  a  deaf  noise  of  sounds,  that  never  cease ; 
Confused,  and  chiding,  like  the  hollow  roar 
Of  tides  receding  from  the  insulted  shore; 
Or  like  the  broken  thunder  heard  from  far, 
When  Jove  to  distance  drives  the  rolling  war. 
The  courts  are  fill'd  with  a  tumultuous  din 
Of  crowds,  or  issuing  forth,  or  entering  in; 
A  thoroughfare  of  news,  where  some  devise 
Things  never  heard,  some  mingle  truth  with  lies; 
The  troubled  air  with  empty  sounds  they  beat, 
Intent  to  hear,  and  eager  to  repeat; 
Error  sits  brooding  there,  with  added  train 
Of  vain  credulity,  and  joys  as  vain  : 
Suspicion,  with  sedition  join'd,  are  near, 
And  rumours  raised,  and  murmurs  mix'd,  and 

panic  fear. 

Fame  sits  aloft,  and  sees  the  subject  ground, 
And  seas  about,  and  skies  above;  inquiring  all 

around. 

Book  XV. 

PYTHAGOHEAX  PHILOSOPHY. 

OH  mortals,  from  your  fellows'  blood  abstain, 
Nor  taint  your  bodies  with  a  food  profane : 
While  corn  and  pulse  by  nature  are  bestowed, 
And  planted  orchards  bend  their  willing  load; 


While  labour'd  gardens  wholesome  herbs  produce, 
And  teeming  vines  afford  their  generous  juice ; 
Nor  tardier  fruits  of  cruder  kind  are  lost, 
But  tamed  with  fire,  or  mellow'd  by  the  frost; 
While  kirie  to  pails  distended  udders  bring, 
And  bees  their  honey  redolent  of  spring; 
While  earth  not  only  can  your  needs  supply, 
But,  lavish  of  her  store,  provides  for  luxury; 
A  guiltless  feast  administers  with  ease, 
And  without  blood  is  prodigal  to  please. 
Wild  beasts  their  maws  with  their  slain  brethren 

fill; 

And  yet  not  all,  for  some  refuse  to  kill ; 
Sheep,  goats,  and  oxen,  and  the  nobler  steed, 
On  browse,  and  corn,  and  flowery  meadows  feed. 
Bears,  tigers,  wolves,  the  lion's  angry  brood, 
Whom  Heaven  indued  with  principles  of  blood. 
He  wisely  sunder'd  from  the  rest,  to  yell 
In  forests,  and  in  lonely  caves  to  dwell ; 
Where  stronger  beasts  oppress  the  weak  by  might, 
And  all  in  prey  and  purple  feasts  delight. 

Ill  habits  gather  by  unseen  degrees, 
As  brooks  make  rivers,  rivers  run  to  seas. 
The  sow,  with  her  broad  snout,  for  rooting  up 
The  intrusted  seed,  was  judged  to  spoil  the  crop, 
And  intercept  the  sweating  farmer's  hope : 
The  covetous  churl,  of  unforgiving  kind, 
The  offender  to  the  bloody  priest  resigned : 
Her  hunger  was  no  plea :  for  that  she  died. 
The  goat  came  next  in  order  to  be  tried : 
The  goat  had  cropp'd  the  tendrils  of  the  vine: 
In  vengeance  laity  and  clergy  join, 
Where  one  had  lost  his  profit,  one  his  wine. 
Here  was  at  least  some  shadow  of  offence; 
The  sheep  was  sacrificed  on  no  pretence, 
But  meek  and  unresisting  innocence. 
A  patient,  useful  creature,  born  to  bear 
The  warm   and  woolly  fleece,  that  clothed  her 

murderer; 

And  daily  to  give  down  the  milk  she  bred, 
A  tribute  for  the  grass  on  which  she  fed. 
Living,  both  food  and  raiment  she  supplies, 
And  is  of  least  advantage  when  she  dies. 

How  did  the  toiling  ox  his  death  deserve, 
A  downright  simple  drudge,  and  born  to  serve? 
Oh  tyrant!  with  what  justice  canst  thou  hope 
The  promise  of  the  year,  a  plenteous  crop  ; 
When  thou  destroy'st  thy  labouring  steer,  who 

tilled 

And  plough'd ,  with  pains,  thy  else  ungrateful  field  ? 
From  his  yet  reeking  neck,  to  draw  the  yoke, 
That  neck  with  which  the  surly  clods  he  broke : 
And  to  the  hatchet  yield  thy  husbandman, 
Who  finished  autumn,  and  the  spring  began. 

Why  thus  affrighted  at  an  empty  name, 
A  dream  of  darkness,  and  fictitious  flame? 
Vain  themes  of  wit,  which  but  in  poerns  pass, 
And  fables  of  a  world  that  never  was  ? 
What  feels  the  body  when  the  soul  expires, 
By  time  corrupted,  or  consumed  by  fires  ? 
Nor  dies  the  spirit,  but  new  life  repeats 
In  other  forms,  and  only  changes  seats. 

E'en  I,  who  these  mysterious  truths  declare, 
Was  once  Euphorbus  in  the  Trojan  war ; 


OVID. 


495 


My  name  and  lineage  I  remember  well, 

And  how  in  fight  by  Sparta's  king  I  fell. 

In  Argive  Juno's  fane  I  late  beheld 

My  buckler  hung  on  high,  and  own'd  my  former 

shield. 

Then  death,  so  call'd,  is  but  old  matter  dress'd 
In  some  new  figure,  and  a  varied  vest: 
Thus  all  things  are  but  alter'd,  nothing  dies; 
And  here  and  there  the  unbodied  spirit  flies, 
By  time,  or  force,  or  sickness  dispossess'd, 
And  lodges,  where  it  lights,  in  man  or  beast; 
Or  hunts  without,  till  ready  limbs  it  find, 
And  actuates  those  according  to  their  kind  ; 
From  tenement  to  tenement  is  toss'd, 
The  soul  is  still  the  same,  the  figure  only  lost: 
And,  as  the  soften'd  wax  new  seals  receives, 
This  face  assumes,  and  that  impression  leaves; 
Now  call'd  by  one,  now  by  another  name ; 
The  form  is  only  changed,  the  wax  is  still  the 

same. 

Thus  death,  so  call'd,  can  but  the  form  deface ; 
The  immortal  soul  flies  out  in  empty  space, 
To  seek  her  fortune  in  some  other  place. 

Then  let  not  piety  be  put  to  flight, 
To  please  the  taste  of  glutton  appetite; 
But  surfer  inmate  souls  secure  to  dwell, 
Lest  from  their  seats  your  parents  you  expel; 
With  rabid  hunger  feed  upon  your  kind, 
Or  from  a  beast  dislodge  a  brother's  mind. 

And  since,  like  Typhis  parting  from  the  shore, 
In  ample  seas  I  sail,  and  depths  untried  before, 
This  let  me  farther  add,  that  Nature  knows 
Xo  steadfast  station,  but  or  ebbs  or  flows : 
Ever  in  motion ;  she  destroys  her  old, 
And  casts  new  figures  in  another  mould. 
.E'en  times  are  in  perpetual  flux,  and  run, 
Like  rivers  from  their  fountain,  rolling  on; 
For  time,  no  more  than  streams,  is  at  a  stay ; 
The  flying  hour  is  ever  on  her  way : 
And  as  the  fountain  still  supplies  her  store, 
The  wave  behind  impels  the  wave  before : 
Thus  in  successive  course  the  minutes  run, 
And  urge  their  predecessor  minutes  on, 
Still  moving,  ever  new :  for  former  things 
Are  set  aside,  like  abdicated  kings; 
And  every  moment  alters  what  is  done, 
Anil  innovates  some  act,  till  then  unknown. 

Perceiv'st  thou  not  the  process  of  the  year, 
How  the  four  seasons  in  four  forms  appear, 
Resembling    human    life    in    every  shape    they 

wear  ? 

Spring,  first,  like  infancy,  shoots  out  her  head, 
With  milky  juice  requiring  to  be  fed  : 
Helpless,  thou-h  fresh,  and  wanting  to  be  led. 
The  green  stem  grows  in  stature,  and  in  size, 
But  only  feeds  with  hope  the  fanner's  eyes; 
Then   laughs   the  childish  year  with   flow'rets 

crown  d, 

And  lavishly  perfumes  the  fields  around. 
But  no  substantial  nourishment  receives; 
Infirm  the  stalks,  unsolid  are  the  leaves. 

Proceeding  onward  wfcence  the  year  began, 
The  summer  grows  adult,  and  ripens  into  man. 
This  season,  as  in  men,  is  most  replete 
With  kindly  moisture,  and  prolific  heat. 


Autumn  succeeds,  a  sober  tepid  age, 
Not  froze  with  fear,  nor  boiling  into  rage ; 
More  than  mature,  and  tending  to  decay, 
When  our  brown  locks  repine  to  mix  with  odious 

gray. 

Last,  winter  creeps  along  with  tardy  pace ; 
Sour  is  his  front,  and  furrow'd  is  his  face: 
His  scalp,  if  not  dishonour'd  quite  of  hair, 
The  ragged  fleece  is  thin ;  arid  thin  is  worse  than 

bare. 

E'en  our  own  bodies  daily  change  receive, 
Some  part  of  what  was  theirs  before,  they  leave; 
Nbr  are  to-day  what  yesterday  they  were ; 
Nor  the  whole  same  to-morrow  will  appear. 
Time   was  when  we  were  sow'd,  and  just 

began 

To  show  the  promise  of  a  future  man: 
Then  Nature's  hand  (fermented  as  it  was) 
Moulded  to  shape  the  soft  coagulated  mass; 
And  when  the  little  man  was  fully  form'd, 
The  breathless  embryo  with  a  spirit  warm'd, 
But  when  the  mother's  throes  begin  to  come, 
The  creature,  pent  within  the  narrow  room, 
Breaks  his  blind  prison,  pushing  to  repair 
His  stifled  breath,  and  draw  the  living  air; 
Cast  on  the  margin  of  the  world  he  lies, 
A  helpless  babe,  but  by  instinct  he  cries. 
He  next  essays  to  walk,  but  downward  press'd, 
On  four  feet  imitates  his  brother  beast: 
By  slow  degrees  he  gathers  from  the  ground 
His  legs,  and  to  the  rolling  chair  is  bound; 
Then  walks  alone ;  a  horseman  now  become, 
He  rides  a  stick,  and  travels  round  the  room. 
In  time  he  vaunts  among  his  youthful  peers; 
Strong  boned,  and  strung  with  nerves,  in  pride 

of  years, 

He  runs  with  mettle  his  first  merry  stage, 
Maintains  the  next,  abated  of  his  rage, 
But  manages  his  strength,  and  spares  his  age. 
Heavy  the  third,  and  stiff,  he  sinks  apace, 
And  though  'tis  downhill  all,  he  creeps  along  the 

race. 

Now  sapless  on  the  verge  of  death  he  stands, 
Contemplating  his  former  feet  and  hands ; 
And,  Milolike,  his  slacken'd  sinews  sees, 
And  wither'd  arms,  once  fit  to  cope  with  Her- 
cules, 
Unable   now  to  shake,  much  less  to  tear,  the 

trees. 

Nor  those,  which  elements  we  call,  abide, 
Nor  to  this  figure,  nor  to  that,  are  tied ; 
For  this  eternal  world  was  said,  of  old, 
But  four  prolific  principles  to  hold, 
Four  different  bodies;  two  to  heaven  ascend, 
And  other  two  down  to  the  centre  tend : 
Fire    first   with    wings    expanded    mounts    on 

high, 

Pure,  void  of  weight,  and  dwells  in  upper  sky; 
Then  Air,  because  unclogg'd  in  empty  space, 
Flies  after  Fire,  and  claims  the  second  place : 
But  weighty  Water,  as  her  nature  guides, 
Lies  on  the  lap  of  earth ;  and  mother  earth  sub- 
sides. 

All  things  are  mix'd  of  these,  which  all  con- 
tain, 
And  into  these  are  all  resolved  again : 


496 


OVID. 


Earth  ratifies  to  dew;  expanded  more, 
The  subtle  dew  in  air  begins  to  soar; 
Spreads,  as  she  flies,  and  weary  of  her  name 
Extenuates  still,  and  changes  into  flame ; 
Thus  having  by  degrees  perfection  won, 
Restless  they  soon  untwist  the  web  they  spun, 
And  fire  begins  to  lose  her  radiant  hue, 
Mix'd  with  gross  air,  and  air  descends  to  dew; 
And  dew  condensing,  does  her  form  forego. 
And  sinks  a  heavy  lump  of  earth  below. 

Thus  are  their  figures  never  at  a  stand, 
But  changed  by  Nature's  innovating  hand ; 
All  things  are  alter'd,  nothing  is  destroyed, 
The  shifted  scene  for  some  new  show  employ'd. 

Then,  to  be  born  is  to  begin  to  be 
Some  other  thing  we  were  not  formerly: 
And  what  we  call  to  die,  is  not  to  appear, 
Or  be  the  thing  that  formerly  we  were. 
Those  very  elements,  which  we  partake 
Alive,  when  dead,  some  other  bodies  make: 
Translated  grow,  have  sense,  or  can  discourse ; 
But  Death  on  deathless  substance  have  no  force. 

The  face  of  places,  and  their  forms  decay; 
And  that  is  solid  earth  that  once  was  sea : 
Seas  in  their  turn  retreating  from  the  shore, 
Make  solid  land,  what  ocean  was  before ; 
And  far  from  strands  are  shells  of  fishes  found, 
And  rusty  anchors  fix'd  on  mountain  ground: 
And  what  were  fields  before,  now  wash'd  and 

worn 

By  falling  floods  from  high,  to  valleys  turn, 
And  crumbling  still  descend  to  level  lands; 
And  lakes, and  trembling  bogs, are  barren  sands; 
And  the  parch'd  desert  floats  in  streams  unknown, 
Wondering  to  drink  of  waters  not  her  own. 

A  race  of  men  there  are,  as  fame  has  told, 
Who  shivering  suffer  Hyperborean  cold, 
Till  nine  times  bathing  in  Minerva's  lake, 
Soft  feathers,  to  defend  their  naked  sides,  they 

take. 

'Tis  said,  the  Scythian  wives  (believe  who  will) 
Transform'd  themselves  to  birds  by  magic  skill ; 
Smear'd  over  with  an  oil  of  wondrous  might, 
That  adds  new  pinions  to  their  airy  flight. 

But  this  by  sure  experiment  we  know, 
That  living  creatures  from  corruption  grow: 
Hide  in  a  hollow  pit  a  slaughter'd  steer, 
Bees  from  his  putrid  bowels  will  appear; 
Who,  like  their  parents,  haunt  the  fields,  and  bring 
Their  honey  harvest  home,  and  hope  another 

spring. 

The  warlike  steed  is  multiplied,  we  find, 
To  wasps,  and  hornets  of  the  warrior  kind. 
Cut  from  a  crab  his  crooked  claws,  and  hide 
The  rest  in  earth,  a  scorpion  thence  will  glide, 
And  shoot  his  sting;  his  tail  in  circles  toss'd, 
Refers  the  limbs  his  backward  father  lost. 
And  worms,  that  stretch  on  leaves  their  filmy  loom, 
Crawl  from  their  bags,  and  butterflies  become. 
E'en  slime  begets  the  frog's  loquacious  race: 
Short  of  their  feet  at  first,  in  little  space 
With  arms,  and  legs  endued,  long  leaps  they  take, 
Raised  on  their  hinder  part,  and  swim  the  lake, 
And  waves  repel;  for  nature  gives  their  kind, 
To  that  intent,  a  length  of  legs  behind. 


The  cubs  of  bears  a  living  lump  appear, 
When  whelp'd,  and  no  determined  figure  wear. 
Their  mother  licks  them  into  shape,  and  gives 
As  much  of  form,  as  she  herself  receives. 

The  grubs  from  their  sexangular  abode 
Crawl  out  unfinish'd,  like  the  maggot's  brood: 
Trunks  without  limbs;  till  time  at  leisure  brings, 
The  thighs  they  wanted,  and  their  tardy  wings. 

The  bird,  that  draws  the  car  of  Juno,  vain 
Of  her  crown'd  head,  and  of  her  starry  train ; 
And  he  that  bears  the  artillery  of  Jove, 
The  strong-pounced  eagle,  and  the  billing  dove ; 
And  all  the  feather'd  kind,  who  could  suppose 
(But  that  for  sight,  the  surest  sense,  he  knows) 
They  from  the  included  yolk,  not  ambient  white, 
arose  ? 

There  are,  who  think  the  marrow  of  a  man, 
Which  in  the  spine,  while  he  was  living,  ran, 
When  dead,  the  pith  corrupted  will  become 
A  snake,  and  hiss  within  the  hollow  tomb. 

All    these    receive    their    birth    from    other 

things ; 

Cut  from  himself  the  phoenix  only  springs : 
Self-born,  begotten  by  the  parent  flame 
In  which  he  burn'd,  another  and  the  same ; 
Who  not  by  corn,  or  herbs  his  life  sustains, 
But  the  sweet  essence  of  amomum  drains; 
And  watches  the  rich  gums  Arabia  bears, 
While  yet  in  tender  dew  they  drop  their  tears. 
He,  (his  five  centuries  of  life  fulfill'd,) 
His  nest  on  oaken  boughs  begins  to  build, 
Or  trembling  tops  of  palm ;  and  first  he  draws 
The    plan    with   his   broad    bill,    and    crooked 

claws, 

Nature's  artificers;  on  this  the  pile 
Is  form'd,  and  rises  round,  then  with  the  spoil 
Of  cassia,  cinnamon,  and  stems  of  nard, 
(For  softness  strew'd  beneath,)  his  funeral  bed 

is  rear'd : 

Funeral  and  bridal  both ;  and  all  around 
The  borders  with  corruptless  myrrh  are  crown'd. 
On  this  incumbent,  till  ethereal  flame 
First  catches,  then  consumes  the  costly  frame: 
Consumes  him  too,  as  on  the  pile  he  lies; 
He  lived  on  odours,  and  in  odours  dies. 

An  infant  phoenix  from  the  former  springs, 
His  father's  heir,  and  from  his  tender  wings 
Shakes  off  his  parent  dust,  his  method  he  pur- 
sues, 
And  the  same  lease  of  life  on  the  same  terms 

rene-ws. 

When  grown  to  manhood  he  begins  his  reign, 
And  with  stiff  pinions  can  his  flight  sustain ; 
He  lightens  of  its  load  the  tree  that  bore 
His  father's  royal  sepulchre  before, 
And  his  own  cradle:  this  with  pious  care 
Placed  on  his  back,  he  cuts  the  buxom  air, 
Seeks  the  sun's  city,  and  his  sacred  church, 
And  decently  lays  down  his  burden  in  the  porch. 

Ill  customs  by  degrees  to  habits  rise, 
111  habits  soon  become  exalted  vice : 
What  more  advance  can  mortals  make  in  sin, 
So  near  perfection,  who  with  blood  begin  ? 
Deaf  to  the  calf  that  lies  beneath  the  knife, 
Looks  up,  and  from  her  butcher  begs  her  life ; 


OVID. 


497 


Deaf  to  the  harmless  kid,  that,  ere  he  dies, 
All  method  to  procure  thy  mercy  tries, 
And  imitates  in  vain  thy  children's  cries'? 
Where  will  he  stop,  who  feeds  with  household 

bread, 

Then  eats  the  poultry  which  before  he  fed? 
Let  plough  thy  steers,  that  when  they  lose  their 

breath, 
To  nature,  not  to  thee,  they  may  impute  their 

death. 

Let  goats  for  food  their  loaded  udders  lend, 
And  sheep  from  winter  cold  thy  sides  defend ; 
But  neither  springes,  nets,  nor  snares  employ, 
And  be  no  more  ingenious  to  destroy. 
Free  as  in  air,  let  birds  on  earth  remain, 
Nor  let  insidious  glue  their  wings  constrain ; 
Nor  opening  hounds  the  trembling  stags  affright, 
Nor  purple  feathers  intercept  his  flight: 
Nor  hooks  conceal'd  in  baits  for  fish  prepare, 
.Vor  lines  to  heave  them  twinkling  up  in  air. 

Take  not  away  the  life  you  cannot  give ; 
For  all  things  have  an  equal  right  to  live: 
Kill  noxious  creatures,  where  'tis  sin  to  save; 
This  only  just  prerogative  we  have  : 
But  nourish  life  with  vegetable  food, 
And  shun  the  sacrilegious  taste  of  blood. 


STORY  OF  LUCRETIA. 
MEANTIME  the  tardy  siege's  long  delay 
Round  Ardea's  bulwarks  wear  their  hours  away; 
And  while  within  their  foes  beleaguer'd  lie, 
All  in  the  camp  is  sport  and  revelry. 
There,  while  his  friends  partake  the  monarch's 

wine, 

Thus  spoke  the  youngest  of  the  royal  line  : 
"In  this  dull  war,  while  Ardea  yet  detains 
Our  trophies  destined  for  the  Roman  fanes, 
Think  ye  our  wives  a  mutual  feeling  share, 
And  still  are  faithful,  and  partake  our  care?" 
Each  on  his  own  the  meed  of  praise  bestows; 
Wine  fires  the  tongue,  with  love  the  bosom  glows. 
"The  prize  of  virtue,"  Collatinus  cried, 
"Words  can  bestow  not;  be  their  actions  tried  ! 
Mount,  and  the  "city  seek  while  night  remains" — 
They  mount,  and  to  the  city  turn  their  reins. 
First,  as  they  came  the  royal  domes  before, 
No  porter  watch 'd  the  unregarded  door; 
Her  heated  brows  with  rosy  wreaths  entwined 
Sportive  o'er  wine  young  Tarquin:s  bride  they 

find. 

Not  so  Lucretia,  where  her  couch  beside 
The  wool's  soft  thread  her  slender  fingers  guide; 
By  the  small  taper's  low  and  frugal  li^'lit 
Her  busy  maidens  toil  the  livelong  night. 
••  H;iste  ye;"  her  gentle  accents  thus  she  pour'd, 
"The  scarf  these  hands  have  woven  for  their 

lord, 

And  tell,  for  you,  far  more  than  I,  are  told, 
How  wears  the  siege,  how  long  will  Ardea  hold. 
Fall,  hated  city! — why  this  long  delay? 
Why  from  my  bosom  tear  its  lord  away? 
Ah,  may  he  soon  return,  and  calm  the  fear 
His  thoughtless  valour  ever  causes  here ! 
Grief  chills  my  breast,  and  terror  dims  my  sight, 
When  fancy  paints  an  image  of  the  fight." 


Tears  check'd  her  voice ;  she  loosed  her  half-spun 

thread, 

Droop'd  on  her  breast,  and  hid  her  languid  head. 
How  well  her  tears  become  her  as  they  roll ! 
How  pure  her  cheek,  how  Worthy  of  her  soul ! 
"Fear  not,"  her  husband  cried;    then  up   she 

sprung, 
And  on  his  neck — how  sweet  a  burden! — hung. 

Meanwhile  in  Tarquin  glows  a  guilty  flame, 
And  love  unhallow'd  kindles  in  his  frame ; 
Her  snow-white  skin,  and  locks  of  tangled  gold, 
Her  glowing  cheek,  which  love's  chaste  passion 

told; 

Her  form,  which  borrow'd  no  false  grace  from  art; 
Her  voice,  her  tear,  her  smile,  subdue  his  heart; 
Her  look  of  purity  awakes  new  fires, 
And  Hope's  decay  but  strengthens  his  desires. 

When  the  shrill  cock  foretold  approaching  day, 
Back  to  the  camp  the  youths  pursued  their  way. 
Fresh  was  the  form  Remembrance  pictured  there, 
And  Fancy  dwelt,  though  absent,  on  the  fair. 
Thus  on  her  neck  her  careless  locks  reclined, 
Thus  the  soft  wool  her  slender  hands  entwined; 
Such  was  her  look,  and  thus  her  accents  flow'd, 
So  beam'd  her  eye,  her  lip  of  coral  glow'd. 

Lo!  while  he  spoke,  he  press'd  his  guilty  speed, 
And  girt  his  sword,  and  vaulted  on  his  steed ; 
And  as  the  sun  assumed  his  western  state 
He  gain'd  Collatia's  brazen-bolted  gate. 
There,  as  her  friend,  her  foe  Lucretia  meets, 
And  her  lord's  kinsman  with  fit  welcome  greets. 
Ah!  little  then  her  innocence  can  see 
How  great  an  enemy  that  guest  shall  be ! 

The  morning  rose — her  locks  are  scatter'd  wild, 
Like  some  pale  mother  mourning  for  her  child. 
Then  from  the  camp  her  messengers  require 
With  sorrowing  haste  her  husband  and  her  sire. 
They  haste  away,  and  whence  these  sighs  of  woe, 
And  why  such  garb  of  sadness  seek  to  know. 
Then  burst  the  tear,  then  shame's  hot  blushes 

dyed 

The  matron  cheek  she  strove  in  vain  to  hide. 
Still  utterance  fail'd  her,  and  with  eager  fear 
Her  sire  and  husband  dread,  yet  wish  to  hear. 
Thrice  from  her  lip  the  unwilling  murmur  broke, 
Her  eye  still  linger'd  downward  while  she  spoke: 
"This    too,"    she   cried,   "to  Tarquin   shall  we 

owe? 

From  mine  own  lips  mine  own  dishonour  know." 
Then  what  she  could  she  told,  the  guilty  rest 
Her  crimson'd  cheek  and  glistening  eye  confess'd. 
Vain  from  her  sire  the  voice  of  solace  flows, 
Vain  the  free  pardon  which  her  lord  bestows: 
She  pluck'd  a  dagger  from  her  robe,  and  cried — 

I  to  myself  all  pardon  have  denied!" 
Then  at  her  father's  feet  she  fell ;  the  knife 
Drank  to  its  haft  the  current  of  her  life ; 
And  e'en  in  death  with  modest  care  she  tries 
To  fall  with  limbs  composed  in  honourable  guise. 
Lo!  on  her  corpse  her  sire  and  husband  lie, 
Mourning  their  loss  in  grief's  mute  agony. 
Not  so  with  Brutus  :  kindling  at  the  view, 
The    blood-stain'd    dagger    from  her  breast  he 

drew, 

SB) 


498 


OVID. 


Grasp'd  the  red  steel  yet  dropping  with  her  gore, 
Arid    thus    his    threatening   oath   of  vengeance 

swore : — 

"Here,  by  thy  blood,  thine  injured  blood,  I  vow, 
By  thy  pure  shade  which  hovers  o'er  me  now, 
No  incomplete  revenge,  while  thus  I  wake 
From  my  feign'd  trance,  on  Tarquin's  race  to 

take.''' 

How  grateful  this,  her  dying  signs  declare ; 
She  roll'd  her  sightless  eye,  and  shook  her  clotted 

hair. 

Borne  to  the  tomb,  the  immortal  matron  lies, 
While  tears  and  envy  crown  her  obsequies. 
Brutus  her  wound,  no  speechless  mouth,  displays, 
And  tells  the  prince's  crime,  and  adds  her  praise. 
Kings  are  110  more — the  race  of  Tarquin  fly, 
And  Consuls,  yearly  named,  their  place  supply. 


THE  EPISTLE  OF  DIDO  TO  AENEAS. 


,  the  son  of  Venus  and  Anchises,  having, 
at  the  destruction  of  Troy,  saved  his  father  and 
son  from  the  flames,  puts  to  sea  with  twenty  sail 
of  ships;  and  after  a  long  struggle  with  tempests, 
is  at  length  cast  on  the  Libyan  shore,  where 
Queen  Dido  is  occupied  in  building  the  city  of 
Carthage.  —  She  entertains  the  hero  with  great 
hospitality,  which  is  succeeded  by  a  more  tender 
attachment;  till  Mercury,  admonishing  JEneas 
to  depart  in  quest  of  Italy,  a  kingdom  promised 
to  him  by  the  gods,  he  readily  promises  to  obey 
him.  —  Dido  soon  perceives  his  design  ;  and  having 
exhausted  all  other  means  to  arrest  his  intended 
voyage,  at  last  in  despair  writes  to  him  as  follows. 

So,  on  Meander's  banks,  when  death  is  nigh, 
The  mournful  swan  sings  her  own  elegy. 
Not  that  I  hope  (for  oh,  that  hope  were  vain  !) 
By  words  your  lost  affection  to  regain  : 
But  having  lost  whate'er  was  worth  my  care, 
Why  should  I  fear  to  lose  a  dying  prayer  ? 
'Tis  then  resolved  poor  Dido  must  be  left, 
Of  life,  of  honour,  and  of  love  bereft  ! 
While  you,  with  loosen'd  sails,  and  vows,  prepare 
To  seek  a  land  that  flies  the  searcher's  care. 
Nor  can  my  rising  towers  your  flight  restrain, 
Nor  my  new  empire,  offer'd  you  in  vain. 
Built  walls  you  shun,  unbuilt  you  seek;  that  land 
Is  yet  to  conquer  ;  but  you  this  command. 
Suppose  you  landed  where  your  wish  design'd, 
Think  what  reception  foreigners  would  find. 
What  people  is  so  void  of  common  sense, 
To  vote  succession  from  a  native  prince  ? 
Yet  there  new  sceptres  and  new  loves  you  seek; 
New  vows  to  plight,  and  plighted  vows  to  break. 
When  will  your  towers  the  height  of  Carthage 

know  ? 

Or  when  your  eyes  discern  such  crowds  below  ? 
If  such  a  town  and  subjects  you  could  see, 
Still  you  would  want  a  wife  who  loved  like  me. 
For,  oh,  I  burn,  like  fires  with  incense  bright; 
Not  holy  tapers  flame  with  purer  light; 
^Eneas  is  my  thoughts'  perpetual  theme  : 
Their  daily  longing,  and  their  nightly  dream. 
Yet  he's  ungrateful  and  obdurate  still; 
Fool  that  I  am,  to  place  my  heart  so  ill  ! 


Myself  I  cannot  to  myself  restore  : 
Still  I  complain,  and  still  I  love  him  more. 
Have  pity,  Cupid,  on  my  bleeding  heart, 
And  pierce  thy  brother's  with  an  equal  dart. 
I  rave:  nor  canst  thou  Venus'  offspring  be, 
Love's  mother  could  not  bear  a  son  like  thee. 
From  harderi'd  oak,  or  from  a  rock's  cold  womb, 
Or  from  some  cruel  tigress  thou  art  come, 
Or,  on  rough  seas,  from  their  foundation  torn, 
Got  by  the  winds,  and  in  a  tempest  born : 
Like  that  which  now  thy  trembling  sailors  fear: 
Like  that,  whose  rage  should  still  detain  thee 

here. 

Behold  how  high  the  foamy  billows  ride! 
The  winds  and  waves  are  on  the  juster  side. 
To  winter  weather  and  a  stormy  sea 
I'll  owe,  what  rather  I  would  owe  to  thee. 
Death  thou  deservest  from   Heaven's  avenging 

laws; 

But  I'm  unwilling  to  become  the  cause. 
To  shun  my  love,  if  thou  wilt  seek  thy  fate, 
'Tis  a  dear  purchase,  and  a  costly  hate. 
Stay  but  a  little,  till  the  tempest  cease, 
And  the  loud  winds  are  lull'd  into  a  peace. 
May  all  thy  rage,  like  theirs,  inconstant  prove ! 
And  so  it  will,  if  there  be  power  in  love. 
Know'st  thou  not  yet  what  dangers  ships  sustain? 
So  often  wreck'd,  how  darest  thou  tempt  the  main  ? 
Which,  were  it  smooth,  were  every  wave  asleep, 
Ten  thousand  forms  of  death  are  in  the  deep. 
In  that  abyss  the  gods  their  vengeance  store, 
For  broken  vows  of  those  who  falsely  swore. 
Their  winged  storms  on  sea-born  Venus  wait, 
To  vindicate  the  justice  of  her  state. 
Thus,  I  to  thee  the  means  of  safety  show, 
And,  lost  myself,  would  still  preserve  my  foe. 
False  as  thou  art,  I  not  thy  death  design : 
Oh  rather  live,  to  be  the  cause  of  mine ! 
Should  some  avenging  storm  thy  vessel  tear, 
(But  Heaven  forbid  my  words  should  omen  bear!) 
Then,  in  thy  face  thy  perjur'd  vows  would  fly, 
And  my  wrong'd  ghost  be  present  to  thy  eye. 
With  threat'ning  looks,  think  thou  behold'st  me 

stare, 

Gasping  my  mouth,  and  clotted  all  my  hair ; 
Then  should  fork'd  lightning  and  red  thunder  fall ; 
What  couldst  thou  say,  but  I  deserved  them  all? 
Lest  this  should  happen,  make  not  haste  away; 
To  shun  the  danger  will  be  worth  thy  stay. 
Have  pity  on  thy  son,  if  not  on  me : 
M.y  death  alone  is  guilt  enough  for  thee. 
What  has  his  youth,  what  have  thy  gods, deserved, 
To  sink  in  seas,  who  were  from  fires  preserved? 
But  neither  gods  nor  parent  didst  thou  bear; 
(Smooth  stories  all,  to  please  a  woman's  ear;) 
False  was  the  tale  of  thy  romantic  life  ; 
Nor  yet  am  I  thy  first  deluded  wife. 
Left  to  pursuing  foes  Creusa  stay'd, 
By  thee,  base  man,  forsaken  and  betray'd. 
This,  when  thou   told'st  me,  struck  my  tender 

heart, 

That  such  requital  follow'd  such  desert. 
Nor  doubt  I  but  the  gods,  for  crimes  like  these, 
Seven  winters  kept  thee  wand'ring  on  the  seas. 
Thy  starved  companions,  cast  ashore,  I  fed, 
Thyself  admitted  to  my  crown  and  bed. 


OVID. 


499 


To  harbour  strangers,  succour  the  distress'd, 

Was  kind  enough:  but  oh.  too  kind  the  rest! 
Oh  chastity  and  violated  lame, 

•  your  dues  to  my  dead  husband's  name! 
By  death  redeem  my  reputation  lost; 
A nd  to  his  arms  restore  my  guilty  ghost. 
Close  by  my  palace,  in  a  gloomy  g 
Is  raised  a  chapel  to  my  mnrder'd  love; 
There,  wreathed  with  boughs  and  wool,  his  statue 

stands, 

The  pious  monument  of  artful  hand-  : 
Last  night,  methonght  he  rallV  me  from  the  dome, 
And   thrice,    with  hollow   voice,   cried,    "Dido, 

come." 

She  comes;  thy  wife  thy  lawful  summons  hears; 
Imt  comes  more  slowly,  clogg'd  with  conscious 

fears. 

Forgive  the  wrong  I  offer'd  to  thy  bed, 
Strong  were   Lis   charms,  who   my  weak   faith 

misled. 

His  goddess  mother,  and  his  aged  sire, 
Borne  on  his  back,  did  to  my  fall  conspire. 
Oh  Mich  he  was,  and  is,  that  were  he  true, 
Without  a  blush  I  might  his  love  pursue. 
Hut  cruel  stars  my  birthday  did  attend: 
And.  a.s  my  fortune  open'd.  it  must  end. 
'My  plighted  lord  was  at  the  altar  slain, 
Whose  wealth  was  made  my  bloody  brother's 

gain : 

Friendless,  and  followed  by  the  murd'rer's  hate, 
To  foreign  countries  I  removed  my  fate; 
And  here,  a  suppliant,  from  the  natives'  hands, 
1  bought  the  ground  on  which  my  city  stands; 
With  all  the  coast  that  stivtehes  to  the  sea; 
K'en  to  the  frii-ndly  port  that  shelter'd  thee: 
Then  rai>ed  these  walls,  which  mount  into  the  air, 
At  once  my  neighbours'  wonder,  and  their  fear. 
For  now  they  arm;  and  round  me  leagues  are 

in- 

•:ibii-h'd  empire  to  invade. 
To  man  my  new-built  walls  I  must  prepare, 
A  helpies-  woman,  and  unskill'd  in  war. 
Yet  thousand  rivals  to  my  love  pretend, 
And  for  my  person  would  my  crown  defend: 

:iint  agree, 

That  each  unjustly  is  disdain'd  lor  thee. 
To  proud  Iar!>a-  give  me  up  a  prey  — 

thai  must  iM.ow  it'thou  L'oe-t  away :) 
Or  to  my  husband's-  murderer  leave  my  life; 
That  to  the  husband  he  may  add  the  v. 
(io  i:  plaints  can  move  thy  mind  : 

(io.  p.-rjur'd  man.  but  [(  <ls  behind. 

'.y  whom  thoii  art  forsworn; 
will  in  impious  hands  no  m'-re  be  b-  , 
Thy  si<  \\-orship  they  disdain, 

And  rather  would  the  (Grecian  tire-  sustain. 
Some  -o.l.  thoii  say'st.  thy  \  -  • "unnand  ; 

Would   the  1    had  barr'd  thee  from  my 

laud ! 


The  same,  I  doubt  not,  thy  departure  steers, 
Who  kept  thee  out  at  sea  so  many  years; 
Where  thy  long  labours  were  a  price  so  great, 
As  thou  to  purchase  Troy  would  not  repeat. 
But  Tiber  now  thou  seek  st,  to  be,  at  best, 
When  there  arrived,  a  poor  precarious  guest. 
Yet  it  deludes  thy  search:  perhaps  it  will 
To  thy  old  age  lie  undiscover  d  still. 
A  ready  crown  and  wealth  in  dower  I  bring, 
And  without  conquering,  here  thou  art  a  king. 
Here  thou  to  Carthage  may  transfer  thy  Troy; 
Here  young  Ascanius  may  his  arms  employ; 
And,  while  we  live  secure  in  soft  repose, 
Bring  many  laurels  home  from  conquer'd  foes. 
By  Cupid's  arrows,  I  adjure  thee  stay; 
By  all  the  gods,  companions  of  thy  way. 
So  may  thy  Trojans,  who  are  yet  alive, 
Live  still,  and  with  no  future  fortune  strive: 
So  may  thy  youthful  son  old  age  attain, 
And  thy  dead  father's  bones  in  peace  remain ; 
As  thou  hast  pity  on  unhappy  me, 
Who  know  no  crime,  but  too  much  love  of  thee. 
I  am  not  born  from  fierce  Achilles'  line, 
Nor  did  my  parents  against  Troy  combine: 
To  be  thy  wife,  if  I  unworthy  prove, 
By  some  inferior  name  admit  rny  love. 
To  be  secured  of  still  possessing  thee, 
What  would  I  do,  and  what  would  I  not  be ! 
Our  Libyan  coasts  their  certain  seasons  know, 
When  free  from  tempests  passengers  may  go. 
But  now  with  northern  blasts  the  billows  roar, 
And  drive  the  floating  seaweed  to  the  shore. 
Leave  to  my  care  the  time  to  sail  away; 
When  safe,  I  will  not  suffer  thee  to  stay. 
Thy  weary  men  would  be  -with  ease  content; 
Their  sails  are  tatter'd.and  their  masts  are  spent. 
If  by  no  merit  I  thy  mind  can  move, 
What  thou  deniest  my  merit,  give  my  love. 
Stay,  till  1  learn  my  loss  to  undergo; 
And  give  me  time  to  struggle  with  my  woe. 
If  not:  know  this,  I  will  not  suffer  long, 
My  life's  too  loathsome,  and  my  love  too  strong. 
Death  holds  my  pen,  and  dictates  what  I  say, 
While  cross  my  lap  the  Trojan  sword  I  lay. 
My  tears  How  down;   the  sharp  edge  cuts  their 

flood, 

And  drinks  my  sorrows,  that  must  drink  my  blood. 
How  well  thy  gift  does  with  my  fate  agree! 
My  funeral  pomp  is  cheaply  made  by  thee. 
To  no  new  wounds  my  bosom  I  display: 
The  sword  but  enters  where  love  made  the  way. 
But  thou,  dear  sister,  and  yet  dearer  friend, 
Shalt  my  cold  ashes  to  their  urn  attend. 
Siclui'us'  wile,  let  not  the  marble  ! 
I  lost  that  title  when  my  fame  I  lost. 
This  short  inscription  only  let  it  bear: 
"Unhappy  Dido  lies  in  quiet  here. 
The  cause  of  death,  and  sword  by  which  she  died 
gave;  the  rest  her  arm  supplied." 


MANILIUS. 


[The  age  of  Augustus.] 


So  little  is  known  of  this  poet,  that  the  critics 
have  not  yet  been  able  to  determine  even  his 
real  name,  some  calling  him  Manilius,  others 
Manlius,  and  others  again  varying  it  to  Mallius. 
Equal  doubt  also  prevails  as  to  the  country  which 
gave  him  birth ;  and  all  that  we  can  aver  with 
any  degree  of  certainty  respecting  him,  is  that  he 
wrote  in  the  age  of  Augustus.  This,  indeed, 
seems  evident  from  several  passages  of  his 
work, — more  especially  from  his  dedication  of  it 
to  that  monarch,  and  from  his  allusions  in  it  to 
Tiberius's  retirement  at  Rhodes. 

The  title  of  his  poem  is  "  Astronomicon,"  though 
it  might,  with  greater  propriety,  have  been  en- 
titled Astrologicon ;  but  the  distinction  between 
astronomy  and  astrology  was  unknown  in  that 
day.  With  all  its  faults,  however,  it  is  a  work 


of  considerable  merit.  The  physical  part  of  it  is 
luminous,  and  its  philosophy  often  sublime.  He 
adopts  the  Ptolemaic  hypothesis,  that  the  earth 
is  immoveably  suspended  irt  the  centre  of  the 
universe;  but  his  general  notions  of  the  nature 
and  position  of  the  stars  are  consistent  with  as- 
tronomical science ;  and  he  supposes,  with  the 
Pythagoreans,  that  the  phenomenon  of  the  Milky 
Way  is  but  the  undistinguished  lustre  of  unnum- 
bered stars — a  conjecture  which  the  modern 
telescope  has  confirmed. 

The  system  of  Manilius  is  interwoven  with 
the  stellar  fatality  of  the  Stoics,  and  contains, 
likewise,  a  complete  scheme  of  ancient  astro- 
logy.— The  "Astronomicon"  was  discovered  in  a 
German  monastery,  during  the  fifteenth  century, 
by  the  learned  Poggio  Bracciolini. 


CONNEXION  OF  THE  UNIVERSE. 
NATURE  instinct  with  mind,  my  theme  shall  be, 
And  God  infused  in  sky,  and  earth,  and  sea : 
Tempering  the  mighty  mass  with  equal  laws, 
Alternate  harmony  creation  draws : 
A  reason  deep-instilled  within  it  moves : 
Through  all  its  parts  one  ruling  spirit  roves : 
Round  the  vast  orb  its  irrigations  roll, 
The  world  the  animal,  and  God  the  soul. 
Unless  the  mass,  of  kindred  parts  combined, 
Were  moved  beneath  a  master's  ruling  mind, 
Unless  an  all-foreseeing  wisdom  reign'd, 
And  the  vast  sum  of  things  in  order  chain'd, 
Earth  from  its  airy  seat  would  start  away, 
And  planets,  reeling  in  their  orbits,  stray: 
No  more  the  darkness  of  alternate  night 
Would  now  avoid,  and  now  pursue  the  light; 
Showers  nourish  earth ;  winds  ether ;  seas  with 

rain 

Fill  the  swoln  clouds;  nor  rivers  feed  the  main; 
Nor  from  the  deep  perennial  fountains  glide  ; 
Nor  this  great  whole,  with  equal  parts  allied, 
From  its  just  parent  each  proportion  know, 
That  stars  might  ever  shine,  and  waters  flow, 
And  through  their  course  the  heavenly  bodies  fly, 
Nor  from  their  balanced  orbit  swim  on  high  ; 
Not  changed  by  motion,  but  sustained,  they  roll, 
And  ordered  worlds  pursue  the  leading  soul. 

This  God,  this  ruling  instinct,  from  on  high 
Rules  earthly  beings  by  the  starry  sky. 
Though  far  removed  by  interval  immense, 
He  makes  the  stars  be  felt :  their  orbs  dispense 
The  death  and  life  of  all  that  live  or  die ; 
Each  mind's  peculiar  bent,  and  quality. 

Let  me  this  truth  by  sure  example  prove : 
The  heavens  control  the  fields :  bestow,  remove 
500 


Earth's  varying  fruits:  the  rolling  ocean  sway; 
Heave  on  the  land,  or  snatch  the  waves  away — 
For  lo!  the  seas,  that  in  their  rage  rebel, 
Now  moved  beneath  the  lunar  planet  swell, 
Or  foam  with  swift  reflux ;  now  ductile  roll, 
Following  the  sun,  that  yearly  turns  the  pole. 
So  animals,  that  deep  the  waters  range, 
In  shelly  dungeons  shut,  their  bodies  change 
With  motions  of  the  moon  :  so  Luna !  thou 
Reveal'st  thy  forehead  by  thy  brother's  brow  ; 
By  his  resunvst  thy  shining  visage,  bright 
Or  dim,  as  his  clear  aspect  lends  thee  light: 
And  by  another  star  thy  star  ascends  to  sight. 
So  beasts  of  earth,  and  reptiles  mute  below, 
Unconscious  of  themselves,  nor  skill'd  to  know 
What  secret  law  their  charm'd  existence  bind, 
Are  still  uncall'd  to  heaven,  their  parent  mind; 
By  guiding  instinct  lift  their  soul  on  high, 
And  keep  the  seasons  of  the  stars  and  sky. 
At  the  full  moon  their  bodies  cleanse  :  declare 
The  coming  storm,  and  the  serener  air. 

Who  then   shall   doubt,  that  man's  allied  to 

heav'n ; 

When  Nature  that  transcendant  tongue  has  giv'n, 
That  genius,  grasping  all  creation's  round ; 
That  mind,  whose  wing  not  Nature's  self  can 

bound : 

When  the  descended  God  his  spirit  pours ; 
Dwells  in  his  creatures,  and  himself  explores  ? 


ON  FATE. 

NOT  in  each  age  Camilli,  Decii,  rise, 

Nor  conqueror  over  death,  a  Cato  dies. 

Not  yet  extirpated  is  glory's  root : 

But  Fate  still  blasts  the  blossoms  as  they  shoot. 


SENECA.— PERSIUS. 


501 


Not  shorten'd  is  the  poor  man's  mortal  date ; 
Nor  wealth  can  bribe  the  death  foredoonrd  by 

Fate : 

Fortune  from  sceptres  proud  extorts  the  doom 
That  turns  the  regal  pomp  to  funeral  gloom, 
Builds  up  the  prince's  pyre,  and  digs  his  tomb. 
What  might  is  this !  what  majesty  of  sway  ! 
When  princes  tremble,  and  when  kings  obey ! 

See  virtue  wretched;  guilt  successful  rise; 
Prudence  deceive ;  and  rashness  win  the  prize. 


Nor  Fortune  bids  the  effect  the  cause  succeed, 
Nor  yields  success  to  the  deserving  deed ; 
But  wanders,  undistinguishing  and  blind, 
Light  and  capricious  as  the  veering  wind. 

Some    ruling   power   our  wills   and   natures 

draws, 

That  binds  creation  by  peculiar  laws ; 
That  from  itself,  when  dawns  our  natal  day, 
Assigns    our    years,    and    Fortune's    chequer'd 

sway.—; 


LUCIUS    ANN.EUS   SENECA. 


[Bom  7,  B.  C.,— Died  65,  A.  D.] 

FROM  THE  THYESTES. 


CLIMB  at  court,  for  me,  that  will, 
Tottering  Favour's  pinnacle, 
All  I  seek  is  to  lie  still. 
Withdrawn  to  some  sec  et  nest, 
In  calm  leisure  let  me  rest; 
And,  far  oft"  the  public  stage, 
Pass  away  my  silent  age. 


Thus,  when  noiseless  and  unknown, 
I  have  lived  out  all  my  span, 
Let  me  die,  without  a  groan, 
An  old  honest  countryman. 
Who,  exposed  to  others'  eyes, 
Into  his  own  heart  ne'er  pries, 
Death's  to  him  a  strange  surprise. 


PERSIUS. 

[Bora  32,-Died  62,  A.  D.] 

ATJLUS  PERSICS  FLACCUS  was  a  Roman  knight,  I  He  is  said  to  have  been  distinguished  by  the 
and  born  at  Volaterra  in  Etruria.  He  cultivated  beauty  of  his  person,  the  purity  of  his  morals, 
rhetoric  and  philosophy  at  Rome,  and  was  a  and  the  exemplary  tenor  of  his  life.  The  style  of 


fellow  student  with   Lucan,  under  Cornutus  the 


Stoic,  to  whom  he  has  addressed  his  fifth  Satire,    times  obscure.  —  He  died  at  the  early  age  of  thirty. 


his  Satires  is  condensed  and  strong,  though  some- 


FROM  THE  SATIRES. 

FROM      SATIRE      III.  -  THK     rilK(  KI'TOIl's     RF.MOX-  j 


D  II   MIRTH  AN  It  UlUTl  N  K  NO  APOLOGY 
FOR    IIILKN  KSS    AN  II    \  I  I    K  . 

WHILE  with  occasion  thus  you  madly  play, 
Your  best  of  life,  unheeded,  leaks  away, 
And  scorn  flows  in  apace  :  the  ill-baked  ware, 
Rtinii  by  the  potter,  will  its  flaws  declare; 
Thus  —  but  you  yet  are  moi.-t  and  yielding  clay: 
Call  for  some  plastic  hand  without  delay; 
Nor  cease  the  lalxiur,  till  the  wheel  produce 
A  vessel  nicely  form'd.  and  fit  for 

But  why  these  pains?  my  father,  thanks  to  fate, 
Left  me  a  fair,  if  not  a  large,  estate  : 


A  salt  unsullied  on  my  table  shii 

And  due  oblations,  in  their  little  shrines, 

My  household  <rods  receive;  my  hearth  is  pure, 

And  all  my  means  of  life  confirm'd,  and  sure : 

What  need  I  more?"  nay.  nothing;  ('tis  replied.) 

— And  well  it  fits  you,  to  dilate  with  pride, 

.  (the  thousandth  in  descent)  you  trace 
Your  blood, unin ix'd.  from  some  high  Tuscan  race; 
And.  when  the  kniirhts  troop  by  the  censor's  chair, 
In  annual  pomp,  salute  a  kinsman  there! 


•  The  salt-collar,  or,  as  our  old  writers  more  simply 
termed  iu  the  salt,  formed  a  distinguished  feature  in  the 
garniture  of  the  Roman  tables.  It  was  regarded  as  a 
kind  of  heir-loom,  and  descended  from  father  to  son. 


502 


PERSIUS. 


Hence!  —  with  these   trappings,  to  the  rabble, 

swell! 

Me,  they  deceive  not;  for  I  know  you  well, 
Within,  without. — And  blush  you  not  to  see, 
Loose  Natta's  life  and  yours  so  well  agree  ? 
— But  Natta's  is  not  life:  the  sleep  of  sin 
Has  seiz'd  his  powers,  and  palsied  all  within ; 
Huge  cawls  of  fat  envelope  every  part, 
And  torpor  weighs  on  his  insensate  heart. — 
Absolv'd  from  blame  by  ignorance  so  gross, 
He  neither  sees,  nor  comprehends  his  loss; 
Content  in  guilt's  profound  abyss  to  drop, 
Nor,  struggling,  send  one  bubble  to  the  top. 
Dread  Sire  of  Gods !  when  lust's  envenom'd 

stings 

Stir  the  fierce  natures  of  tyrannic  kings ; 
When  storms  of  rage  within  their  bosoms  roll, 
And  call,  in  thunder,  for  thy  just  control, 
O,  then  relax  the  bolt,  suspend  the  blow ; 
And  thus,  and  ihus  alone,  thy  vengeance  show, 
In  all'her  charms,  set  Virtue  in  their  eye, 
And  let  them  see  their  loss,  despair,  and — die! 

Say  could  the  wretch  severer  tortures  feel, 
Closed  in  the  brazen  bull? — Could  the  bright  steel 
That,  while  the   board  with  regal  pomp   was 

spread, 

Gleam'd  o'er  the  guest,  suspended  by  a  thread, 
Worse  pangs  inflict,  than  he  endures,  who  cries, 
(As,  on  the  rack  of  conscious  guilt,  he  lies,) 
In  mental  agony,  "  Alas !  I  fall, 
Down,  down  the  unfathom'd  steep,  without  re- 
call!" 

And  withers  at  the  heart,  and  dares  not  show 
His  bosom  wife,  the  secret  of  his  woe! 

****** 
Mount,  hapless  youth,  on  Contemplation's  wings, 
And  mark  the  causes  and  the  end  of  things  ; — 
Learn  what  we  are,  and  for  what  purpose  born, 
What  station  here  'tis  given  us  to  adorn ; 
How  best  to  blend  security  with  ease, 
And  win  our  way  througli  life's  tempestuous  seas ; 
What  bounds  the  love  of  property  requires, 
And  what  to  wish,  with  unreproved  desires ; 
How  far  the  genuine  use  of  wealth  extends ; 
And  the  just  claims  of  country,  kindred,  friends; 
What  Heaven  would  have  us  be ;  and  where  our 

stand, 
In  this  GREAT  WHOLE,  is  fix'd  by  High  Command. 

FROM  SATIRE  IT. 

THIS  satire  is  founded  on  the  first  Alcibiades 
of  Plato,  and  many  of  the  expressions  are  closely 
copied  from  that  celebrated  dialogue.  It  naturally 
arranges  itself  under  three  heads;  the  first  of 
which  treats  of  the  preposterous  ambition  of  those 
who  aspired  to  take  the  lead  in  state  atFairs,  be- 
fore they  had  learned  the  first  principles  of  civil 
government.  The  second  division  turns  on  the 
general  negVect  of  self-examination,  enforcing,  at 
the  same  time,  the  necessity  of  moral  purity,  from 
the  impossibility  of  escaping  detection ;  and  of 
restraining  all  wanton  propensity  to  exaggerate 
the  foibles  of  others,  from  its  tendency  to  provoke 
severe  recrimination  on  our  own  vices.  The 
conclusion,  or  third  part,  reverts  to  the  subject 
with  which  the  satire  opens,  and  arraigns,  in 


terms  of  indignant  severity,  the  profligacy  of  the 
young  nobility,  and  their  sottish  vanity  in  resting 
their  claims  to  approbation  on  the  judgment  of  a 
worthless  rabble. 

WHAT!  you,  my  Alcibiades,  aspire 
To  sway  the  state ! — (Suppose  that  bearded  sire 
Whom  helmock  from  a  thankless  world  remov'd, 
Thus  to  address  the  stripling  that  he  loved.) — 
On  what  apt  talents  for  a  charge  so  high, 
Ward  of  great  Pericles,  do  you  rely? 
Forecast  on  others  by  gray  hairs  conferr'd, 
Haply,  with  you,  anticipates  the  beard ; 
And  prompts  you,  prescient  of  the  public  weal, 
Now  to  disclose  your  thoughts,  and  now  conceal ! 
Hence,  when  the  rabble  form  some  daring  plan, 
And  factious  murmurs  spread  from  man  to  man, 
Mute  and  attentive  you  can  bid  them  stand, 
By  the  majestic  wafture  of  your  hand  ! 

Rash  youth  !  relying  on  a  specious  skin, 
While  all  is  dark  deformity  within, 
Check  the  fond  thought;  nor,  like  the  peacock, 

proud, 
Spread   your   gay  plumage   to   the    applauding 

crowd 

Before  your  hour  arrive : — ah,  rather  drain 
Whole  isles  of  hellebore,  to  cool  your  brain ! 

How  few,  alas !  their  proper  faults  explore ! 
While,  on  his  loaded  back,  who  walks  before, 
Each  eye  is  fix'd : — you  touch  a  stranger's  arm, 
And  ask  him,  if  he  knows  Vectidus'  farm? 
"Whose?"  he   replies.      That  rich  old  chuff's, 

whose  ground 
Would  tire  a  hawk  to  wheel  it  fairly  round. 

"0,  ho!  that  wretch,  on  whose  devoted  head, 
III  stars  and  angry  gods  their  rage  have  shed ! 
Who,  on  high  festivals,  when  all  is  glee, 
And  the  lose  yoke  hangs  idly  on  the  tree, 
As,  from  the  jar,  he  scrapes  the  incrusted  clay, 
Groans  o'er  the  revels  of  so  dear  a  day; 
Champs  on  a  coated  onion  dipt  in  brine; 
And,  while  his  hungry  hinds  exulting  dine 
On  barley-broth,  sucks  up,  with  thrifty  care, 
The  mothery  dregs  of  his  pall'd  vinegar!" 

But,  if  "  YOU  bask  you  in  the  sunny  ray, 
And  doze  the  careless  hours  of  youth  away, 
There  are,  who  at  such  gross  delights  will  spurn, 
And  spit  their  venom  on  your  life,  in  turn ; 
Expose,  with  eager  hate,  your  low  desires, 
Your  secret  passions,  and  unhallow'd  fires. — 
"Why,  while  the  beard  is  nurs'd  with  every  art, 
Those  anxious  pains  to  bear  the  shameful  pan,'? 
In  vain:  should  five  athletic  knaves  essay, 
To  pluck,  with  ceaseless  care,  the  weeds  away, 
Still  the  rank  fern,  congenial  to  the  soil, 
Would  spread  luxuriant,  and  defeat  their  toil!'' 

Misled  by  rage,  our  bodies  we  expose, 
And  while  we  give,  forget  to  ward,  the  blow? ; 
This,  this  is  life!  and  thus  our  faults  are  shown, 
By   mutual    spleen:    we    know  —  and    we    are 

known. 

But  your  defects  elude  inquiring  eyes! — 
Beneath  the  groin  the  ulcerous  evil  lies, 
Impervious  to  the  view ;  and  o'er  the  wound, 
The  broad  effulgence  of  the  zone  is  bound  ! 


PERSIUS. 


503 


But  can  you.  thus,  the  inward  pang  restrain, 
Thus,  client  the  sense  of  languor  and  of  pain? 

"  But  if  the  people  call  me  wise  and  j\i?t, 
Sure,  I  may  take  the  general  voice  on  trust !" — 

No  : — If  you  tremble  at  the  sight  of  gold  ; 
Ind  ilge  lust's  wildest  sallies  uncontroll'd; 
Or,  bent  on  outrage,  at  the  midnight  hour, 
Gin  with  a  rullian  band,  the  forum  scour; 
Thru,  wretch  !  in  vain  the  voice  of  praise  you 

hear, 
And  drink  the  vulgar  shout  with  greedy  ear. 

Hence,  with  your  spurious,  claims!  rejudge  your 

-.•. 

And  fling  the  rabble  back  their  vile  applause: 

ur  own  breast,  in  quest  of  worth,  repair, 

An  1  blush  to  find — how  poor  a  stock  is  there  ! 

«FH()M    SATIRE   V. TO  ANX.EUS   CORNUTUS. 
s,  best  of  friends  !  'tis  now  my  pride  to  own, 
How  much  that  -  lill'd  with  you  alone! 

Ring  then — for,  to  your  praeti.-ed  ear,  the  sound 
Will  show  the  solid,  and  where  guile  is  found 

;ish'd  tongue.    For  THIS,  in  fine, 
I  cared  to  wi-h  an  hundred  voices  mine; 
Proud  to  deelare.  how  elo-.-Iv  twined  you  dwell — 
H»w  deeply  flx'd  in  my  heart's  inmost  cell, 
And  paint,  in  words, — ah,  could  they  paint  the 

whole! — 
The  ineffable  sensations  of  my  soul. 

When  lirst  1  laid  the  purple  by — and  free,* 
Yet  trembling  at  my  new-felt  liberty, 
Anproaeh'd  the  hearth,  and  on  the  Lares  hung 
The  bulla,  from  my  willing  neck  unstrung; 
"When  gay  a.-sociate.-.  sporting  at  my  side, 
And   the    white    bo.-s,   display'd    with   conscious 

pr; 

Give  me,  uncheek'd.  the  haunts  of  vice  to  trace, 
And  throw  my  wandering  eyes  on  every  face  j 
When  life's  perplexing  ma/.e  before  me  lay, 
And  error.  • 
To  straggling  paths,  far  from  th-  '-nth, 

I.  with  blind  confidence-,  my  timorous  youth, 
I  fled  to  you,  Cornntu- 
My  hopes  and  fears  on  your  Socratic  br 
^  or  did  you,  gent i  iine: 

Then,  dexterous  to  beguile,  your  ,-te-i-ly  line 

•im'd,  I  know  not  by  what  winning  force, 

/nils,  warp'd  from  virtue's  strain1 
While  reason,  pres.-'d  in<-ninbent  on  my  soul, 
That  Bt  receive  the  -tmng  control, 

And  took,  like  wax,  subdued  by  pla-tie  skill. 
The  form  your  hand  impo-'d — and  bears  it  still! 
<          ,         get,  how  many  a  Him] 

in  y<mr  convene,  Mole,  nnmark'd.  away? 

*  The  sons  of  tin-  noMlity.  and  ..f  itn-  pnvil.-.'.'.l  nti- 
2.ens,  won*  tin-  i,<^,t  />r,miM  ta  \in\\\\  rirhly  l>oril--n-<l 
with  purple,  till  th'-y  r«-:irhrd  tin-  a^i-  ofsi- vi-ntci»M,  when 

tlli-V    f  \rli:ilij.-(l    It    f.ir    til-'    f":'l     nnii...    «T    IliMllly    1.'<>\VI1. 

and  entered  into  a  state  of  comparative  unit- pi- n.l..- nc.- 
und  liberty. 


Or  how,  while  listening,  with  increas'd  delight, 
I  snatch'd  from  feasts,  the  earlier  hours  of  night? 
— One  time  (for  to  your  bosom  still  I  grew) 
One  time  of  study,  and  of  rest,  we  knew; 
One  frugal  board,  where,  every  care  resign 'd, 
An  hour  of  blameless  mirth  relax'd  the  mind. 

And  sure  our  lives,  which  thus  accordant  move, 
(Indulge  me  here,  Cornutus,)  clearly  prove, 
That  both  are  subject  to  the  self-same  law, 
And  from  one  horoscope  their  fortunes  draw : 
And  whether  destiny's  unerring  doom, 
In  equal  Libra,  pois'd  our  days  to  come; 
Or  friendship's  holy  hour  our  fates  combin'd, 
And  to  the  twins,  a  sacred  c!  u'd  ; 

Or  Jove,  benignant,  broke  the  gloomy  spell 
By  angry  Saturn  wove ; — I  know  not  well — 
But  sure  some  star  there  is,  whose  bland  control, 
Subdues,  to  yours,  the  temper  of  my  soul ! 

Countless  the  various  species  of  mankind, 
Countless  the  shades  which  separate  man  from 

mind  ; 

No  general  object  of  desire  is  known  ; 
Each  has  his  will,  and  each  pursues  his  own. 
With  Latian  wares,  one  roam-  the  eastern  main, 
To  purchase  spice,  and  cummin's  blanching  grain ; 
Another,  gorg'd  with  dainties,  swill'd  with  wine, 
Fattens  in  sloth,  and  snores  out  life  supine; 
This  loves  the  Campus;  that  destructive  play; 
And  those,  in  wanton  dalliance,  melt  away : — 
But  when  the  knotty  gout  their  strength  has  broke, 
And  their  dry  joints  crack  like  some  wither'd  oak, 
Then  they  look  back,  confounded  and  aghast 
On  the  gross  days  in  fogs  and  darkness  past ; 
With  late  regret  the  waste  of  life  deplore: 
No  purpose  gain'd,  and  time,  alas!  no  more. 

But  you,  my  friend,  whom  nobler  views  delight, 
To  pallid  vigils  give  the  studious  night; 
Cleanse    youthful    breasts    from    every  noxious 

weed, 

And  sow  the  tilth  with  Cleanthean  seed. — * 
There  M  ire  to  find.) 

That    certain    end,   which    stays    the    wavering 

mind  ; — 

Stores,  which  endure,  when  other  mean-  decay, 
Through  lit  v.-ay! 

••  Riu'ht:  and  to-morrow  tin-  shall  lie  our  < 
Alas!    to-morrow,  like  to-day,  will 

••  What!  is  one  day.  for.-<  a  a  boon?'' 

But  when  it  comes,  (and  eoine  it  will  too  soon,) 
Relleet.  that  yesterday's  to-morrow's  o'er. — 
Thu<  one  -'to-morrow!"  one  "to-morrow!"  more, 

long  year-  before  them  fade  away; 
And  .-till  appear  no  nearer  than  to-day! — 

ile  the  wheels  on  different  axles  roll, 
In  vain,  (though  govern'.!  by  the  l"lc.) 

The  hindmost  to  o'ertake  the  fop-- 
Fast  as  the  one  pursues,  the  other 


*  i.  «• .  iviih  Stuir  philosophy.  riranthfs  was  one  of 
the  iini-t  ilistiimui^hed  fflloivcru  of  Zeno,  the  founder 
of  the  school. 


LUCAN. 


[Born  39,— Died  66,  A.  D.] 


MARCUS  Annmus  LUCAJTUS  was  the  son  of 
Marcus  Annseus  Mela,  a  Roman  knight,  and  of 
Caia  Acilia,  a  daughter  of  the  orator  Acilius  Lu- 
canus.  He  was  born  at  Corduba,  in  Spain,  but 
was  brought,  when  an  infant,  to  Rome,  and  there 
educated  under  the  most  distinguished  masters 
of  the  day.  He  was  early  introduced  at  court, 
and  partly  through  his  own  merits,  and  partly,  in 
all  probability,  through  the  interest  of  his  uncle 
Seneca,  rose  to  the  office  of  questor,  and  gained 
admission  into  the  college  of  Augurs,  even  before 
he  had  attained  the  age  requisite  for  those  offices. 
But  the  tide  of  court  favour  soon  turned.  Having 
ventured  to  dispute  with  his  master,  Nero,  the 
prize  of  poetry,  he  was  prohibited  from  pleading 
at  the  bar,  or  reciting  verses  in  public ;  and 
being  afterwards  implicated  in  Piso's  conspiracy, 
he  received  judgment  of  death,  with  the  privi- 
lege of  himself  selecting  the  mode  of  it.  He  chose 
to  have  the  arteries  of  his  arms  and  legs  opened  in 


FROM  LUCAN'S  PHARSALIA. 
Book  I. 

RUIN   OCCASIONED  BT  THE  CIVIL  WARS  1ST  ITALY. 

EMATHIAN  plains  with  slaughter  cover'd  o'er, 
And  rage  unknown  to  civil  wars  before, 
Established  violence,  and  lawless  might, 
Avow'd  and  hallow'd  by  the  name  of  right; 
A  race  renowned,  the  world's  victorious  lords, 
Turn'd  on  themselves  with  their  own  hostile 

swords ; 

Piles  against  piles  oppos'd  in  impious  fight, 
And  eagles  against  eagles  bending  flight; 
Of  blood  by  friends,  by  kindred,  parents,  spilt, 
One  common  horror  and  promiscuous  guilt, 
A  shattered  world  in  wild  disorder  tost, 
Leagues,  laws,  and  empire  in  confusion  lost ; 
Of  all  the  woes  which  civil  discords  bring, 
And  Rome  o'ercome  by  Roman  arms,  I  sing. 
What  blind,  detested  madness  could  afford 
Such  horrid  license  to  the  murd'ring  sword  ? 
Say,  Romans,  whence  so  dire  a  fury  rose, 
To  glut  with  Latian  blood  your  barb'rous  foes? 
Could  you  in  wars  like  these  provoke  your  fate? 
Wars,  where  no  triumphs  on  the  victor  wait! 
While  Babylon's  proud  spires  yet  rise  so  high, 
And, rich  in  Roman  spoils, invade  the  sky; 
While  yet  no  vengeance  is  to  Crassus  paid, 
But  unatoned  repines  the  wand'ring  shade ! 
What  tracts  of  land,  what  realms  unknown  before, 
What  seas  wide  stretching  to  the  distant  shore, 
What  crowns,  what  empires  might  that  blood 

have  gain'd, 
With  which  Emathia's  fatal  fields  were  stain'd ! 

504 


a  warm  bath;  and  having  taken  a  calm  farewell 
of  his  friends,  expired,  repeating,  from  the  Phar- 
salia,  some  verses  descriptive  of  his  own  fate.* 

It  has  been  said  that  Lucan,  in  order  to  screen 
himself,  had,  when  detected,  endeavoured  to 
throw  the  guilt  upon  his  mother  Acilia ;  but,  as 
such  conduct  is  no  less  at  variance  with  the  tenor 
of  his  life,  than  the  manner  of  his  death,  and,  as 
none  of  the  many  fragments  of  his  life,  which  yet 
exist,  have  ever  mentioned  it,  we  may  fairly 
doubt  the  truth  of  the  relation. 

Lucan  died  in  his  twenty-seventh  year,  leaving 
his  poem  unfinished,  which  was  revised  and 
published  by  his  wife  Polla  Argentaria,  a  lady 
praised  by  Statins  for  her  accomplishments  and 
ingenuous  manners. 


*  Elton  quotes  some  lines  from  the  third  book,  as  the 
passage  recited  on  the  occasion  ;  others  incline  towards 
a  passage  in  the  ninth  book :  but  see  Howe's  Lucan,  book 
iii.— 995,— and  book  ix.— 1378. 


Where  Seres  in  their  silken  woods  reside, 
Where  swift  Araxes  rolls  his  rapid  tide : 
Where'er  (if  such  a  nation  can  be  found) 
Nile's    secret   fountain,    springing,    cleaves    the 

ground ; 

Where  southern  suns  with  double  ardour  rise, 
Flame  o'er  the  land,  and   scorch  the  mid-day 

skies; 

Where  winter's  hand  the  Scythian  seas  constrains, 
And  binds  the  frozen  floods  in  crystal  chains; 
Where'er  the  shady  night  and  day-spring  come, 
All  had  submitted  to  the  yoke  of  Rome. 

Oh  Rome !  if  slaughter  be  thy  only  care, 
If  such  thy  fond  desire  of  impious  war  ; 
Turn  from  thyself,  at  least,  the  destin'd  wound, 
Till  thou  art  mistress  of  the  world  around, 
And  none  to  conquer  but  thyself  be  found. 
Thy  foes  as  yet  a  juster  war  afford, 
And  barb'rous  blood  remains  to  glut  thy  sword. 
But  see !  her  hands  on  her  own  vitals  seize, 
And  no  destruction  but  her  own  can  please. 
Behold  her  fields  unknowing  of  the  plough! 
Behold  her  palaces  and  towers  laid  low ! 
See  where  o'erthrown  the  massy  column  lies, 
While  weeds  obscene  above  the  cornice  rise. 
Here  gaping  wide,  half-ruin'd  walls  remain, 
There  mouldering  pillars  nodding  roots  sustain- 
The  landscape  once  in  various  beauty  spread, 
With  yellow  harvests  and  the  flowery  mead, 
Displays  a  wild  uncultivated  face, 
Which  bushy  brakes  and  brambles  vile  disgrace: 
No  human  footstep  prints  th'  untrodden  green, 
No  cheerful  maid  nor  villager  is  seen. 


LUCAN. 


505 


Ev'n  in  her  cities  lamous  once  and  great, 
Where  thousands  thousands  throng'd  the  noisy 

street, 

No  sonnd  is  heard  of  human  voices  now, 
But  whistling  winds  thror  empty  dwellings  blow  ; 
While  passing  strangers  wonder,  if  they  spy 
One  single  melancholy  face  go  by. 

POMPEY  AUD    C.T.SAIl. 

THE  sword  is  now  the  umpire  to  decide, 
And  part  what  friendship  knew  not  to  divide. 
'Twas  hard,  an  empire  of  so  vast  a  size, 
Could  not  for  two  ambitious  minds  suffice ; 
The  peopled  earth,  and  wide  extended  main, 
Could  furnish  room  for  only  one  to  reign. 
When  dying  Julia  first  forsook  the  light,* 
And  Hymen's  tapers  sunk  in  endless  night, 
The  tender  ties  of  kindred-love  were  torn, 
Forgotten  all,  and  buried  in  her  urn. 
Oh!  if  her  death  had  haply  been  delay'd, 
How  might  the  daughter  and  the  wife  persuade! 
Like  the  famed  Sabine  dames,  she  had  been  seen 
To  stay  the  meeting  war,  and  stand  between : 
On  either  hand  had  woo'd  them  to  accord, 
Sooth'd  her  fierce  father,  and  her  furious  lord, 
To  join  in  peace,  and  sheathe  the  ruthless  sword. 
But  this  the  fatal  sisters'  doom  denied  ; 
The    friends   were    sever'd.  when    the    matron 

died. 

The  rival  leaders  mortal  war  proclaim,. 
Rage  fires  their  souls  with  jealousy  of  fame, 
And  emulation  fans  the  rising  flame. 

Thee,  Pompey,f  thy  past  deeds  by  turns  infest, 
And  jealous  glory  burns  within  thy  breast; 
Thy  fanrd  piratic  laurel  seems  to  fade, 
Beneath  successful  Caesar's  rising  shade  ; 
His  Gallic  wreaths  thou  view'st  with  anxious 

eyes* 

Above  thy  naval  crowns  triumphant  rise. 
Thee,  Ca?sar,  thy  long  labours  past  incite, 
Thy  use  of  war,  and  custom  of  the  fight ; 
While  bold  ambition  prompts  thee  in  the  race, 
And  bids  thy  courage  scorn  a  second  place. 
Superior  power,  fierce  faction's  dearest  care, 
One  could  not  brook,  and  one  disdain  d  t<>  share. 
Justly  to  name  the  better  cause  were  hard, 
While  greatest  names  for  either  side  declar'd : 
Victorious  Caesar  by  the  gods  was  crown'd, 
The  vanquish'd  party  was  by  Cato  own'd. 
Nor  came  the  rivals  equal  to  the  field  ; 
One  to  increa>in^  years  began  to  yield, 
Old  Age  cainr  creeping  in  the  peaceful  gown, 
And  civil  functions  weigh'd  the  soldier  down; 
Disused  to  arms,  he  turn'd  him  to  the  laws, 
And  pleas'd  himself  with  popular  applause; 
With  gifts,  and  lib'ral  bounty  solicit  fur  lame, 
And  loved  to  hoar  the  vulgar  shout  his  name; 
In  his  own  theatre  rejoic'd  to  sit, 
Amidst  the  noisy  praises  of  the  pit. 

*  Julia  was  the  daughter  of  Julius  Cesar,  and  married 
to  Pompey. 

t  Pompey  had  triumphed  over  several  nations,  and 
especially  over  the  Cilician  pirates,  whom,  though  pos- 
sessed of  vast  fleets,  and  masters  of  the  seas,  he  com- 
pelled to  surrender  in  forty  days. 


Careless  of  future  ills  that  might  betide, 
No  aid  he  sought  to  prop  his  failing  side, 
But  on  his  former  fortune  much  relied^ 
Still  seem'd  he  to  possess,  and  fill  his  place; 
But  stood  the  shadow  of  what  once  he  was ; 
So  in  the  field  with  Ceres'  bounty  spread, 
Uprears  some  ancient  oak  his  rev'rend  head ; 
Chaplets  and  sacred  gifts  his  boughs  adorn, 
And  spoils  of  war  by  mighty  heroes  worn. 
But  the  first  vigour  of  his  root  now  gone, 
He  stands  dependent  on  his  weight  alone ; 
All  bare  his  naked  branches  are  displayed, 
And  with  his  leafless  trunk  he  forms  a  shade : 
Yet  though  the  winds  his  ruin  daily  threat, 
As  every  blast  would  heave  him  from  his  seat ; 
Though  thousand  fairer  trees  the  field  supplies, 
That  rioh  in  youthful  verdure  round  him  rise ; 
Fix'd  in  his  ancient  state  he  yields  to  none, 
And  wears  the  honours  of  the  grove  alone. 
But  Caesar's  greatness,  and  his  strength,  was  more 
Than  past  renown  and  antiquated  power ; 
'Twas  not  the  fame  of  what  he  once  had  been, 
Or  tales  in  old  records  and  annals  seen ; 
But  'twas  a  valour,  restless,  unconfin'd, 
Which  no  success  could  sate,  nor  limits  bind  ; 
'Twas  shame,  a  soldier's  shame  untaught  to  yield, 
That  blush'd  for  nothing  but  an  ill-fought  field ; 
Fierce  in  his  hopes  he  was,  nor  knew  to  stay, 
Where  vengeance  or  ambition  led  the  way ; 
Still  prodigal  of  war  whene'er  withstood, 
Nor  spared  to  stain  the  guilty  sword  with  blood ; 
Urging  advantage  he  improved  all  odds, 
And  made  the  most  of  fortune  and  the  gods ; 
Pleas'd  to  o'erturn  whate'er  withheld  his  prize, 
And  saw  the  ruin  with  rejoicing  eyes. 
Such  while  earth  trembles,  and  heaven  thunders 

loud, 

Darts  the  swift  lightning  from  the  rending  cloud; 
Fierce  through  the  day  it  breaks,  and  in  its  flight 
The  dreadful  blast  confounds  the  gazer's  sight ; 
Resistless  in  its  course  delights  to  rove, 
And  cleaves  the  temples  of  its  master  Jove : 
Alike  where'er  it  passes  or.  returns, 
With  equal  rage  the  fell  destroyer  burns ; 
Then  with  a  whirl  full  in-  its  strength  retires, 
And  re-collects  the  force  of  all  its  scattered  fires. 
Motives  like  these  the  leading  chiefs  inspir'd; 
But  other  thoughts  the  meaner  vulgar  lir'd 
Those  fatal  seeds  luxuriant  vices  saw, 
Which  ever  lay  a  mighty  people  low. 
To  Rome  the  vanquish'd  earth  her  tribute  paid, 
And  deadly  treasures  to  her  view  display 'd: 
Then  truth  and  simple  manners  left  the  place, 
While  Riot  rear'd  her  lewd,  dishonest  face ; 
Virtue  to  full  prosperity  gave  way, 
And  lied  from  rapine,  and  the  lust  of  prey. 
On  every  side  proud  palaces  arise, 
And  lavish  gold  each  common  use  supplies. 
Their  fathers'  frugal  tables  stand  abhorr'd, 
And  Asia  now  and  Afric  are  explor'd 
For  high-pric'd  dainties,  and  the  citron  board. 
In  silken  robes  the  minion  men  appear, 
Which  maids  and  youthful  brides  should  blush 

to  wear. 
That  age  by  honest  poverty  adorn'd, 


506 


LUCAN. 


Wherever  aught  pernicious  does  abound, 
For  luxury  all  lands  are  ransack'd  round, 
And  dear-bought  deaths  the  sinking  state  con- 
found. 

The  Curii's  and  Camilli's  little  field, 
To  vast  extended  territories  yield ; 
And  foreign  tenants  reap  the  harvest  now, 
Where  once  the  great  dictator  held  his  plough. 

Rome,  ever  fond  of  war,  was  tired  with  ease; 
E'en  liberty  had  lost  the  power  to  please  : 
Hence   rage   and  wrath   their   ready  minds   in- 
vade, 

And  want  could  every  wickedness  persuade: 
Hence  impious  power  was  first  esteem'd  a  good, 
Worth  being  fought  with  arms,  and  bought  with 

blood : 

With  glory,  tyrants  did  their  country  awe, 
And  violence  prescrib'd  the  rule  to  law. 
Hence  pliant  servile  voices  were  constrain'd, 
And  force  in  popular  assemblies  reign'd ; 
Consuls  arid  tribunes  with  opposing  might, 
Join'd  to  confound  and  overturn  the  right : 
Hence  shameful  magistrates  were  made  for  gold, 
And  a  base  people  by  themselves  were  sold : 
Hence  slaughter  in  the  venal  field  returns, 
And  Rome  her  yearly  competition  mourns: 
Hence  debt  unthrifty,  careless  to  repay, 
And  usury  still  watching  for  its  day: 
Hence  perjuries  in  every  wrangling  court; 
And  war,  the  needy  bankrupt's  last  resort. 

THE  DRUIDS. 

You  too,  ye  bards!  whom  sacred  raptures  fire, 
Who  chaunt  your  heroes  to  your  country's  lyre; 
Who  consecrate,  in  your  immortal  strain, 
Brave  patriot  souls  in  righteous  battle  slain  ; 
Securely  now  the  tuneful  talk  renew, 
And  noblest  themes  in  deathless  songs  pursue. 
The  Druids  now,  while  arms  are  heard  no  more, 
Old  mysteries  and  barb'rous  rites  restore : 
A  tribe  who  singular  religion  love, 
And  haunt  the  lonely  coverts  of  the  grove. 
To  these,  and  these  of  all  mankind  alone, 
The  gods  are  sure  reveal'd,  or  sure  unknown. 
If  dying  mortals'  dooms  they  sing  aright, 
No  ghosts  descend  to  dwell  in  dreadful  night: 
No  parting  souls  to  grisly  Pluto  go, 
Nor  seek  the  dreary  silent  shades  below  : 
But  forth  they  fly  immortal  in  their  kind, 
And  other  bodies  in  new  worlds  they  find. 
Thus  life  for  ever  runs  its  endless  race, 
And  like  a  line,  death  but  divides  the  space, 
A  stop  which  can  but  for  a  moment  last, 
A  point  between  the  future  and  the  past. 
Thrice  happy  they  beneath  their  northern  skies, 
Who  that  worst  fear,  the  fear  of  death,  despise; 
Hence  they  no  cares  for  this  frail  being  feel, 
But  rush  undaunted  on  the  pointed  steel; 
Provoke  approaching  fate,  and  bravely  scorn 
To  spare  that  life  which  must  so  soon  return.* 


*  Swiftly  the  soul  of  British  flame 

Animates  some  kindred  frame, 

Swiftly  to  light  and  life  triumphant  flies, 

Again  exults  in  martial  extasies, 

Again  for  freedom  fights,  again  for  freedom  dies. 

Mason's  Caractacus. 


Book  II. 
CATO  AND  MARTIA. 

Now  'gan  the  sun  to  lift  his  dawning  light, 
Before  him  fled  the  colder  shades  of  night ; 
When  lo !  the  sounding  doors  are  heard  to  turn, 
Chaste  Martia  comes  from  dead  Hortensius'  urn. 
Once  to  a  better  husband's  happier  bed, 
With  bridal  rites,  a  virgin  was  she  led. 
When  every  debt  of  love  and  duty  paid, 
And  thrice  a  parent  by  Lucina  made ; 
The  teeming  matron,  at  her  lord's  command, 
To  glad  Hortensius  gave  her  plighted  hand; 
With  a  fair  stock  his  barren  house  to  grace, 
And  mingle  by  the  mother's  side  the  race. 
At  length  this  husband  in  his  ashes  laid, 
And  every  rite  of  due  religion  paid, 
Forth  from  his  monument  the  mournful  dame, 
With  beaten  breasts,  and  locks  dishevell'd, came; 
Then  with  a  pale,  dejected,  rueful  look, 
Thus  pleasing,  to  her  former  lord  she  spoke.* 

While  nature  yet  with  vigour  fed  my  veins, 
And  made  me  equal  to  a  mother's  pains, 
To  thee  obedient,  I  thy  house  forsook, 
And  to  my  arms  another  husband  took: 
My  powers  at  length  with  genial  labours  worn, 
Weary  to  thee,  and  wasted  I  return. 
At  length  a  barren  wedlock  let  me  prove, 
Give  me  the  name,  without  the  joys  of  love  ; 
No  more  to  be  abandon'd,  let  me  come, 
That  Cato's  wife  may  live  upon  my  tomb. 
Nor  ask  I  now  thy  happiness  to  share, 
I  seek  thy  days  of  toil,  thy  nights  of  care: 
Give  me,  with  thee,  to  meet  my  country's  foe, 
Thy  weary  inarches  arid  thy  camps  to  know ; 
Nor  let  posterity  with  shame  record, 
Corneliaf  follow'd,  Martia  left,  her  lord. 

She  said.    The  hero's  manly  heart  was  mov'd, 
And  the  chaste  matron's  virtuous  suit  approv'd. 
And  though  the  times  far  difTring  thoughts  de- 
mand, 

Though  war  dissents  from  hymen's  holy  band ; 
In  plain  unsolemn  wise  his  faith  he  plights, 
And  calls  the  gods  to  view  the  lonely  rites. 
No  genial  bed,  with  rich  embroidery  grac'd, 
On  iv'ry  steps  in  lofty  state  was  plac'd. 
But,  as  she  was,  in  funeral  attire, 
With  all  the  sadness  sorrow  could  inspire, 
With  eyes  dejected,  with  a  joyless  face, 
She  met  her  husband's,  like  a  son's,  embrace. 
No  Sabine  mirth  provokes  the  bridegroom's  ears, 
Nor  sprightly  wit  the  glad  assembly  cheers. 
No  friends,  nor  ev'n  their  children,  grace  the  feast, 
Brutus  attends,  their  only  nuptial  guest: 
He  stands  a  witness  of  the  silent  rite, 
And  sees  the  melancholy  pair  unite. 
Nor  he,  the  chief  his  sacred  visage  cheer'd, 
Nor  smooth'd  his  matted  locks,  or  horrid  beard  ; 
Nor  deigns  his  heart  one  thought  of  joy  to  know, 
But  met  his  Martia  with  the  same  stern  brow. 
(For  when  he  saw  the  fatal  factions  arm, 
The  coming  war,  and  Rome's  impending  harm  ; 
Regardless  quite  of  ev'ry  other  care, 
Unshorn  he  left  his  loose  neglected  hair ; 


*  See  this  story  in  Plutarch, 
t  The  wife  of  Pompey. 


LUCAN. 


507 


Rude  hung  the  hoary  honours  of  his  head. 
And  a  foul  growth  his  mournful  cheeks  o'erspread. 
No  stings  of  private  hate  his  peace  infest, 
Nor  partial  favour  grew  upon  his  breast; 
But  safe  from  prejudice,  he  kept  his  mind 
Free,  and  at  leisure  to  lament  mankind.) 
Nor  could  his  former  love's  returning  fire, 
The  warmth  of  one  connubial  wish  inspire, 
But  strongly  he  withstood  the  just  desire. 
These  were  the  stricter  manners  of  the  man, 
And  this  the  stubborn  course  in  which  they  ran ; 
The  golden  mean  unchanging  to  pursue, 
Constant  to  keep  the  purpos'd  end  in  view; 
Religiously  to  follow  nature's  la 
And  die  with  pleasure  in  his  country's  cause, 
To  think  he  was  not  for  himself  design'd, 
But  born  to  be  of  use  to  all  mankind. 
To  him  'twas  feasting,  hunger  to  repress ; 
And  home-spun  garments  were  his  costly  dress : 
No  marble  pillars  rear'd  his  roof  on  high, 
;T\vas  warm,  and  kept  him  from  the  winter  sky. 
He  sought  no  end  of  marriage,  but  increase, 
Nor  wish'd  a  pleasure,  but  his  country's  peace : 
That  took  up  all  the  tend'rest  parts  of  life, 
His  country  was  his  children  and  his  wife. 
From  justice1  righteous  lore  he  never  swerv'd, 
But  rigidly  his  honesty  preserv'd. 
On  universal  good  his  thoughts  were  bent, 
Nor  knew  what  gain,  or  self-affection  meant; 
And  while  his  benefits  the  public  share, 
Cato  was  always  last  in  Cato's  care. 


Book  IV. 

FRIENDLY  MEETIXfi   BETWEEN   THE   SOLDIERS  OF 
THE   TWO   CAMPS. 

NEAR  neighb'ring  now  the  camps  intrench'd  are 

seen, 
With  scarce  a  narrow  interval  between. 

Soon  as  their  eyes  o'ershoot  the  middle  space. 
From  either  hosts,  sires,  sons,  and  brothers  trace 
The  well-known  features  of  some  kindred  face. 
Then  first  their  hearts  with  tenderness  were 

struck, 

First  with  remorse  for  civil  rage  they  shook; 
Stiff'ning  with  horror  cold,  and  dire  amaze, 
Awhile  in  silent  interviews  they  gaze : 
Anon  with  speechless  signs  their  swords  salute, 
While  thoughts  conflicting  keep   their  masters 

mute. 

At  length,  disdaining  still  to  be  represt, 
Prevailing  passion  rose  in  every  breast, 
And  the  vain  rules  of  guilty  war  trail sgress'd. 
As  at  a  signal,  both  their  trenches  quit, 
And  spreading  arms  in  close  embraces  knit: 
Ni«w  friendship  runs  o'er  all  her  ancient  claims, 
Guest  and  companion  are  their  only  names; 
Old  neighbourhood  they  fondly  call  to  mind, 
And   how   their   boyish  years   in   leagues  were 

join'd. 

With  grief  each  other  mutually  they  know, 
And  find  a  friend  in  every  Roman  foe. 
Their  falling  tears  their  steely  arms  bedew, 
While  interrupting  sighs  each  kiss  pursue; 
And  though  their  hands  are  yet  unstain'd  by  guilt, 


But  speak,  unhappy  Roman !  speak  thy  pain, 
Say  for  what  woes  thy  streaming  eyes  complain  ? 
Why  dost  thou  groan  ?    Why  beat  thy  sounding 

breast  ? 

Why  is  this  wild,  fantastic  grief  exprest? 
Is  it,  that  yet  thy  country  claims  thy  care? 
Dost  thou  the  crimes  of  war  unwilling  share? 
Ah  !  whither  art  thou  by  thy  fears  betray "d  ? 
How  canst  thou  dread  that  power  thyself  hast 

made! 

Do  Caesar's  trumpets  call  thee?  Scorn  the  sound. 
Does  he  bid,  march?    Dare   thou  to  keep   thy 

ground. 

So  rage  and  slaughter  shall  to  justice  yield, 
And  fierce  Erinuys  quit  the  fatal  field : 
Caesar  in  peace  a  private  state  shall  know, 
And  Pompey  be  no  longer  call'd  his  foe. 

Appear, thou  heavenly  Concord!  blest  appear! 
And  shed  thy  better  influences  here. 
Thou  who  the  warring  elemepts  dost  bind, 
Life  of  the  world,  and  safety  of  mankind, 
Infuse  thy  sov'reign  balm,  and  heal  the  wrathful 

mind. 

But  if  the  same  dire  fury  rages  yet, 
Too  well  they  know  what  foes  their  swords  shall 

meet; 

No  blind  pretence  of  ignorance  remains, 
The  blood  they  shed   must  flow  from  Roman 

veins. 

Oh!  fatal  truce!  the  brand  of  guilty  Rome! 
From  thee  worse  wars  and   redder  slaughters 

come. 

See!  with  what  free  and  unsuspecting  love, 
From  camp  to  camp  the  jocund  warriors  rove; 
Each  to  his  turfy  table  bids  his  guest, 
And  Bacchus  crowns  the  hospitable  feast 
The  grassy  fires  refulgent  lend  their  light, 
While  conversation  sleepless  wastes  the  night: 
Of  early  feats  of  arms,  by  turns  they  tell, 
Of  fortunes  that  in  various  fields  befell, 
With  well-becoming  pride  their  deeds  relate, 
And  now  agree,  and  friendly  now  debate : 
At  length  their  inauspicious  hands  are  join'd, 
And   sacred   leagues  with    faith    renew 'd    they 

bind. 

But  oh !  what  worse  could  cruel  fate  afford ! 
The  furies  smil'd  upon  the  curs'd  accord, 
And  dy'd  with  deeper  stains  the  Roman  sword. 

Book  V. 

C-KSAH. UNEASY  AT  THE  DELAY  OF  MARK  ANTHONY, 
LEAVK»  HIS  (AMP  BY  NIGHT.  AM)  VENTURES 
OVER  A  TEMPESTUOUS  SEA,  IX  A  SMALL  BARK, 
TO  HASTEN  HIS  M  UJCH. 

AT  length  the  lucky  chief,  who  oft  had  found 
What  vast  success  his  rasher  darings  crown'd  ; 
Who  saw  how  much  the  fav'ring  gods  had  done, 
Nur  would  b»-  wanting,  when  they  urg'd  him  on; 
Fierce,  and  impatient  of  the  tedious  stay. 
Resolves  by  night  to  prove  the  doubtful  way: 
Bold  in  a  single  skiff  he  means  to  go, 
And  tempt  those  seas  that  navies  dare  not  plough. 
;Twas  now  the  time  when  cares  and  labours 


508- 


LUCAN. 


Snatch'd  from  their  guilt  and  toil,  the  wretched 

lay, 

And  slept  the  sounder  for  the  painful  day. 
Through  the  still  camp  the  night's  third  hour  re- 
sounds, 

And  warns  the  second  watches  to  their  rounds ; 
When  through  the  horrors  of  the  murky  shade, 
Secret  the  careful  warrior's  footsteps  tread. 
His  train,  unknowing,  slept  within  his  tent, 
Arid  fortune  only  follow'd  where  he  went. 
With  silent  anger  he  perceiv'd,  around, 
The  sleepy  sentinels  bestrew  the  ground: 
Yet,  unreproving,  now,  he  pass'd  them  o'er, 
And  sought  with  eager  haste  the  winding  shore. 
There  through  the  gloom,  his  searching  eyes  ex- 

plor'd, 

Where  to  the  mould'ring  rock  a  bark  was  moor'd. 
The  mighty  master  of  this  little  boat, 
Securely  slept  within  a  neighboring  cot : 
No  massy  beams  support  his  humble  hall, 
But  reeds  and  marshy  rushes  wove  the  wall ; 
Old  shatter'd  planking  for  a  roof  was  spread, 
Arid  cover'd  in  from  rain  the  needy  shed. 
Thrice  on  the  feeble  door  the  warrior  stroolc, 
Beneath  the  blow  the  trembling  dwelling  shook. 
What  wretch  forlorn  (the  poor  Amyclas  cries) 
Driven  by  the  raging  seas,  and  stormy  skies, 
To  my  poor  lowly  roof  for  shelter  flies  ? 
He  spoke;  and  hasty  left  his  homely  bed, 
With  oozy  flags  and  withering  sea-weed  spread. 
Then   from    the  hearth  the  smoking  match  he 

takes, 

And  in  the  tow  the  drowsy  fire  awakes; 
Dry  leaves,  and  chips,  for  fuel,  he  supplies, 
Till  kindling  sparks,  and  glitt'ring  flames  arise. 
Oh  happy  poverty!  thou  greatest  good, 
Bestow'd  by  Heaven,  but  seldom  understood ! 
Here  nor  the  cruel  spoiler  seeks  his  prey, 
Nor  ruthless  armies  take  their  dreadful  way: 
Security  thy  narrow  limits  keeps, 
Safe  are  thy  cottages,  and  sound  thy  sleeps. 
Behold  !  ye  dangerous  dwellings  of  the  great, 
Where  gods,  and  godlike  princes  choose   their 

seat; 

See  in  what  peace  the  poor  Amyclas  lies, 
Nor    starts,  though    Caesar's   call    commands   to 

rise. 

What  terrors  had  you  felt  that  call  to  hear? 
How  had  your  towers  and  ramparts  shook  with 

fear, 

And  trembled,  as  the  mighty  man  drew  near! 
The  door  unbarr'd  :  Expect  (the  leader  said) 
Beyond  thy  hopes,  or  wishes,  to  be  paid  ; 
If  in  this  instant  hour  thou  waft  me  o'er, 
With  speedy  haste,  to  yon  Hesperian  shore. 
No  more  shall  want  thy  weary  hand  constrain, 
To  work  thy  bark  upon  the  boist'rous  main : 
Henceforth  good  days  and  plenty  shall  betide ; 
The  gods  and  I,  will  for  thy  age  provide. 
A  glorious  change  attends  thy  low  estate, 
Sudden  and  mighty  riches  round  thee  wait; 
Be  wise,  and  use  the  lucky  hour  of  fate. 

Thus  he;   and  though  in  humble  vestments 

dress'd, 

Spite  of  himself,  his  words  his  power  express'd, 
And  Ceesar  in  his  bounty  stood  confess'd. 


To  him  the  weary  pilot  thus  replies : 
A  thousand  omens  threaten  from  the  skies; 
A  thousand  boding  signs  my  soul  affright, 
And  warn  me  not  to  tempt  the  seas  by  night. 
In  clouds  the  setting  sun  obscur'd  his  head, 
Nor  painted  o'er  the  ruddy  west  with  red : 
Now  north,  now  south,  he  shot  his  parting  beams, 
And  tipp'd  the  sullen  black  with  golden  gleams: 
Pale  shone  his  middle  orb  with  faintish  rays, 
And  suffer'd  mortal  eyes  at  ease  to  gaze. 
Nor  rose  the  silver  queen  of  night  serene, 
Supine  and  dull  her  blunted  horns  were  seen, 
With  foggy  stains,  and  cloudy  blots  between. 
Dreadful  awhile  she  shone  all  fiery  red, 
Then  sicken'd  into  pale,  and  hid  her  drooping 

head. 

Nor  less  I  fear  from  that  hoarse  hollow  roar, 
In  leafy  groves,  and  on  the  sounding  shore. 
In  various  turns  the  doubtful  dolphins  play, 
And  thwart,  and  run  across,  and  mix  their  way. 
The  cormorants  the  wat'ry  deep  forsake, 
And  soaring  herons  avoid  the  plashy  lake ; 
While,  waddling  on  the  margin  of  the  main, 
The  crows  bewets  her,  and  prevents  the  rain. 
Howe'er,  if  some  great  enterprise  demand, 
Behold,  I  proffer  thee  my  willing  hand : 
My  vent'rous  bark  the  troubled  deep  shall  try, 
To  thy  wish'd  port  her  plunging  prow  shall  ply, 
Unless  the  seas  resolve  to  beat  us  by. 

He  spoke ;  and  spread  his  canvass  to  the  wind, 
Unmoor'd  his  boat,  and  left  the  shore  behind. 
Swift  flew  the  nimble  keel ;  and  as  they  past, 
Long  trails  of  light  the  shooting  meteors  cast; 
E'en  the  fix'd  fires  above  in  motion  seem, 
Shake  through  the  blast,  and  dart  a  quiv'ring 

beam  ; 

Black  horrors  on  the  gloomy  ocean  brood, 
And  in  long  ridges  rolls  the  threat'ning  flood; 
While  loud  and  louder  murmuring  winds  arise, 
And  growl  from  every  quarter  of  the  Skies. 
When  thus  the  trembling  master,  pale  with  fear, 
Beholds  what  wrath  the  dreadful  gods  prepare; 
My  art  is  at  a  loss ;  the  various  tide 
Beats  my  unstable  bark  on  every  side : 
From  the  northwest  the  setting  current  swells, 
While  southern  storms  the  driving  rack  foretells. 
Howe'er  it  be,  our  purpos'd  way  is  lost, 
Nor  can  one  relic  of  our  wreck  be  tost 
By  winds,  like  these,  on  fair  Hesperia's  coast. 
Our  only  means  of  safety  is  to  yield, 
And  measure  back  with  haste  the  foamy  field: 
To  give  our  unsuccessful  labour  o'er, 
And  reach,  while  yet  we  may,  the  neighb'ring 
shore. 

But  Ccesar,  still  superior  to  distress, 
Fearless,  and  confident  of  sure  success, 
Thus  to  the  pilot  loud — The  seas  despise, 
And  the  vain  threat'ning  of  the  noisy  skies. 
Though  gods  deny  thee  yon  Ausonian  strand ; 
Yet,  go,  I  charge  thee,  go  at  my  command. 
Thy  ignorance  alone  can  cause  thy  fears, 
Thou  know'st  not  what  a  freight  thy  vessel  bears ; 
Thou  know'st  not  I  am  he,  to  whom  'tis  given 
Never  to  want  the  care  of  watchful  heaven. 
Obedient  fortune  waits  my  humble  thrall, 
And  always  ready  comes  before  I  call. 


LUCAN. 


509 


Let  winds,  and  seas,  loud  wars  at  freedom  wage, 
And  waste  upon  themselves  their  empty  rage; 
A  stronger,  mightier  daemon  is  thy  friend, 
Thou,  and  thy  bark,  on  Cirsar's  fate  depend. 
Thou  stand 'st  amaz'd  to  view  this  dreadful  scene; 
Arid  wonder'st  what  the  gods  and  fortune  mean! 
But  artfully  their  bounties  thus  they  raise, 
And  from  my  dangers  arrogate  new  praise ; 
Amidst  the  fears  of  death  they  bid  me  live, 
And  still  enhance  what  they  are  sure  to  give. 
Then  leave  yon  shore  behi ud  with  all  thy  haste, 
Nor  shall  this  idle  fury  longer  last. 
Thy  keel,  auspicious,  shall  the  storm  appease, 
Shall  glide  triumphant  o'er  the  calmer  seas, 
And  reach  Brundusium's  safer  port  with  ease. 
Nor  can  the  gods  ordain  another  now, 
'Tis  what  I  want,  and  what  they  must  bestow. 

Thus  while  in  vaunting  words  the  leader  spoke, 
Full  on  his  bark  the  thund'ring  tempest  struck; 
Off  rips  the  rending  canvass  from  the  mast, 
And  whirling  flits  before  the  driving  blast; 
In  every  joint  the  groaning  alder  sounds. 
And  gapes  wide-opening  with  a  thousand  wounds. 
Now,  rising  all  at  once,  and  unconfin'd, 
From  every  quarter  roars  the  rushing  wind  : 
First  from  the  wide  Atlantic  ocean's  bed, 
Tempestuous  Corus  rears  his  dreadful  head  ; 
Th'  obedient  deep  his  potent  breath  controls, 
And,  mountain-high,  the  foamy  flood  he  rolls. 
Him  the  North-East,  encount'ring  fierce,  defied, 
And  back  rebutfeted  the  yielding  tide. 
The  curling  surges  loud  conflicting  meet, 
Dash  their  proud  heads,  and  bellow  as  they  beat; 
While  piercing  Boreas,  from  the  Scythian  strand, 
Ploughs  up  the  waves,  and  scoops  the  lowest  sand. 
Nor  Eurus  then,  I  ween,  was  left  to  dwell, 
Nor  showery  Notus  in  th'  JEoU&n  cell; 
But  each  from  every  side.  his  power  to  boast, 
Rang'd  his  proud  forces  to  defend  his  coast. 
Equal  in  might,  alike  they  strive  in  vain, 
While  in  the  midst  the  .seas  unmov'd  remain: 
In  lesser  wars  they  yield  to  stormy  heaven, 
And  captive  waves  to  other  deeps  are  driven ; 
The  Tyrrhen  billows  dash  JEgean  shores, 
And  Adria  in  the  mix'd  Ionian  roars. 
How  then  must  earth  the  swelling  ocean  dread, 
When   floods  ran  higher  than  each  mountain's 
head  ! 

:ng  Jove  long  time  had  hurl'd, 
And  tired  his  thunders  on  a  harden'd  world  : 
New  wrath,  the  god.  new  punishment  display 'd, 
And  call'd  his  wat'ry  brother  to  his  aid  : 
Offending  earth  to  Neptune's  lot  he  jojn'd. 
And  bade  his  floods  no  longer  stand  ronfin'd  ; 
At  once  the  snrg'-s  e'er  the  nations  rise, 
And  seas  are  only  bounded  by  the  skies. 
Such  now  the  spreading  deluge  had  been  seen, 
Had  not  tli'  almighty  ruler  stood  betv. 
Proud  waves  the  eloud-eompeliing  sire  obey'd, 
Confessed  liis  hand  suppressing,  and  were  stay'd. 

Nor  was  that  gloom  the  eonimon  shade  of  night, 
The  friendly  darkness,  that  reli.-ves  the  light; 
But  fearful,  black,  and  horrible  to  tell, 
A  murky  vapour  breath'd  from  yawning  hell: 
So  thick  the  mingling  seas  and  clouds  were  hung, 
Scarce  could  the  struggling  lightning  gleam  along. 


Through    nature's    frame    the    dire    convulsion 
strook, 

Heaven  groan'd,  the  lab'ring  pole  and  axis  shook : 
;  Uproar,  and  chaos  old,  prevail'd  again, 
i  And  broke  the  sacred  elemental  chain  : 
;  Black  fiends,  unhallow'd,  sought  the  blest  abodes, 

Profan'd  the  day,  and  mingled  with  the  gods. 

One  only  hope,  when  every  other  fail'd, 

With  Cirsar,  and  with  nature's  self,  prevail'd; 

The  storm  that  sought  their  ruin,  prov'd  them 
strong. 

Nor  could  they  fall,  who  stood  that  shock  so  long. 

High  as  Leueadia's  lessening  dills  arise, 

On  the  tall  billow's  top  the  vessel  flies; 

I  While  the  pale  master,  from  the  surge's  brow, 
With  giddy  eyes  surveys  the  depth  below. 
When  straight  the  gaping  main  at  once  divides, 
t  On  naked  sands  the  rushing  bark  subsides, 
j  And  the  low  liquid  vale  the  topmast  hides. 
The  trembling  shipman,  all  distraught  with  fear, 
Forgets  his  course,  and  knows  not  how  to  steer ; 
No  more  the  useless  rudder  guides  the  prow, 
To  meet  the  rolling  swell,  or  shun  the  blow. 

At  length  the  universal  wreck  appear'd, 
To  Caesar's  self,  e'en  worthy  to  be  fear'd. 
Why  all  these  pains,  this  toil  of  fate,  (he  cries,) 
This  labour  of  the  seas,  and  earth,  and  skies  ? 
All  nature,  and  the  gods  at  once  alarm'd, 
Against  my  little  boat  and  me  are  arrn'd. 
If,  oh  ye  powers  divine!  your  will  decrees 
The  glory  of  my  death  to  these  rude  seas ; 
If  warm,  and  in  the  fighting  field  to  die, 
If  that,  my  first  of  wishes,  you  deny; 
My  soul  no  longer  at  her  lot  repines, 
But  yields  to  what  your  providence  assigns. 
Though  immature  I  end  my  glorious  days, 
Cut  short  rny  conquest,  and  prevent  new  praise; 
My  life,  already,  stands  the  noblest  theme, 
To  fill  long  annals  of  recording  fame. 
Far  northern  nations  own  me  for  their  lord, 
And  envious  factions  crouch  beneath  my  sword; 
Inferior  Pompey  yields  to  me  at  home, 
And  only  fills  a  second  place  in  Rome. 
My  country  has  my  high  behests  obey'd, 
And  at  my  feet  her  laws  obedient  laid  ; 
All  sov'reignty,  all  honours  are  my  own, 
Consul,  dictator,  I  am  all  alone. 
But  thou,  my  only  goddess,  and  my  friend, 
Thou,  on  whom  all  my  secret  prayers  attend, 
Conceal,  oh  Fortune!  this  inglorious  end. 
Let  none  on  earth,  let  none  beside  thec,  know 
j  I  sunk  thus  poorly  to  the  shades  below. 
I  Dispose,  ye  gods !  my  carcass  as  you  please, 
j  Deep  let  it  drown  beneath  these  raging  seas; 
I  ask  no  urn  my  ashes  to  infoM, 
Nor  marble  monuments,  nor  shrines  of  gold; 
Let  but  the  world,  unknowing  of  my  doom, 
Expect  me  still,  and  think  I  am  to  come; 
So  shall  my  name  with  terror  still  be  heard, 
And  my  return  in  every  nation  fear'd. 

He  spoke,  and  sudden,  wondrous  to  behold, 
Higli  on  a  tenth  huge  wave  his  bark  was  roll'd  ; 
Nor  sunk  again,  alternate,  as  before, 
But  rushing,  lodg'd,  and  fix'd  upon  the  shore. 
Rome,  and  his  fortune  were  at  once  restor'd, 
j  And  earth  again  receiv'd  him  for  her  lord. 


510 


LUCAN. 


PAHTIXG  OF  POMPEY  AXD   CORNELIA. 

WHILE  thus  united  Caesar's  arms  appear, 
And  fortune  draws  the  great  decision  near ; 
Sad  Pompey's  soul  uneasy  thoughts  infest, 
And  his  Cornelia  pains  his  anxious  breast. 
To  distant  Lesbos  fain  he  would  remove, 
Far  from  the  war,  the  partner  of  his  love. 
Oh,  who  can  speak,  what  numbers  can  reveal 
The  tenderness,  which  pious  lovers  feel? 
Who  can  their  secret  pangs  and  sorrows  tell, 
With  all  the  crowd  of  cares  that  in  their  bosoms 

dwell? 

See  what  new  passions  now  the  hero  knows, 
Now  first  he  doubts  success,  and  fears  his  foes ; 
Rome,  and  the  world  he  hazards  in  the  strife, 
And  gives  up  all  to  fortune,  but  his  wife. 
Oft  he  prepares  to  speak,  but  knows  not  how, 
Knows  they  must  part,  but  cannot  bid  her  go; 
Defers  the  killing  news' with  fond  delay, 
And  ling'ring,  puts  off  fate  from  day  to  day. 
The  fleeting  shades  began  to  leave  the  sky, 
And  slumber  soft  forsook  the  drooping  eye : 
When,  with  fond  arms,  the  fair  Cornelia  prest 
Her  lord,  reluctant,  to  her  snowy  breast : 
Wond'ring,  she  found  he  shunn'd  her  just  em- 
brace, 

And  felt  warm  tears  upon  his  manly  face. 
Heart-wounded  with  the  sudden  woe  she  griev'd, 
And  scarce  the  weeping  warrior  yet  believ'd, 
When,  with  a  groan,  thus  he.     My  truest  wife, 
To  say  how  much  I  love  thee  more  than  life, 
Poorly  expresses  what  my  heart  would  show, 
Since  life,  alas!  is  grown  my  burden  now, 
That  long,  too  long  delay'd,  that  dreadful  doom, 
That  cruel  parting  hour  at  length  is  come. 
Fierce,  haughty,  and  collected  in  his  might, 
Advancing  Caesar  calls  me  to  the  fight. 
Haste  then,  my  gentle  love,  from  war  retreat; 
The  Lesbian  isle  attends  thy  peaceful  seat: 
Nor  seek,  oh!  seek  not  to  increase  my  cares, 
Seek  not  to  change  my  purpose  with  thy  prayers: 
Myself,  in  vain,  the  fruitless  suit  have  tried, 
And  my  own  pleading  heart  has  been  denied. 
Think  not,  that  distance  will  increase  thy  fear: 
Ruin,  if  ruin  comes,  will  soon  be  near, 
Too  soon  the  fatal  news  shall  reach  thine  ear. — 
Meantime  be  hid,  be  safe  from  every  fear; 
While  kings  and  nations  in  destruction  share, 
Shun  thou  the  crush  of  my  impending  fate, 
Nor  let  it  fall  on  thee  with  all  its  weight. 
Then  if  the  gods  my  overthrow  ordain, 
And  the  fierce  victor  chase  me  o'er  the  plain, 
Thou  shalt  be  left  me  still,  my  better  part, 
To  soothe  my  cares,  and  heal  my  broken  heart; 
Thy  open  arms  I  shall  be  sure  to  meet, 
And  fly  witli  pleasure  to  the  dear  retreat. 

Stunn'd  and  astoriish'd  at  the  deadly  stroke, 
All  sense,  at  first,  the  matron  sad  forsook. 
Motion,  and  life,  and  speech  at  length  returns, 
And  thus  in  words  of  heaviest  woe  she  mourns: 
No,  Pompey!  'tis  not  that  my  lord  is  dead, 
Tis  not  the  hand  of  fate  has  robb'd  my  bed; 
But  like  some  base  plebeian  I  am  curs'd, 
And  by  my  cruel  husband  stand  divorc'd. 
But  Cicsar  bids  us  part!  thy  father  comes! 
And  we  must  yield  to  what  the  tyrant  dooms! 


Is  thy  Cornelia's  faith  so  poorly  known, 

That  thou  should'st  think  her  safer  whilst  alone? 

Are  not  our  loves,  our  lives,  our  fortunes  one? 

Canst  thou,  inhuman,  drive  me  from  thy  side, 

And  bid  my  single  head  the  coming  storm  abide? 

Do  I  not  read  thy  purpose  in  thy  eye  ? 

Dost  thou  not  hope,  and  wish,  e'en  now  to  die? 

And  can  I  then  be  safe  ?    Yet  death  is  free, 

That  last  relief  is  not  denied  to  me; 

Though  banish'd  by  thy  harsh  command  I  go, 

Yet  I  will  join  thee  in  the  realms  below. 

Thou  bidst  me  with  the  pangs  of  absence  strive, 

And,  till  I  hear  thy  certain  loss,  survive. 

My  vow'd  obedience,  what  it  can,  shall  bear  5 

But,  oh!  my  heart's  a  woman,  and  I  fear. 

If  the  good  gods,  indulgent  to  my  prayer, 

Should  make  the  laws  of  Rome,  and  thee,  their 

care ; 

In  distant  climes  I  may  prolong  my  woe, 
And  be  the  last  thy  victory  to  know. 
On  some  bleak  rock,  that  frowns  upon  the  deep, 
A  constant  watch  thy  weeping  wife  shall  keep; 
There  from  each  sail  misfortune  shall  I  guess, 
And  dread  the  bark  that  brings  me  thy  success. 
But  if  th'  o'er-ruling  powers  thy  cause  forsake, 
Grant  me  this  only  last  request  I  make ; 
When  thou  shalt  be  of  troops,  and  friends  bereft, 
And  wretched  flight  is  all  thy  safety  left; 
Oh !  follow  not  the  dictates  of  thy  heart, 
But  choose  a  refuge  in  some  distant  part. 
Where'er  thine  inauspicious  bark  shall  steer, 
Thy  sad  Cornelia's  fatal  shore  forbear, 
Since  Caesar  will  be  sure  to  seek  thee  there. 

So  saying,  with  a  groan  the  matron  fled, 
And,  wild  with  sorrow,  left  her  holy  bed; 
She  sees  all  ling'ring,  all  delays  are  vain, 
And  rushes  headlong  to  possess  the  pain ; 
Nor  will  the  hurry  of  her  griefs  afford 
One  last  embrace  from  her  forsaken  lord. 
Alas,  how  cruel  was  their  fate ! — for  two, 
Whose  lives  had  lasted  long,  and  been  so  true. 
To  lose  the  pleasure  of  one  last  adieu ! 
In  all  the  woeful  days  that  cross'd  their  bliss, 
Sure  never  hour  was  known  so  sad  as  this! 

Low  on  the  ground  the  fainting  dame  is  laid; 
Her  train,  officious,  hasten  to  her  aid : 
Then  gently  rearing,  with  a  careful  hand, 
Support  her,  slow-descending  o'er  the  strand. 
There,  while  with  eager  arms  she  grasp'd  the 

shore, 

Scarcely  the  mourner  to  the  bark  they  bore. 
Not  half  this  grief  of  heart,  these  pangs,  she  knew, 
When  from  her  native  Italy  she  flew: 
Lonely,  and  comfortless,  she  takes  her  flight, 
Sad  seems  the  day,  and  long  the  sleepless  nuilit. 
In  vain  her  maids  the  downy  couch  provide, 
She  wants  the  tender  partner  of  her  side. 
When  weary  oft  in  heaviness  she  lies, 
And  dozy  slumber  steals  upon  her  eyrs ; 
I  Fain,  with  fond  arms,  her  lord   she  would  have 

prest, 

i  But  weeps  to  find  the  pillow  at  her  breast. 
Though  raging  in  her  veins  a  fever  burns, 
Painful  she  lies,  and  restless  oft  she  turns, 
She  shuns  his  sacred  side  with  awful  fear, 
And  would  not  be  convinc'd  he  is  not  there. 


LUCAN. 


511 


But,  oh!  too  soon  the  want  shall  be  supplied, 

:  '  cruelly  for  that  provide  : 

.  the  circling  hours  bring  buck  her  lord, 
And  Pumpey  shall  be  fatally  restor'd.* 


Book  VII. 

LUCAX    MOrilMXG    OVF.H    THE    LOST  LIB  EIITIES  OF 
HOME. 

Lo !  Liberty,  long  wearied  by  our  crimes, 

ikefl  us  for  some  better,  narb'rous  climes  j 
rteyond  the  Rhine,  and  Tanais  she  flies, 
To  snowy  mountains,  and  to  frozen  skies; 
While   Rome,   who   long  pursued   that  chiefest 

good, 

O'er  fields  of  slaughter,  and  through  seas  of  blood, 
In  slavery,  her  abject  state  shall  mourn, 
Nor  dare  to  hope  the  goddess  will  return. 
Why  were  we  ever  free?  Oh  why  has  Heaven 
A  short-liv'd  transitory  blessing  given  ? 

Can  there  be  -rods,  who  rule  yon  azure  sky? 
Can  they  behold  Emathia  from  on  high, 
And  yet  forbear  to  bid  their  lightnings  fly? 
Is  it  the  bu>ines>  of  a  thund'ring  Jove, 

ve  the  rocks,  and  blast  the  guiltless  grove? 
While  Cassius  holds  the  balance  in  his  stead, 
And  wreaks  due  vengeance  on  the  tyrant's  head. 
'The  Min  ran  back  from  Atreus'  monstrous  i 
And  his  lair  beams  in  murky  clouds  suppress'd ; 
Why  shines  he  now?  why  lend.-  his  golden  light 
To  t!.-  parricides,  this   more   accursed 

htl 

But  Chance  guides  all;  the  gods  their  task  forego, 
And  Providence  no  longer  reigns  below. 

TMK  <;K \y.n\L  c<»\ TKLU.  it  vrro^.f 
Kxow  too,  proud  conqueror,  thy  wrath  in  vain 
Strews  with  unburied  carcasses  the  plain. 
What  is  it  to  thy  malice,  if  they  burn. 
Rot  in  the  field,  or  moulder  in  the  urn  ? 
The  forms  of  matter  all.  di.--olving  die. 
And  lo.-t  in  Nature's  blending  bosom 
Though  now  thy  cruelty  denies  a  gi;:  . 
The-e    and    the   world,  one    common   lot    shall 

ha  \ 

One  last  appointed  flame,  bj 
Shall  wa>te   yon   a/nre   heavens,  this   fart!. 

^liall  knead  the  dea  1  up  in  one  mingled  n 
Wh"  I  they  shall  undi-iinmii^hM 

And     though    thou    scorn    their     fel!ow.-hi; 

kno 

Huh  as  thy  own  can  soar,  these  souls  shall  go; 

Or  find,  pci 

*  Bp  '  »nnlia,  MI  another   |).irt  tif  tlie  Phar- 

salin.  our  |><  iet  says: — 

,\  as  sli-  InvM.  so  winnim:  \v:is  her  irr 

Sucli  l«'Wly  sueetness  ilwHt  upon  h,  i 

In  such  humility  her  lite  <\\>-  li-.l. 

E'en  w  Inlf  ti-T  lord  was  Rome's  <-nmmanilinp  hond. 

As  if  hN  I'ortuiir  were  a'.n-a.iy  ll.-.l.  —  Ho..  ; 

t  Had  Luran  ever  conversed  with  Si    IVter at  ; 
or  seen  that  epistle  of  his,  wherein  lie  speaks,  <m  this 
subject  * 


Book  VIII. 

POTHIXUS    IXSTIGATlXt;     I'TOLKMT    TO    DESTROY 
I'OMPEY. 

To  strictest  justice  many  ills  belong, 

And  honesty  is  often  in  the  wronit: 

Chielly  when  stubborn  rules  her  xealots  push, 

To  favour  those  whom  Fortune  means  to  crush. 

But  thou,  oh  royal  Ptolemy!  be  w; 

Change  with   the  gods,  and   fly  whom  Fortune 

flies, 
Not  earth,  from  yon  high  heavens  which  we 

admire, 

Not  from  the  wat'ry  element  the  fire, 
Are  sever'd  by  distinction  half  so  wide, 
As  int'rest  and  integrity  divide. 
The  mighty  power  of  kings  no  more  prevails, 
When  Justice  comes  with  her  deciding  scales. 
Freedom  for  all  things,  and  a  lawless  sword, 
Alone  support  an  arbitrary  lord. 
He  that  is  cruel  mu>t  be  bold  in  ills, 
And  lind  his  safety  from  the  blood  he  spills. 
For  piety,  and  virtue's  starving  ruh-s. 
To  mean  retirements  let  them  lead  their  fools: 
There,  may  they  still  ingloriously  be  good ; 
None  can  be  safe  in  courts,  who  'blush  at  blood. 
Nor  do  we  turn,  unpitying.  from  distress; 
We  fly  not  Pompey's  woes,  but  seek  success. 
The  prudent  on  the  prosperous  still  attends, 
And    none   but  fools  choose  wretches  for  their 

friends. 


Book  IX. 

CATO'S   PRAISE  OF  OF   POMPET. 

MKAXTIMK    the    shores,  the    seas,  and    skies 

around, 

With  mournful  cries  for  Pompey's  death  resound. 
A  rare  example  have  their  sorrows  shown, 
Vet  in  no  age  beside,  m.r  people  known. 
How  falling  power  did  with  compassion  meet, 
And  crowds  deplor'd  tlie  ruins  of  the  great. 

But  oh  !   not  all  the  sorrows  of  the  crowd 
That  spoke  their  free  impatient  thoughts  aloud, 
That  tax'd  the  gods,  as  authors  of  their  woe. 
And  o  n  with  nedect  of  things  below, 

Not  all  the  marks  of  the  wild  people's  love, 
The  hero's  soul,  like  Cato's 

1-Vw  were  his  words,  but  from  an  honest  heart. 
Where  faction  and  where  favour  had  no  part, 
But  truth  made  up  lor  pa-si. m  and  for  art. 

••  ^  .  /<-n.  (he  said.) 

One  n|'  the  in iliie^t  < if  that  name  is  dead  ; 
Who.  though  not  equal  to  our  fathers  found, 
Nor  by  their  strictest  ruies  ,,)'  justice  hound. 
Yet  from  his  faults  this  henelit  we  draw, 
He.  | 'or  his  com:-  her  law. 

To  keep  a  hold,  licent,  i  we. 

held    her  still,  though  he  was 

He  -way'.;  .  but  they  rul'd  the  state. 

When   crov  have  worn   his 

chain, 

He  chose  his  |>n\  •;,!„, 

That  all  miicht  free,  and  equal  all  remain. 
War's  boiind!e-s  power  he  never  sought  to  use, 
Nor  ask'd,  but  what  the  people  might  refuse: 


512 


LUCAN. 


Much  he  possess'd,  and  wealthy  was  his  store, 

Yet  still  he  gathered  but  to  give  the  more, 

And  Rome,  while  he  was  rich,  could  ne'er  be 

poor. 

He  drew  the  sword,  but  knew  its  rage  to  charm, 
And  lov'd  peace  best,  when  he  was  forcM  to  arm ; 
Unrnov'd  with  all  the  glittering  pomp  of  power, 
He  took  with  joy,  but  laid  it  down  with  more: 
His  chaster  household,  and  his  frugal  board, 
Nor  lewdness  did,  nor  luxury  afford, 
E'en  in  the  highest  fortunes  of  their  lord. 
His  noble  name,  his  country's  honour  grown, 
Was  venerably  round  the  nations  known, 
And  as  Rome's  fairest  light  and  brightest  glory 

shone. 

When  betwixt  Marius  and  fierce  Sylla  tost, 
The  commonwealth  her  ancient  freedom  lost, 
Some  shadow  yet  was  left,  some  show  of  power ; 
Now  e'en  the  name  with  Pompey  is  no  more : 
Senate  and  people  all  at  once  are  gone, 
Nor  need  the  tyrant  blush  to  mount  the  throne. 
Oh  happy  Pompey !  happy  in  thy  fate, 
Happy  by  falling  with  the  falling  state, 
Thy  death  a  benefit  the  gods  did  grant, 
Thou  might'st-have  liv'd  those  Pharian  swords 

to  want 
Freedom,  at  least,  thou  didst  by  dying  gain." 

CATO  IJT   THE   DESEUTS  OF  AFRICA. 

Now  near  approaching  to  the  burning  zone, 
To  warmer,  calmer  skies  they  journey'd  on. 
The  slack'ning  storms  the  neighb'ring  sun  confess, 
The  heat  strikes  fiercer,  and  the  winds  grow  less, 
Whilst  parching  thirst  and  fainting  sweats  in- 
crease. 

As  forward  on  the  weary  way  they  went, 
Panting  with  drought,  and  all  with  labour  spent, 
Amidst  the  desert,  desolate  and  dry, 
One  chanc'd  a  little  trickling  spring  to  spy : 
Proud  of  the  prize,  he  drain'd  the  scanty  store, 
And  in  his  helmet  to  the  chieftain  bore. 
Around,  in  crowds,  the  thirsty  legions  stood, 
Their  throats  and  clammy  jaws  with  dust  be- 

strew'd, 
And  all  with  wishful  eyes  the  liquid  treasure 

view'd. 

Around  the  leader  cast  his  careful  look, 
Sternly,  the  tempting  envied  gift  he  took, 
Held  it,  and  thus  the  giver  fierce  bespoke : 
"And  think'st  thou  then  that  I  want  virtue  most! 
Am  I  the  meanest  of  this  Roman  host!    ' 
Am  I  the  first  soft  coward  that  complains! 
That  shrinks,  unequal  to  these  glorious  pains ! 
Am  I  in  ease  and  infamy  the  first! 
Rather  be  thou,  base  as  thou  art,  accurs'd, 
Thou  that  dar'st  drink,  when  all  beside  thee 

thirst." 

He  said ;  and  wrathful  stretching  forth  his  hand, 
Pour'd  out  the  precious  draught  upon  the  sand. 
Well  did  the  water  thus  for  all  provide, 
Envied  by  none,  while  thus  to  all  denied, 
A  little  thus  the  gen'ral  want  supplied. 

Now  to  the  sacred  temple  they  draw  near, 
Whose  only  altars  Libyan  lands  revere ; 
There,  but  unlike  the  Jove  by  Rome  ador'd, 
A  form  uncouth,  stands  heaven's  almighty  Lord. 


No  regal  ensigns  grace  his  potent  hand, 

Nor    shakes    he    there    the    lightning's    flaming 

brand ; 

But,  ruder  to  behold,  a  horned  ram 
Belies  the  god,  and  Ammon  is  his  name. 
There  though  he  reigns,  unrivall'd  and  alone, 
O'er  the  rich  neighbours  of  the  torrid  zone ; 
Though  swarthy  Ethiops  are  to  him  confin'd, 
With  Araby  the  blest,  and  wealthy  Ind; 
Yet  no  proud  domes  are  rais'd,  no  gems  are  seen, 
To  blaze  upon  his  shrines  with  costly  sheen ; 
But  plain  and  poor,  arid  unprofan'd  he  stood, 
Such  as,  to  whom  our  great  forefathers  bow'd : 
A  god  of  pious  times,  and  days  of  old, 
That  keeps  his  temple  safe  from  Roman  gold. 
Here,  and  here  only,  through  wide  Libya's  space, 
Tall  trees,  the  land,  and  verdant  herbage  grace ; 
Here  the  loose  sands  by  plenteous  springs  are 

bound, 

Knit  to  a  mass,  and  moulded  into  ground : 
Here  smiling  nature  wears  a  fertile  dress, 
And  all  things  here  the  present  god  confess. 

Before  the  temple's  entrance,  at  the  gate, 
Attending  crowds  of  eastern  pilgrims  wait: 
These  from  the  horned  god  expect  relief: 
But  all  give  way  before  the  Latian  chief. 
His  host,  (as  crowds  are  superstitious  still) 
Curious  of  fate,  of  future  good  and  ill, 
And  fond  to  prove  prophetic  Ammon's  skill, 
Entreat  their  leader  to  the  god  would  go, 
And  from  his  oracle  Rome's  fortunes  know ; 
But  Labienus  chief  the  thought  approv'd, 
And  thus  the  common  suit  to  Cato  mov'd: 

"Chance,  and  the  fortune  of  the  way,  he  said, 
Have  brought  Jove's  sacred  counsels  to  our  aid : 
This  greatest  of  the  gods,  this  mighty  chief, 
In  each  distress  shall  be  a  sure  relief; 
Shall  point  the  distant  dangers  from  afar, 
And  teach  the  future  fortunes  of  the  war. 
To  thee,  0  Cato!  pious!  wise!  and  just! 
Their  dark  decrees  the  cautious  gods  shall  trust; 
To  thee  their  fore-determined  will  shall  tell: 
Their  will  has  been  thy  law,  and  thou  hast  kept 

it  well. 

Fate  bids  thee  now  the  noble  thought  improve; 
Fate  brings  thee  here,  to  meet  and  talk  with  Jove. 
Inquire  betimes,  what  various  chance  shall  come 
To  impious  Caesar,  and  thy  native  Rome ; 
Try  to  avert,  at  least  thy  country's  doom. 
Ask  if  these  arms  our  freedom  shall  restore  : 
Or  else,  if  laws  and  right  shall  be  no  more. 
Be    thy   great   breast    with    sacred    knowledge 

fraught, 

To  lead  us  in  the  wand'ring  maze  of  thought: 
Thou,  that  to  Virtue  ever  wert  inclin'd, 
Learn  what  it  is,  how  certainly  defin'd, 
And  leave  some  perfect  rule  to  guide  mankind." 

Full  of  the  god  that  dwelt  within  his  breast. 
The  hero  thus  his  secret  mind  express'd, 
And  inborn  truths  reveal'd ;  truths  which  might 

well 

Become  e'en  oracles  themselves  to  tell. 
"  What,  Labienus !  would  thy  fond  desire 
Of  horned  Jove's  prophetic  shrine  inquire, 
Whether  to  seek  in  arms  a  glorious  doom, 
Or  basely  live,  and  see  a  king  in  Rome  ? 


SILIUS-ITALICUS. 


513 


If  life  be  nothing  more  than  death's  delay, 
If  impious  force  can  honest  minds  dismay, 
Or  probity  may  Fortune's  frown  disdain, 
If  well  to  mean  is  all  that  Virtue  can, 
An  1  right,  dependent  on  itself  alone, 
Gains  no  addition  from  success — 'tis  known : 
Fis'd  in  my  heart  these  constant  truths  I  bear, 
And  Ammon  cannot  write  them  deeper  there. 
Our  souls  allied  to  God,  within  them  feel 
The  secret  dictates  of  the  Almighty  will, 
Th.ls  is  his  voice, — be  this  our  oracle. 
When  first  his  breath  the  seeds  of  life  instill'd, 
All  that  we  ought  to  know  was  then  reveal'd. 
Nor  can  we  think  the  omnipresent  Mind 
Has  truth  to  Lybia's  desert  sands  confin'd, 
There  known  to  few,  obscur'd  and  lost  to  lie. — 
Is    here  a  temple  of  the  Deity 
Except  earth,  sea,  and  air,  yon  azure  pole, 
Ard  chief,  his  holiest  shrine,  the  virtuous  soul? 
Where'er  the  eye  can  pierce,  the  feet  can  move, 
This  wide,  this  boundless  universe,  is  Jove. 
Let  abject  minds,  which  doubt  because  they  fear, 
W.th  pious  awe  to  juggling  priests  repair; 
I  credit  not  what  lying  prophets  tell — 
Dtath  is  the  only  certain  oracle. 


Book  X. 

ALEXANDER  THE   GREAT. 

HKRE  the  vain  youth,  who  made  the  world  his 

prize, 

That  prosperous  robber,  Alexander  lies  : 
When  pitying  death,  at  length,  had  freed  mankind, 
To  sacred  rest  his  bones  were  here  consign'd : 
H:s  bones,  that  better  had  been  toss'd  and  hurl'd, 
With  just  contempt,  around  the  injur'd  world. 
But  fortune  spar'd  the  dead ;  and  partial  fate, 
For  ages,  iix'd  his  Pharian  empire's  date.* 


*  From  the  first  Ptolemy  who  succeeded  Alexander,  to 
thi!  worthless  prince,  who  murdered  Pompey,  about  two 
hundred  and  eighty  yearn. 


If  e'er  our  long-lost  liberty  return, 

That  carcass  is  reserv'd  for  public  scorn : 

Now,  it  remains  a  monument  confest, 

How  one  proud  man  could  lord  it  o'er  the  rest 

To  Macedon,  a  corner  of  the  earth, 

The  vast  ambitious  spoiler  ow'd  his  birth : 

There,  soon,  he    scorn'd    his    father's   humbler 

reign, 

And  view'd  his  vanquish'd  Athens  with   dis- 
dain. 

Driven  headlong  on,  by  fate's  resistless  force, 
Through  Asia's   realms   he   took   his   dreadful 

course : 

His  ruthless  sword  laid  human  nature  waste, 
And  desolation  follow'd  where  he  pass'd. 
Red    Ganges    blush'd,    and    fam'd    Euphrates' 

flood, 

With  Persian  this,  and  that  with  Indian  blood. 
Such  is  the  bolt  which  angry  Jove  employs, 
When,  undistinguishing,  his  wrath  destroys: 
Such  to  mankind,  portentous  meteors  rise, 
Trouble  the  gazing  earth,  and  blast  the  skies. 
Nor   flame,   nor    flood,  his    restless   rage  with- 
stand, 

Nor  Syrts  unfaithful,  nor  the  Libyan  sand : 
O'er  waves  unknown  he  meditates  his  way, 
And  seeks  the  boundless  empire  of  the  sea ; 
E'en  to  the  utmost  west  he  would  have  gone, 
Where  Tethys'  lap  receives  the  setting  sun ; 
Around  each  pole  his  circuit  would  have  made, 
And  drunk  from  secret  Nile's  remotest  head, 
When  Nature's  hand  his  wild  ambition  stay'd ; 
With  him,  that  power  his  pride  had  lov'd   so 

well, 

His  monstrous,  universal  empire,  fell : 
No  heir,  no  just  successor  left  behind, 
Eternal  wars  he  to  his  friends  assign'd, 
To  tear  the  world,  and  scramble  for  mankind.* 

*  Our  Milton  entertained  a  like  reverence  for  "great 
conquerors."— See  Par.  Lost,  xi.~ 091,  &c.,  and  Par. 
Reg.  Hi.  71,  tc. 


SILIUS-ITALICUS. 


[Born  about  24,— Died  about  90,  A.  D.] 


CAIUS  SiLius-lTALicrs  is  supposed  to  have 
b  -en  of  a  noble  family,  and  born  either  at  Italira 
in  Spain,  or  at  Corfinium  in  Italy,  which,  accord- 
ing to  Strabo,  had  the  name  of  Italica  given  to  it 
during  the  Social  War.  He  distinguished  him- 
self at  the  bar,  and  rose  to  the  consulate,  the  same 
year  that  Nero  was  assassinated.  He  afterwards 
acquired  much  honour  from  his  conduct  as  pro- 
c;msul  in  Asia,  under  Vespasian.  In  the  decline 
of  life,  he  retired  into  Campania,  and  being  af- 
f  icted  with  a  painful  and  incurable  disease,  he 
at  length,  in  his  seventy-fifth  year,  put  an  end  to 
1  is  own  life,  by  abstaining  from  all  sustenance. 
65 


The  latinity  of  Silius  is  elegant  and  pure,  and 
his  versification  smooth,  but  so  studiously  model- 
led on  that  of  Viruil,  as  t»  have  obtained  for  him 
the  appellation  of  '-Virgil's  Ape/'  The  subject 
of  his  chief  poem  is  the  second  Punic  war,  as 
related  in  the  third  Decade  of  Livy,  and  including 
all  the  principal  events  of  that  war,  from  the 
siege  of  Saguntum  down  to  the  defeat  of  Hanni- 
bal, and  the  conquest  of  Carthage.* 


*  For  further  particulars  concerning  this  poet, 
Pliny's  Epistles,  L.  Hi.,  Epist.  7. 


514 


SILIUS-ITALICUS. 


FROM  THE  PUNIC  WAR. 

PASSAGE  OF   HANNIBAL  OVER  THE  ALPS. 

BEYOND  the  Pyrenean's  lofty  bound, 

Through  blackening  forests,  shagg'd  with  pine 

around, 

The  Carthaginian  pass'd ;  and  fierce  explored 
The  Volcan  champaign  with  his  wasting  sword. 
Then  trod  the  threatening  banks  with  hastening 

force, 
Where  Rhone,  high-swelling,  rolls  its  sweeping 

course. 
From  Alpine   heights,  and   steep  rocks  capp'd 

with  snow, 

Gushes  the  Rhone,  where  Gaul  is  stretch'd  below, 
Cleaves  with  a  mighty  surge  the  foaming  plain, 
And  with  broad  torrent  rushes  in  the  main. 
'Swollen  Arar  mingles  slow  its  lingering  tide, 
That,  silent  gliding,  scarcely  seems  to  glide : 
Caught  in  the  headlong  whirlpool,  breaks  away, 
Snatch'd  through  the  plains,  and  starting  from 

delay ; 

Plunged  in  the  deep  the  hurried  stream  is  tost, 
And  in  the  greater  flood  its  name  is  lost. 
Alert  the  troops  its  bridge  less  current  brave, 
With  head  and  neck  uprais'd  above  the  wave, 
Secure  their  steely  swords,  or  firm  divide, 
With  sinewy  arms,  the  strong  and  boisterous  tide. 
The  war  steed,  bound  on  rafts,  the  river  treads  ; 
Nor  the  vast  elephant,  retarding,  dreads 
To  tempt  the  ford ;   while   scattered  earth  they 

throw 

O'er  the  tied  planks  that  hide  the  stream  below. 
Loosed  from  the  banks  the  gradual  cord  extends, 
And  on  the  flood  the  unconscious  beast  descends. 
As  the  troop'd  quadrupeds,  down  sliding  slow, 
Launch'd  on  the  stream,  that,  quivering,  dash'd 

below, 

Beneath  the  incumbent  weight,  with  starting  tide, 
The  rapid  Rhone  pour'd  back  on  every  side : 
Toss'd  its  white  eddies  o'er  the  frothy  strand, 
And,  sullen,  murmur'd  on  its  chafing  sand. 
Now  stretch'd  the  onward  host  their  long  array, 
Through  the  Tricastine  plains ;  and  wound  their 

way 

O'er  smooth  ascents,  and  where  Vocontia  yields 
The  level  champaign  of  her  verdant  fields. 
Athwart  their  easy  march  Druentia  spread 
The  devastation  of  its  torrent  bed: 
Turbid  with  stones  and  trunks  of  trees,  descends 
The  Alpine  stream  :  the  ashen  forests  rends ; 
Rolls  mountain  fragments,  crumbling  to  the  shock, 
And  beats  with  raving  surge  the  channeled  rock. 
Of  nameless  depth,  its  ever-changing  bed 
Betrays  the  fording  warriors'  faithless  tread  ; 
The  broad  and  flat  pontoon  is  launch'd  in  vain, 
High  swells  the  flood  with  deluges  of  rain; 
Snatch'd   with  his  arms,  the  staggering  soldier 

slides, 

And  mangled  bodies  toss  in  gnlfy  tides. 
But  now,  the  o'erhangiug  Alps,  in  prospect  near, 
Efface  remernber'd  toils  in  future  fear. 
While  with  eternal  frost,  with  hailstones  piled, 
The  ice  of  ages  grasps  those  summits  wild. 
Stiffening  with  snow,  the  mountain  soars  in  air, 
And  fronts  the  rising  sun,  unmelted  by  the  glare. 


As  the  Tartarean  gulf,  beneath  the  ground, 
Yawns  to  the  gloomy  lake  in  hell's  profound ; 
So  high  earth's  heaving  mass  the  air  invades, 
And  shrouds  the  heaven  with  intercepting  shades. 
No  spring,  no  summer,  strews  its  glories  here, 
Lone  winter  dwells  upon  these  summits  drear, 
And  guards  his  mansion  round  the  endless  year. 
Mustering  from  far,  around  his  grisly  form 
Black  rains,  and  hail-storm  showers,  and  clouds 

of  storm. 

Here  in  their  wrathful  kingdom  whirlwinds  roam, 
And  the  blasts  struggle  in  their  Alpine  home. 
The  upward  sight  a  swimming  darkness  shrouds, 
And  the  high  crags  recede  into  the  clouds. 
First  Hercules  those  untried  heights  explored, 
And  midst  the  aerial  hills  adventurous  soar'd  5 
The  gods  beheld  him  cleave  through  many  a 

cloud, 

While  sinking  rocks  beneath  his  footsteps  bow'd, 
And,  striving,  leave  the  vanquish'd  steeps  below, 
Where  never  foot  had  touch'd  the  eternal  snow. 
Did  Taurus,  piled  on  Athos,  pierce  the  skies, 
And  Mimas,  heav'd  on  Rhodope,  arise, 
Haemus  its  sleepy  mass  on  Othrys  roll, 
And  Pelion,  rear'd  on  Ossa,  shade  the  pole, 
Mountain  on  mountain  would  in  vain  be  hurl'd, 
And  lessening  shrink  beside  the  Alpine  world. 
A  lingering,  holy  dread,  the  soldier  bound, 
His  step  hung  doubtful,  as  on  sacred  ground : 
It  seem'd  that  Nature's  self  the  access  denied, 
That  their  invading  arms  the  gods  defied. 
But  no  rude  Alp,  no  terror  of  the  scene, 
Mov'd  Hannibal,  undaunted  and  serene: 
Indignant  sadness  only  chang'd  his  brow, 
As  with  exhorting  words  he  quicken'd  now 
Their  languid  hopes  and  hearts:    "What  shame 

were  ours, 

Tired  with  the  favour  of  the  heavenly  powers, 
Sick  of  our  long  success,  those  glorious  bays 
|  That  crown'd  the  labour  of  our  well-fought  days  ; 
To  turn  our  recreant  backs  on  mountain  snows, 
And  slothful  yield,  where  only  rocks  are  foes  1 
Oh  !  now,  my  friends,  e'en  now,  believe,  ye  climb 
Despotic  Rome's  proud  walls,  and  tread,  sublime, 
The  capital  of  Jove !  thus,  thus,  we  gain 
The  prize  of  toil,  and  Tiber  owns  our  chain." 

He  spoke  :  nor  they  del  ay 'd  :  the  troops  he  drew 
Up  the  steep  hills,  their  promis'd  spoil  in  view : 
Transgress'd  the  Herculean  road,  and  first  made 

known 

Tracts  yet  untrodden,  and  a  path  their  own ; 
When  inaccessible  the  desert  rose, 
He  burst  a  passage  through  forbidden  snows. 
He  first  the  opposing  ridge  ascending  tried, 
And  bade  the  unconquerable  cliff  subside ; 
Cheer'd  on  the  lingering  troops,  and,  beckoning 

high, 

Stood  on  the  crag,  and  shouted  from  the  sky. 
Oft  when  the  slippery  path  belied  the  tread, 
And  concrete  frost  the  whitening  cliff  bespread, 
Through  the  reluctant  ice  his  arm  explored 
The  upward  track,  that  opervd  to  his  sword. 
Oft  the  thawed  surface  from  the  footsteps  shrar.k, 
Suck'd  in  the  absorbing  gulf  the  warriors  sank  ; 
Or  from  high  ridge  the  mass  of  rushing  snow 
In  humid  ruin  whelm'd  the  ranks  below. 


r 


STATIUS. 


515 


On  dusky  wing?  the  west  wind  swept  the  heaven, 
Full  in  their  face  the  snowy  whirls  were  driven  ; 
Xow  from  their  empty  grasp  the  arms  are  torn, 
And  sudden  on  the  howling  whirlwind  borne ; 
Snatch' d  on  the  blast,  the  wrested  weapons  fly, 
And  wheel  in  airy  eddies  round  the  sky — 
When,  striving  o'er  th'  ascent,  the  height  they 

gain, 

With  planted  foot,  increasing  toils  remain : 
Yet  other  heights  their  upward  view  surprise, 
And  opening  mountains  upon  mountains  rise. 
No  joy  results  from  breathless  efforts  past, 
The   plains   are   won,  yet   still    the    mountains 

last; 

Repeated  summits  fright  their  aching  eyes, 
While  one  white  heap  of  frost  in  circling  prospect 

lies. 

Thus  in  mid  sea  the  mariner  explores, 
With  fruitless  longing,  the  receded  shores: 
When  no  fresh  wind,  with  spirit-stirring  gale, 
Bends  the  tall  mast,  or  fills  the  flagging  sail; 
O'er  boundless  deeps  his  eyes  exhausted  rove, 
And  rest,  relieved,  upon  the  skies  above. 


O'er  jagged  heights,  and  icy  fragments  rude, 
Thus  climb  they,  midst  the  mountain  solitude, 
And  from  the  rocky  summits,  haggard  show 
Their  half-wild  visage,  clotted  thick  with  snow — 
Continual  drizzlings  of  the  drifting  air 
Scar  their  rough  cheeks,  and  stiffen  in  their  hair. 
Now,  pour'd  from  craggy  dens,  a  headlong  force, 
The   Alpine   hordes  hang  threat'ning  on  their 

course ; 

Track  the  known  thickets,  beat  the  mountain  snow, 
Bound  o'er  the  steeps,  and,  hovering,  hem  the  foe. 
Here  chang'd  the  scene ;  the  snows  were  crim- 

son'd  o'er, 

The  hard  ice  trickled  to  the  tepid  gore  ; 
With  pawing  hoof  the  courser  delv'd  the  ground, 
And  rigid  frost  his  clinging  fetlock  bound ; 
Nor  yet  his  slippery  fall  the  peril  ends, 
The  fracturing  ice  the  bony  socket  rends. 
Twelve  times  they  measur'd  the  long  light  of  day, 
And   night's  bleak   gloom,   and    urged    through 

wounds  their  way  ; 

Till  on  the  topmost  ridge  their  camp  was  flung, 
High  o'er  the  steepy  crags,  in  airy  distance,  hung. 


STATIUS. 


[From  about  the  middle,  to  the  end  of  the  first  century.] 


PAPIXIUS  STATIUS  was  the  son  of 
Papinius  Statins,  (a  writer  of  some  eminence  in 
his  d;iy.)  and  born  at  Naples.  He  became  so 
popular  as  a  poet,  or  rather  as  a  rehearser,  that 
all  Ronin,  according  to  Juvenal,  would  flock  to 
hear  him. 

When  Statius  fix'd  a  morning  to  recite 
His  Thebaid  to  the  town,  with  what  delight 


FROM  THE  THEBAID. 
Book  VI. 

THIRD  in  the  labours  of  the  disc  came  on, 
With  sturdy  step  and  slow,  Hippomedon; 
Artful  and  strong,  he  pois'd  the  well  known 

weight, 
By  Phlegyas  warn'd,  and   fir'd   by  Mnestheus' 

fate, 

That  to  avoid,  and  this  to  emulate. 
His  vigorous  arm  he  tried  before  he  flung, 
Brac'd  all  his  nerves,  and  every  HIH-U-  strung; 
Then,  with  a  tempest's  whirl,  and  wary  eye, 
Pursued  l,is  ra.-r.  and  hurl'd  the  orb  on  high: 
The  orb  on  high,  tenacious  of  its  course, 
True  to  the  mighty  arm  that  gave  it  force, 
Far  overleaps  all  bound,  and  joys  to  see 
Its  ancient  lord  secure  of  victory. 
The  theatre's  green  height  and  woody  wall 
Tremble,  ere  it  precipitates  its  fall ; 


They  flock'd  to  hear!  with  what  fond  rapture  hung 
On  the  sweet  strains,  made  sweeter  by  his  tongue! 

Gifford. 

Besides  the  Thebaid,  (in  the  composition  and 
revision  of  which  he  is  said  to  have  spent  twelve 
years,)  Statius  composed  several  minor  pieces, 
under  the  title  of  Sylvae,  and  left  a  fragment  at 
his  death,  entitled  the  Achilleid. 


The    ponderous    mass    sinks    in    the    cleaving 

ground, 

While  vales,  and  woods,  and  echoing  hills  re- 
bound. 

As  when  from  ^Etna's  smoking  summit  broke, 
The  eyeless  Cyclops  heav'd  the  craggy  rock ; 
Where  Ocean  frets  beneath  the  dashing  oar, 
And  parting  surges  round  the  vessel  roar; 
'Twas  there  he  aim'd  the  meditated  harm, 
And  scarce  Ulysses  scap'd  his  giant  arm. 
A  tiger's  pride  the  victor  bore  away, 
With  native  spots  and  artful  labour  gay; 
A  shining  border  round  the  margin  roll'd, 
And  calm'd  the  terrors  of  his  claws  in  gold. 

TO  SLEEP. 
How  have  I  wrong'd  thee,  Sleep,  thoa  gentlest 

power 
Of  heaven !  that  I  alone,  at  night's  dread  hour, 


516 


MARTIAL. 


Still  from  thy  soft  embraces  am  repress'd, 
Nor  drink  oblivion  on  thy  balmy  breast? 
Now  every  field  and  every  flock  is  thine, 
And  seeming  slumbers  bend  the  mountain  pine ; 
Hush'd   is   the    tempest's    howl,   the    torrents 

roar, 

And  the  smooth  wave  lies  pillow'd  on  the  shore. 
Seven  times  the   moon  returns;    yet  pale  and 

weak, 

Distemper  sits  upon  my  faded  cheek : 
The  emerging  stars,  from  ^Etna's  mount  that  rise, 
And  Venus'  fires  have  re-illumed  the  skies ; 
Still,  past  my  plaints,  Aurora's  chariot  flew  ; 
Her  shaken  lash  dropp'd  cold  the  pitying  dew. 
Can  I  endure?  not  if  to  me  were  given 
The  eyes  of  Argus,  sentinel  of  heaven  j 


Those  thousand  eyes,  that  watch  alternate  kept, 

Nor  all  o'er  all  his  body  waked  or  slept. 

Ah  me !  yet  now,  beneath  night's  lengthening 

shade, 
Some  youth's  twin'd  arms  enfold  the  twining 

maid ; 

Willing  he  wakes,  while  midnight  hours  roll  on, 
And  scorns  thee,  Sleep !  and  waves  thee  to  be 

gone. 
Come,  then,  from  them !  oh  leave  their  bed  for 

mine ; 

I  bid  thee  not  with  all  thy  plumes  incline 
On  my  bow'd  lids ;  this  kindest  boon  beseems 
The  happy  crowd,  that  share  thy  softest  dreams  ; 
Let  thy  wand's  tip  but  touch  my  closing  eye, 
Or,  lightly  hovering,  skim,  and  pass  me  by. 


MARTIAL. 


[Born  about  40,— Died  about  105,  A.  DJ 


MARCUS  VALERIUS  MARTIAI.IS  was  a  native 
of  Bilbilis  (now  Arragon)  in  Spain.  He  migrated 
to  Rome  when  very  young,  and  was  destined  for 
the  bar  ;  but  his  inclinations  leading  him  to  poetry, 
he  soon  acquired  a  high  reputation  by  his  satiric 
epigrams.*  He  was  patronized  by  Silius-Italicus 

*  The  example  of  Martial  has  associated  the  idea  of  a 
sting  or  point  with  the  epigram,  which  implied  originally 
nothing  more  than  a  short  and  simple  inscription. 


and  the  younger  Pliny,  received  the  rank  of  knight- 
hood from  the  emperor  Domitian,  and  acquired 
a  considerable  estate  by  his  marriage  with  a  lady 
of  the  name  of  Marcella. 

For  the  general  character  of  Martial's  writ- 
ings, though  not,  perhaps,  of  his  life,  we  may 
refer  to  the  following  line  in  one  of  his  own  epi- 
grams : — 

"Lasciva  est  nobis  pagina,  vita  proba  est." 


TO  CATO. 

WHY  dost  thou  come,  great  censor  of  the  age, 
To  see  the  loose  diversions  of  the  stage  1 
With  awful  countenance,  and  brow  severe, 
What,  in  the  name  of  goodness,  dost  thou  here  ? 
See  the  mix'd  crowd !  how  giddy,  lewd,  and  vain  ! 
Didst  thou  come  in  but  to^go  out  again? 

TO  DECIANUS. 

THAT  you,  like  Thrasea,  or  like  Cato,  great, 
Pursue  their  maxims,  but  decline  their  fate; 
Nor  rashly  aim  the  dagger  at  your  heart ; 
More  to  my  wish  you  act  a  Roman's  part. 
I  like  not  him,  who  fame  by  death  retrieves ; 
Give  me  the  man  who  merits  praise,  and  lives. 

ARRIA  AND  P^ETUS. 

WHETT  Arria  from  her  wounded  side 
To  Paetus  gave  the  reeking  steel, 

"I  feel  not  what  I've  done,"  she  cried, 
"  What  Psetus  is  to  do,  I  feel." 


TO  JULIUS. 

THOU,  whom  (if  faith  or  honour  recommends 
A  friend)  I  rank  amongst  my  dearest  friends, 
Remember,  that  you're  verging  on  threescore ; 
Few  days  of  life  remain,  if  any  more. 
Defer  not  what  no  future  time  insures, 
And  only  what  is  past,  consider  yours. 
Successive  cares  and  troubles  for  you  stay ; 
Pleasure  not  so ;  it  quickly  glides  away. 
Then  seize  it  fast ;  embrace  it  ere  it  flies  ; 
Oft  in  the  embrace  it  vanishes,  it  dies. 
"  I'll  live  to-morrow" — (so  the  fool  will  say,) — 
To-morrow  is  too  late;  then  live  to-day. 


RUFUS. 

LET  Rufus  weep,  rejoice,  stand,  sit,  or  walk, 
Still  he  can  nothing  but  of  Naevia  talk  : 
Let  him  eat,  drink,  ask  questions,  or  dispute, 
Still  he  must  speak  of  Nsevia,  or  be  mute. 
He  wrote  his  father,  ending  with  this  line, 
"I  am,  my  lovely  Nsevia,  only  thine." 


MARTIAL. 


517 


TO  CATULLA. 

THOU  fairest  girl  of  all  I  see  ! 

So  fair,  yet  so  debased  ! 
Ah !  would  that  aught  could  render  thee 

Less  beauteous,  or  more  chaste. 


ON  ANTONIUS,— A  GOOD  MAN. 

IN  strength  elate,  in  fame  and  conscience  clear, 

Antonius  numbers  now  his  eigntieth  year ; 

Joys  o'er  the  past,  and  sees,  without  a  sigh, 

The  inevitable  step  of  fate  draw  nigh. 

No  memory  of  dark  days,  but  pleasant  all,— 

Not  one  but  willingly  he  would  recall. 

Thus  is  life's  stage  prolong'd  ;  thus  he,  blest  man! 

Lives  twice,  who  can  enjoy  life's  former  span. 


THE  PARASITE. 

WHEN  from  the  bath,  or  hot,  or  cold,  you  come, 
The  kind  Menogenes  attends  you  home ; 
When  at  the  courts  you  ply  the  healthy  ball, 
He  picks  it  up  adroitly,  should  it  fall : 
Though  wash'd,  though  dress'd,he  follows  where 

it  flies, 

Recovers  and  returns  the  dusty  prize, 
And  overwhelms  you  with  civilities. 
Call  for  your  towel ;  and,  though  more  defil'd 
Than  the  foul  linen  of  a  sickly- child, 
He'll  swear  'tis  whiter  than  the  driven  snow; — 
Comb  your  lank  hair  across  your  wrinkled  brow, 
And  with  a  tone  of  extasy  he'll  swear 
"  Achilles  had  not  such  a  head  of  hair !" 
Himself  will  bring  the  vomit  to  your  hand, 
And  wipe  the  drops  that  on  your  forehead  stand ; 
Praise  and  admire  you,  till,  fatigued,  you  say, — 
Do,  my  good  friend,  do  dine  with  me  to-day ! 


GENEROSITY  TO  FRIENDS. 
THIEVES  may  break  locks,  and  with  your  cash 

retire : 

Your  ancient  seat  may  be  consumed  by  fire : 
Debtors  refuse  to  pay  you  what  they  owe : 
Or  your  ungrateful  field  the  seed  you  sow  ; 
You  may  be  plundered  by  a  jilting  whore : 
Your  ships  may  sink  at  sea  with  all  their  store: 
Who  gives  to  friends,  so  much  from  fate  secures : 
That  is  the  only  wealth  for  ever  yours. 


TO  QUINCTILIAX. 

WONDER  not,  sir,  (you  who  instruct  the  town 
In  the  true  wisdom  of  the  sacred  gown,) 
That  I  make  haste  to  live,  and  cannot  hold 
Patiently  out,  till  I  grow  rich  and  old. 
Life  for  delays  and  doubts  no  time  does  give, 
None  ever  yet  made  haste  enough  to  live. 
Let  him  defer  it  when  preposterous  care 
Omits  himself,  and  reaches  to  his  heir; 
Who  does  his  fafher's  bounded  stores  despise, 
And  whom  his  own,  too,  never  can  suffice : 
My  humble  thoughts  no  glittering  roofs  require, 
Or  rooms  that  shine  with  aught  but  constant  fire  ; 


I  will  content  the  avarice  of  my  sight 
With  the  fair  gildings  of  reflected  light: 
Pleasures  abroad  the  sport  of  Nature  yields, 
Her  living  fountains  and  her  smiling  fields ; 
And  then  at  home,  what  pleasure  is't  to  see 
A  little,  cleanly,  cheerful  family ! 
Which,  if  a  chaste  wife  crown,  no  less  in  her 
Than  fortune,  I  the  golden  mean  prefer: 
Too  noble,  nor  too  wise,  she  should  not  be, 
No,  nor  too  rich,  too  fair,  too  fond  of  rne. 
Thus  let  my  life  slide  silently  away, 
With  sleep  all  night,  and  quiet  all  the  day. 


TO  FRONTO. 

WELL  then,  sir,  you  shall  know  how  far  extend 
The  prayers  and  hopes  of  your  poetic  friend; 
He  does  not  palaces  nor  manors  crave, 
Would  be  no  lord,  but  less  a  lord  would  have : 
The  ground  he  holds,  if  he  his  own  can  call, 
He  quarrels  not  with  heaven,  because  'tis  small : 
Let  gay  and  toilsome  greatness  others  please, 
He  loves  of  homely  littleness  the  ease : 
Can  any  man  in  gilded  rooms  attend, 
And  his  dear  hours  in  humble  visits  spend, 
When  in  the  fresh  and  beauteous  fields  he  may 
With  various  healthful  pleasures  fill  the  day1? 
If  there  be  man,  ye  gods !  I  ought  to  hate, 
Dependence  and  attendance  be  his  fate ; 
Still  let  him  busy  be,  and  in  a  crowd, 
And  very  much  a  slave,  and  very  proud : 
Thus    he,   perhaps,    powerful    and    rich    may 

grow; 

No  matter,  0  ye  gods !  that  I'll  allow ; 
But  let  him  peace  and  freedom  never  see ; 
Let  him  not  love  this  life,  who  loves  not  me. 


TO  MAXIMUS. 

WOULD  you  be  free?   'Tis  your  chief  wish,  you 

say: 
Come  on ;   I'll   show  thee,  friend !   the  certain 

way.— 

If  to  no  feasts  abroad  thou  lov'st  to  go, 
Whilst  bounteous  God  does  bread  at  home  be- 
stow; 

If  thou  the  goodness  of  thy  clothes  dost  prize, 
By  thine  own  use,  and  not  by  others'  eyes; 
If,  only  safe  from  weathers,  thou  canst  dwell 
In  a  small  house,  but  a  convenient  shell; 
If  thou,  without  a  sigh,  or  golden  wish, 
Canst  look  upon  thy  beechen  bowl  and  dish ; — 
If,  in  thy  mind  such  power  and  greatness  be, 
The  Persian  king's  a  slave  compared  with  thee. 


TO  JULIUS  MARTIALIS. 

IF,  my  dear  Martial,  fate  allow 'd 
A  safe  retreat  from  folly's  crowd ; 
If,  far  from  care  and  busy  strife, 
Together  we  could  lead  our  life, 
True  happiness  we  would  not  rate 
By  frequent  visits  to  the  great ; 
Nor  hear  the  wrangling  lawyer  bawl, 
Nor  range  proud  statues  round  our  hall. 
2T 


518 


JUVENAL. 


Our  chairs  should  take  us  to  the  play; 
The  walks,  the  baths,  should  wile  the  day ; 
The  field,  the  porch,  the  tennis-court, 
And  study  interchanged  with  sport. 
But  how  unlike  our  real  fate, 
To  this  imaginary  state  ! 
We  live  not  for  ourselves — Alas ! 
Youth's  joyous  suns  neglected  pass, 
Change  into  night,  and  never  more 
Return  to  bless  us  as  before. 
Oh!  who  that  held  enjoyment's  power 
Would  waste  in  pain  one  precious  hour? 

TO  POSTUMUS. 

TO-MORROW  you  will  live,  you  always  cry : — 
In  what  far  country  does  this  morrow  lie, 
That  'tis  so  mighty  long  ere  it  arrive? 
Beyond  the  Indies  does  this  morrow  live? 
'Tis  so  far  fetclrd,  this  morrow,  that  I  fear 
'Twill  be  both  very  old,  and  very  dear. 
To-morrow  I  will  live,  the  fool  does  say: 
To-day  itself 's  too  late : — the  wise  liv'd  yesterday. 


ON  THE  MAUSOLEUM  OF  AUGUSTUS. 
FILL  high  the  bowl  with  sparkling  wine ! 

Cool  the  bright  draught  with  summer-snow ! 

Amidst  my  locks  let  odours  flow ! 
Around  my  temples  roses  twine! 
See  yon  proud  emblem  of  decay, 

Yon  lordly  pile  that  braves  the  sky ! 
It  bids  us  live  our  little  day, 

Teaching  that  gods  themselves  may  die. 


TO  AVITUS. 

ME,  who  have  liv'd  so  long  among  the  great, 
You  wonder  to  hear  talk  of  a  retreat; 
And  a  retreat  so  distant,  as  may  show 
No  thoughts  of  a  return,  when  once  I  go. 
Give  me  a  country,  how  remote  soe'er, 
Where  happiness  a  moderate  rate  does  bear, 
Where  poverty  itself  in  plenty  flows, 
And  all  the  solid  use  of  riches  knows. 


The  ground  about  the  house  maintains  it,  there, 
The  house  maintains  the  ground  about  it,  here. 
Here  even  hunger's  dear,  and  a  full  board 
Devours  the  vital  substance  of  its  lord,— 
The  land  itself  does  there  the  feast  bestow, 
The  land  itself  must  here  to  market  go. 
Three  or  four  suits  one  winter  here  does  waste, 
One  suit  does  there  three  or  four  winters  last. 
Here,  every  frugal  man  must  oft  be  cold, 
And  little,  lukewarm  fires  are  to  you  sold. 
There,  fire's  an  element  as  cheap  and  free, 
Almost,  as  any  of  the  other  three. 
Stay  you  then  here,  and  live  among  the  great, 
Attend  their  sports,  and  at  their  tables  eat. 
When  all  the  bounties  here  of  men  you  score, 
The  place's  bounty,  there,  shall  give  me  more. 


TO  JULIUS  MARTIALIS. 

WHAT  constitutes  true  bliss  below, 

A  few  plain  rules,  my  friend,  shall  show : — 

A  competence,  not  earn'd  with  toil, 

But  left ;  a  not  ungrateful  soil ; 

No  strife ;  no  law ;  a  mind  sedate ; 

A  constant  fire  within  one's  grate  ; 

Strength  unimpair'd  ;  a  healthful  frame  ; 

Friends  equal  both  in  years  and  fame ; 

A  plentiful,  though  simple  board, 

With  wholesomes,  but  not  dainties,  stor'd  ; 

Eves  of  sobriety,  yet  gladness ; 

And  nights,  though  chaste,  unmix'd  with  sadness, 

With  sleep  to  shorten  night's  dark  sway; 

Then,  grateful  for  each  coming  day, 

Enjoy  the  present  as  the  past, 

Nor  wish,  nor  tremble  at,  the  last. 


ON  AN  ODD  FELLOW. 

ly  all  thy  humours,  whether  grave  or  mellow, 
Thou  art  such  a  touchy,  testy,  pleasant  fellow, 
Hast  so  much  wit,  and  mirth,  and  spleen  about 

thee, 
There  is  no  living  with  thee  or  without  thee. 


JUVENAL: 


[Born  about  40,— Died  about  120,  A.  D.] 


DECIMUS  JuifHJS  JUYESTALUS  was  the  son  or 

foster-son  of  a  rich  freedman,  and  born  at  Aqui- 
num  in  Campania.  He  received  an  excellent 
education,  studied  eloquence  and  law,  but  after- 
wards abandoned  them  for  the  more  congenial 
pursuits  of  poetry.  Having  inflicted  some  satirical 
strokes  on  the  player  Paris,  a  favourite  of  Domi- 
tian,  he  is  said  to  have  been  banished  by  that 
emperor  into  Egypt,  with  a  military  command — 
a  mildness  of  punishment  one  could  have  hardly 
expected  from  so  unscrupulous  a  tyrant.  On  the 
accession  of  Nerva,  he  returned  to  Rome  and 


concluded  his  days  there  at  an  advanced  age,  in 
the  reign  of  Adrian. — The  characteristics  of  Ju- 
venal are  energy,  passion,  and  indignation  ;  his 
aim  was  to  alarm  the  vicious,  and,  if  possible,  to 
exterminate  that  vice  which  had,  as  it  were,  ac- 
quired a  legal  establishment  in  Rome.  It  is.  to 
be  lamented,  however,  that  his  moral  reflections, 
sublime  and  profound  as  many  of  them  are,  should 
be  frequently  intermixed  with  pictures  of  pollu- 
tion, which  no  pure  mind  can  contemplate  with- 
out disgust,  or  even  losing  some  portion  of  its 
innocent  simplicity. 


JUVENAL. 


519 


FROM  THE  SATIRES. 

FROM   SATIRE   IV. DOMITIAX   AND  THE    TURBOT. 

IT  chanc'd,  that  where  the  fane  of  Venus  stands, 
Rear'd  on  Ancona's  coast  by  Grecian  hands, 
A  turbot,  wandering  from  the  Illyrian  main, 
Fill'd  the  wide  bosom  of  the  bursting  seine. 
Tie  mighty  draught  the  astonish'd  boatman  eyes, 
And  to  the  pontiff's  table  dooms  the  prize : 
For  who  would  dare  to  sell  it?  who  to  buy? 
When  the  coast  swarm'd  with  aiany  a  practised 

spy, 

Mad-rakers,  prompt  to  swear  the  fish  had  fled 
From  Caesar's  ponds,  ingrate !  where  long  it  fed, 
And  thus  recaptur'd,  claim'd  to  be  restor'd 
To  the  dominion  of  its  ancient  lord !  .  .  .  . 

The  wondering  crowd,  that  gathered  to  survey 
The  enormous  fish,  and  barr'd  the  fisher's  way, 
Satiate,  at  length  retires;  the  gates  unfold! — 
Murmuring,  the  excluded  senators  behold 
Tie  envied  dainty  enter : — On  the  man 
To  great  Domitian  press'd,  and  thus  began : 
"  This,  for  a  private  table  far  too  great, 
Accept,  and  sumptuously  your  genius  treat: 
Haste  to  unload  your  stomach,  and  devour 
A  turbot,  destined  to  this  happy  hour. 
I  sought  him  not ; — he  mark'd  the  toils  I  set, 
And  rush'd,  a  willing  victim,  to  the  net." 
Was  flattery  e'er  so  rank  ?  yet  he  grows  vain, 
And  his  crest  rises  at  the  fulsome  strain. 
When  to  divine  a  mortal  power  we  raise, 
He  looks  for  no  hyperboles  in  praise. 
Bat  when  was  joy  unmix'd  ?  no  pot  is  found 
Capacious  as  the  turbot's  ample  round  : 
In  this  distress  he  calls  the  chiefs  of  state, 
(At  once  the  objects  of  his  scorn  and  hate,) 
And,  after  much  debate,  this  question  put — 
"  How  say  ye, Fathers!  SHALL  THE  FISH  BE  CUT?" 
"  O,  far  be  that  .i  Uontanus  cries  ; 

"  No,  let  a  pot  be  form'd,  of  amplest  size, 
Within  whose  slender  sides  the  fish,  dread  sire, 
May  spread  his  vast  circumference  entire! 
Bring,  bring  the  temper'd  clay,  and  let  it  feel 
The  quick  gyrations  of  the  plastic  wheel : — 
But,  Ca-:ir,  thus  forewarn'd,  make  no  campaign, 
Unless  your  potters  follow  in  your  train!" — 
Montanus  ended  ;  all  approv'd  the  plan, 
And  all  the  speech,  so  worthy  of  the  man ! 
Versed  in  the  old  court  luxury,  he  knew 
The  feasts  of  Nero  and  his  midnight  crew  ; 
Where,  oft,  when  potent  draughts  had  lir'd   tin- 
brain, 

The  jaded  taste  was  spurr'd  to  gorge  airain. — 
And,  in  my  time,  none  understood  >f>  well 
"id  eating:  he  could  tell, 
At  the  first  relish,  if  t'-'d 

On  the  Rutupian  or  tho  Luerine  b 
And,  from  a  crab's  or  lol»ter's  colour,  name 
The  countrv.  nay,  the  district,  whence  it  came. 

:        .       icrsrise, 

And  each,  submissive,  from  the  \  &t  — 

Pale,   trembling   wretches,  whom    the   chief,  in 

•port, 

Had  ili  .iish'd,  to  the  Alban  court; 

As  if  the  stern  Cicambri  were  in  arms, 
Or  furious  Catti  threaten'd  new  alarms ; 


As  if  ill  news  by  flying  posts  had  come, 

And  gathering  Nations  sought  the  fall  of  Rome! 

And  oh!  that  ever  in  such  idle  sport 

Had  liv'd  the  lord  of  that  obsequious  court; 

Nor  worse  employ'd  in  savage  scenes  of  blood, 

That  robb'd  the  city  of  the  brave  and  good — 

While    high-born  cowards    saw   their  brothers1 

doom, 

And  vengeance  slumber'd  o'er  the  Lamiantomb. 
But  when  he  dar'd  assail  a  vulgar  tread, 
Up  rose  the  people,  and  the  'tyrant  bled.* 

FROM    SATIRE    V. FREQ.UENT     MORTIFICATIONS 

TO    WHICH    THE    POOR    ARE     EXPOSED    AT    THE 
TABLES    OF    THE    RICH. 

DOES  Virro  ever  pledge  you  ?  ever  sip 
The  liquor  touch'd  by  your  unhallow'd  lip? 
Or  is  there  one  of  all  your  tribe  so  free, 
So  desperate  as  to  say,  "  Sir,  drink  to  me  ?'' 
O,  there  is  much  that  never  can  be  spoke 
By  a  poor  client  in  a  threadbare  cloak. 

But  should  some  god,  or  man  of  godlike  soul, 
The  malice  of  your  niggard  fate  control, 
And  bless  you  with  a  knight's  estate  ;  how  dear 
Would  you  be  then  !  how  wondrous  great  appear 
From  nothing  !     Virro,  so  reserved  of  late, 
Grows  quite  familiar:  "Brother,  send  your  plate : 
Dear  brother  Trebius  !  you  were  wont  to  say 
You  liked  this  trail,  I  think — oblige  me  pray  !"•— 
O  Riches  ! — this  dear  Brother  is  your  own ; 
To  you  this  friendship,  this  respect,  is  shown. 

FROM  SATIRE  VII. THE  POET. 

BUT  HE,  the  bard  of  every  age  and  clime, 

Of  genius  fruitful  and  of  soul  sublime; 

Who  from  the  glowing  mint  of  fancy  pours 

No  spurious  metal,  fused  from  common  ores, 

But  gold  to  matchless  purity  refin'd, 

And  stamp'd  with  all  the  godhead  in  his  mind; 

He,  whom  I  feel,  but  want  the  power  to  paint, 

Springs  from  a  soul  impatient  of  restraint, 

And  free  from  every  care;  a  soul  that  loves 

The  Muses'  haunts,clear  founts  and  shady  groves. 

Never,  no,  never,  did  HE  wildly  rave, 

Ami  shake  his  thyrsus  in  the  Aonian  cave. 

Whom  poverty  kept  sober,  and  the  cries 

Of  a  lean  stomach,  clamorous  for  supplies: 

Xo  ;  the  wine  circled  briskly  through  their  veins, 

When  Horace  jmur'd  his  dithyrambic  strains! — 

What  room  {'.  ,r  fancy,  .-ay.  unle--  the  mind, 

And  all  iis  thoughts,  to  poetry  reMgned, 

He  hurried,  with  re-iMless  1 

By  the  two  kindn-'i  \»<\\ •«•]--  of  Wine  and  Song! 

O!  'ti.-  the  e\r-!u>ive  bu.-iness  of  a  br- 

Impetuous,  uncontrolKd, — not  m. 

With  household  cares,  to  view  ti;e  bright  abodes, 

The  steeds,  the  diariot<.  and  the  forms  of  Gods: 



*  Of  this  illustrious  family  wns  JFA'ms  Lamia,  whom 
Domitian,  aftt-r  Irivniir  lirsi  robbi-d  him  of  his  wife,  put 
to  death. 

"  Princes  nny  pirk  tlioir  suffering  nobles  out, 
Anil.  .  i-oridiMim  thorn  to  the  block  ; 

But  when  tlicy  mice  grow  formidable  to 
Their  clowns  and  cobblers,  ware  then  I" 

Beaumont  8{  Fletcher. 


520 


JUVENAL. 


And  the  fierce  Fury,  as  her  snakes  she  shook, 
And  wither'd  the  Rutulian  with  a  look ! 
Those  snakes,  had  Virgil  no  Maecenas  found, 
Had  dropp'd,  in  listless  length,  upon  the  ground, 
And  the  still  slumbering  trump  groan'd  with  no 

mortal  sound.* 

Yet  we  expect,  from  Lappa's  tragic  rage, 
Such  scenes  as  graced,  of  old,  the  Athenian  stage  : 
Though  he,  poor  man,  from  hand  to  mouth  be  fed, 
And  driven  to  pawn  his  furniture  for  bread ! 

FHOM  SATIRE   Till. ANCESTRY. 

" YOUR  ancient  house!"    No  more.    I  cannot  see 
The  wondrous  merits  of  a  pedigree : 
No,  Ponticus  ; — nor  of  a  proud  display 
Of  smoky  ancestors,  in  wax  or  clay ; 
JEmilius,  mounted  on  his  car  sublime, 
Curius,  half  wasted  by  the  teeth  of  time, 
Corvinus,  dwindled  to  a  shapeless  bust, 
And  high-born  Galba,  crumbling  into  dust. 

What  boots  it,  on  the  LINEAL  TREE  to  trace, 
Through  many  a  branch,  the  founders  of  our  race, 
Time-honour'd  chiefs  ;  if,  in  their  sight,  we  give 
A  loose  to  vice,  and  like  low  villains  live  ? 
Say,  what  avails  it,  that,  on  either  hand, 
The  stern  Numantii,  an  illustrious  band, 
Frown  from  the  walls,  if  their  degenerate  race 
Waste  the  long  night  at  dice,  before  their  face  ? 
If,  staggering  to  a  drowsy  bed,  they  creep 
At  that  prime  hour  when,  starting  from  their 

sleep, 

Their  sires  the  signal  of  the  fight  unfurl'd, 
And  drew  their  legions  forth,  and  won  the  world? 

Say,  why  should  Fabius,  of  th'  Herculean  name, 
To  the  GREAT  ALTAR,  vaunt  his  lineal  claim, 
If,  softer  than  Euganean  lambs,  the  youth 
His  wanton  limbs  with  ^Etna's  pumice  smooth, 
And  shame  his  rough-hewn  sires?  if  greedy,  vain, 
If  a  vile  trafficker  in  secret  bane, 
He  blast  his  wretched  kindred  with  a  bust 
For  public  vengeance  to — reduce  to  dust! 

Fond  man!  though  all  the  heroes  of  your  line 
Bedeck  your  halls,  and  round  your  galleries  shine, 
In  proud  display ;  yet  take  this  truth  from  me — 
VIRTUE  ALONE  is  TRUE  NOBILITY. 
Set  Cossus,  Drusus,  Paulus,  then  in  view, 
The  bright  example  of  their  lives  pursue  ; 
Let  them  precede  the  statues  of  your  race, 
And  these,  when  consul,  of  your  rods  take  place. 

0  give  me  inborn  worth  !    Dare  to  be  just, 
Firm  to  your  word,  and  faithful  to  your  trust; 
These  praises  hear,  at  least  deserve  to  hear, 
I  grant  your  claim,  and  recognise  the  peer. 
Hail!  from  whatever  stock  you  draw  your  birth, 
The  son  of  Cossus  or  the  son  of  Earth, 
All  hail !  in  you  exulting  Rome  espies 
Her  guardian  Power,  her  great  Palladium  rise  ; 
And  shouts  like  Egypt,  when  her  priests  have 

found 
A  new  Osiris,  for  the  old  one  drown'd. 

But  shall  we  call  those  noble,  who  disgrace 
Their  lineage,  proud  of  an  illustrious  race  ? 
Vain  thought! 


*  The  above  allusions  are  to  some  fine  passages  in  the 
Hd,  Vllth,  and  Xllth  books  of  Virgil. 


"  Away,  away !  ye  slaves  of  humblest  birth, 
Ye  dregs  of  Rome,  ye  nothings  of  the  earth, 
Whose  fathers  who  shall  tell !  my  ancient  line 
Descends  from  Cecrops."    Man  of  blood  divine! 
Live,  and  enjoy  the  secret  sweets  which  spring 
In  breasts  affined  to  so  remote  a  king ! — 
Yet  know,  amid  these  "  dregs,"  low  grandeur's 

scorn, 

Will  those  be  found  whom  arts  and  arms  adorn  : 
Some,  skill'd  to  plead  a  noble  blockhead's  cause, 
And  solve  the  dark  enigmas  of  the  laws ; 
Some,  who  the  Tigris'  hostile  banks  explore, 
And  plant  our  eagles  on  Batavia's  shore : 
While  thou,  in  mean,  inglorious  pleasure  lost, 
With  "Cecrops!  Cecrops!"  all  thou  hast  to  boast, 
Art  a  full  brother  to  the  cross-way  stone, 
Which  clowns  have  chipp'd  the  head  of  Hermes 

on : 

For  'tis  no  bar  to  kindred,  that  thy  block 
Is  form'd  of  flesh  and  blood,  and  theirs  of  rock. 
Of  beasts,  great  son  of  Troy,  who  vaunts  the 

breed, 

Unless  renown'd  for  courage,  strength  or  speed  ? 
'Tis  thus  we  praise  the  horse,  who  mocks  our 

eyes, 

While,  to  the  goal,  with  lightning's  speed  he  flies! 
Whom   many  a  well-earn'd   palm  and   trophy 

grace, 
And  the  Cirque  hails,  unrivall'd  in  the  race ! 

Yes,  he  is  noble,  spring  from  whom  he  will, 
Whose  footsteps  in  the  dust  are  foremost  still : 
While  Hirpine's  stock  are  to  the  market  led, 
If  victory  perch  but  rarely  on  their  head. 
For  no  respect  to  pedigree  is  paid, 
No  honour  to  a  sire's  illustrious  shade. 
Flung  cheaply  off,  they  drag  the  cumbrous  wain, 
With  shoulders   bare,  and   bleeding   from   the 

chain  ; 

Or  take,  with  some  blind  ass  in  concert  found; 
At  Nepo's  mill,  their  everlasting  round. 
That  Rome  may,  therefore,  YOU,  not  YOURS,  ad- 
mire, 

By  virtuous  actions,  first  to  praise  aspire ; 
Seek  not  to  shine  by  borrow'd  light  alone, 
But  with  your  father's  glories  blend  your  own. 
This  to  the  youth,  whom  Rumour  brands  as 

vain 

And  swelling — full  of  his  Neronian  strain  ; 
Perhaps  with  truth; — for  rarely  shall  we  find 
A  sense  of  modesty  in  that  proud  kind. — 
But  were  my  Ponticus  content  to  raise 
His  honours  thus,  on  a  forefather's  praise, 
Worthless  the  while — 'twould  tinge  my  cheeks 

with  shame — 

'Tis  dangerous  building  on  another's  fame, 
Lest  the  substructure  fail,  and,  on  the  ground, 
Your  baseless  pile  be  hurl'd,  in  fragments,  round.— 
Stretch'd  on  the  plain,  the  vine's  weak  tendrils  try 
To  clasp  the  elm  they  drop  from ; — fail,  and  die  ! 
Be  brave,  be  just : — and  when  your  country's; 

laws 

Call  you  to  witness  in  a  dubious  cause, 
Though  Phalaris  plant  his  bull  before  your  eye, 
And,  frowning,  dictate  to  your  lips  the  lie, 
Think  it  a  crime  no  tears  can  e'er  efface, 
To  purchase  safety  with  compliance  base, 


JUVENAL. 


f'21 


At  honour's  cost,  a  feverish  span  extend, 

AND   SACRIFICE  FOR  LIFE,  LIFF/S   ONLY   END. 

LIFE!  'tis  not  life — who  merit*  (loath,  is  dead: — 
Though  Gauran  oysters  for  his  feasts  be  spread, 
Though  his  limbs  drip  with  exquisite  perfume, 
And  the  late  rose  around  his  temples  bloom ! 

FROX  SATIRE  IX. THF.  SWIFT  APPROACH   OF  AGE. 

SWIFT  down  the  pathway  of  declining  years, 
As  on  we  journey  through  this  vale  of  tears, 
Youth  wastes  away,  and  withers  like  a  flower, 
The  lovely  phantom  of  a  fleeting  hour : 
'Mid  the  light  sallies  of  the  mantling  soul, 
The  smiles  of  beauty,  and  the  social  bowl, 
Inaudible,  the  foot  of  chilly  age 
Steals  on  our  joys,  and  drives  us  from  the  stage. 

IROM  SATIRE  X. THE  VANITT  OF  HUMAN  WISHES. 

IN  every  clirne,  from  Ganges'  distant  stream, 
To  Gades,  gilded  by  the  western  beam, 
Few,  from  the  clouds  of  mental  error  free, 
In  its  true  light  or  good  or  evil  see. 
For  what,  with  reason,  do  we  seek  or  shun?* 
What  plan,  how  happily  soe'er  begun, 
But,  finish'd,  we  our  own  success  lament, 
And  rue  the  pains,  so  fatally  misspent? — 
To  headlong  ruin  see  whole  houses  driven, 
Curs'd    with    their    prayers    by    too    indulgent 
heaven! 

Bewildered  thus,  by  folly  or  by  fate, 
We  beg  pernicious  gifts  in  every  state, 
In  peace,  in  war.     A  full  and  rapid  flow 
Of  eloquence,  lays  many  a  speaker  low  : 
K'en  strength  itself  is  fatal  ;  Milo  tries 
His  wondrous  arms,  and — in  the  trial  dies! 

But  Avarice  wider  spreads  her  deadly  snare, 
And  hoards  amass'd  with  tuo  successful  care; 
Hoards,  which  o'er  all  paternal  fortunes  rise, 
As,  o'er  the  dolphin,  towers  the  whale  in  size. 
For  this,  in  other  times,  at  Nero's  word, 
The   ruffian   bands    unsheath'd    the    murderous 

sword, 

Rush'd  to  the  swelling  coffers  of  the  great, 
Chased  Lateranus  from  his  lordly  seat, 
Besieg'd  too  wealthy  Seneca's  wi:le  walls, 
And  closed,  terrific,  round  Lf>i:gii:us'  halls: 
While  sweetly  in  their  cocklofts  slept  the  poor, 
And  heard  no  soldier  thundering  at  their  door. 

The  traveller,  freighted  with  a  little  wealth, 
Sets  forth  at  night,  and  wins  his  way  by  stealth: 
E'en  then  he  fears  the  bludgeon  and  the  blade, 
Ami  starts  and  trembles  at  a  rush's  s!, 
While,  void  of  care,  t! ;•  °ng> 

And,  in  the  spoiler's  presence,  trolls  his  song. 

The  first  great  wish  that  all  with  rapture  own, 
The  general  cry  to  every  temple  known. 

I! — -and  let.  all  grac.ious  powers, 
The  large-t  ch-^t  tin-  forum  lx.a>t-,  be  ours!" 
Yet  none  from  earthen  bowls  destruction  sip: 
Dread  then  the  draught,  when,  mantling  at  your 
lip, 


-\VL-,  iznorant  of  ourselves, 


Beg  often  our  own  harms,  which  the  wise  Powers 
Deny  us  for  our  good ;  so  find  we  profit 
By  losing  of  our  prayers. — Shake spea.ru. 
66 


The  goblet  sparkles,  radiant  from  the  mine, 
And  the  broad  gold  reflects  the  ruby  -wine. 

And  do  we  now  admire  the  stories  told 
Of  the  two  sages,  so  renown'd  of  old, 
How  this  for  ever  langh'd,  whene'er  he  slept 
Beyond  the  threshold;  that  for  ever  wept? 
But  all  can  laugh  ;  the  wonder  yet  appears, 
What  fount  supplied  the  eternal  stream  of  tears! 

Democritus,  at  every  step  he  took, 
His  sides  with  unextinguished  laughter  shook; 
He  laugh'd  aloud  to  see  the  vulgar  fears, 
Laugh'd  at  their  joys,  and  sometimes  at  their  tears. 
Secure  the  while,  he  mock'd  at  Fortune's  frown, 
And  when   sne   threaten'd,  bade    her   hang   or 

drown ! 

****** 
What  wrought  the  Crassi's, — what  the  Pompeys' 

doom, 

And  his  who  bow'd  the  stubborn  neck  of  Rome? 
What  but  the  wild,  the  unbounded  wish  to  rise, 
Heard,  in  malignant  kindness,  by  the  skies! 
Few  kings,  few  tyrants,  find  a  bloodless  end, 
Or  to  the  grave,  without  a  wound,  descend. 

The  child,  with  whom  a  trusty  slave  is  sent, 
Charg'd  with  his  little  scrip,  has  scarcely  spent 
His  mite  at  school,  ere  all  his  bosom  glows 
With  the  fond  hope  he  never  more  foregoes, 
To  reach  Demosthenes'  or  Tully's  name, 
Rival  of  both  in  eloquence  and  fame! — 
Yet  by  this  eloquence,  alas !  expired 
Each  orator,  so  envied,  so  admired! 
Yet  by  the  rapid  and  resistless  sway 
Of  torrent  genius,  each  was  swept  away. 
Genius,  for  that,  the  baneful  potion  sped, 
And  lost,  from  this,  the  hands  and  gory  head : 
While  meaner  pleaders  unmolested  stood, 
Nor   stain'd   the   rostrum   with    their   wretched 
blood. 

The  spoils  of  WAR  ;  the  trunk  in  triumph  placed 
With  all  the  trophies  of  the  battle  graced, 
Crush'd  helms,  and  batter'd  shields,  and  stream- 
ers borne 
From  vanquish'd  fleets,  and  beams  from  chariots 

torn ; 

And  arcs  of  triumph,  where  the  captive  foe 
Bends,  in  mute  anguish,  o'er  the  pomp  below; 
Are  blessings  which  the  slaves  of  glories  rate 
Beyond  a  mortal's  hope,  a  mortal's  late! 
Fired   with   the    lovo  of  these,  what  countless 

su  arms, 

Barbarians,  Romans,  Greeks,  have  rush'd  to  arms, 
All  danger  slighted,  and  all  toil  defied, 
And  madly  conquer'd,  or  as  madly  died! 
So  much  the  raging  thirst  of  fame  exceeds 
The  generous  warmth  which  prompts  to  worthy 

deeds, 

That  none  confess  fair  Virtue's  genuine  power, 
Or  woo  her  to  their  breast,  without  a  dower. 
Yet  has  this  wild  desire  in  other  days, 
This  boundless  avarice  of  a  few  for  praise, 
This  frantic  rage  for  names  to  grace  a  tomb, 
Involved  whole  countries  in  one  general  doom. 
Vain   rage!    the  roots  of  the  wild  fig-tree  rise, 
Strike   through  the  marble,  and    their   memory 
dies! 


522 


JUVENAL. 


For  like  their  mouldering  tenants,  tombs  decay, 
And  with  the  dust  they  hide,  are  swept  away — 

Produce  the  urn  that  Hannibal  contains, 
And  weigh  the  mighty  dust  that  yet  remains: 
AND  is  THIS  ALL!  Yet  this  was  once  the  bold, 
The  aspiring  chief,  whom  Afric  could  not  hold, 
Though   stretch'd   in   breadth,  from   where    the 

Atlantic  roars. 

To  distant  Nilus,  and  his  sunburnt  shores, 
In  length,  from  Carthage  to  the  burning  zone, 
Where  other  Moors  and  elephants  are  known. 
— Spain  conquer'd,  o  er  the  Pyrenees  he  bounds: 
Nature  oppos'd  her  everlasting  mounds, 
Her  Alps  and  snows;  o'er  these  with  torrent  force 
He  pours,  and  rends  through  rocks  his  dreadful 

course. 

Already  at  his  feet  Italia  lies ; — 
Yet  thundering  on,  "  Think  nothing  done,"  he 

cries, 

"Till  Rome,  proud  Rome,  beneath  my  fury  falls, 
And  Afric's  standards  float  along  her  walls!" 
Big  words! — but  view  his  figure!  view  his  face! 
O  for  some  master  hand  the  lines  to  trace, 
As  through  the  Etrurian  swamps,  by  floods  in- 

creast, 
The  one-eyed  chief  urged  his  Getulian  beast! 

But  what  ensued  ?    Illusive  Glory,  say : 
Subdued  on  Zama's  memorable  day, 
He  flies  in  exile  to  a  petty  state 
With  headlong  haste ;  and  at  a  despot's  gate 
Sits,  mighty  suppliant !  of  his  life  in  doubt, 
Till  the  Bythynian's  morning  nap  be  out. 

Nor  swords,  nor  spears,  nor  stones  from  engines 

hurl'd, 
Shall  quell  the  man  whose  frown  alarm'd  the 

world. 

The  vengeance  due  to  Cannce's  fatal  field, 
And  floods  of  human  gore,  a  ring  shall  yield. 
Fly,  madman,  fly,  at  toil  and  danger  mock, 
Pierce  the  deep  snow,  and  scale  the  eternal  rock, 
To  please  the  rhetoricians,  and  become 
A  DECLAMATION — for  the  boys  of  Rome  ! 

One  world  the  ambitious  youth  of  Pella  found 
Too  small;  and  toss'd  his  feverish  limbs  around, 
And  gnsp'd  for  breath,  as  if  immured  the  while 
In  Gyarae,  or  Seripho's  rocky  isle : 
But  entering  Babylon,  found  ample  room 
Within  the  narrow  limits  of  a  tomb ! 
Death  the  great  teacher,  Death  alone  proclaims 
The  true  dimensions  of  our  puny  frames. — 

The  daring  tales,  in  Grecian  story  found, 
Were  once  believed  : — of  Athos  sailed  around, 
Of  fleets,  that  bridges  o'er  the  waves  supplied, 
Of  chariots,  rolling  on  the  steadfast  tide, 
Of  lakes  exhausted,  and  of  rivers  quaffed 
By  countless  nations,  at  a  morning's  draught, 
And  all  that  Sostratus  so  wildly  sings, 
Besotted  poet, of  the  king  of  kings! 

But  how  returned  he?  say; — this  soul  of  fire, 
This  proud  barbarian,  whose  impatient  ire 
Chastised  the  winds  that  disobeyed  his  nod 
With  stripes  ne'er  suffered  by  the  ^Eolian  god — 
But  how  returned  he?  say  ; — his  navy  lost, 
In  a  small  bark  he  fled  the  hostile  coast, 
And,  urged  by  terror,  drove  his  labouring  prore 
Through  floating  carcasses,  and  floods  of  gore. 


So  Xerxes  sped  ;  so  speed  the  conquering  race  ; 
They  catch  at  glory,  and  they  clasp  disgrace. 

But  say,  shall  man,  depriv'd  all  power  of  choice, 
Ne'er  raise  to  heaven  the  supplicating  voice  ? 
Not  so;  but  to  the  gods  his  fortune  trust: 
Their  thoughts  are  wise,  their  dispensations  just. 
What  best  may  profit  or  delight  they  know, 
And  real  good  for  fancied  bliss  bestow  : 
With  eyes  of  pity  they  our  frailties  scan  ; 
More  dear  to  them,  than  to  himself,  is  man. 
By  blind  desire,  by  headlong  passion  driven, 
For  wife  and  heirs  we  daily  weary  Heaven  ; 
Yet  still  'tis  Heaven's  prerogative  to  know 
If  heirs,  or  wife,  will  bring  us  weal  or  woe. 

But  —  (for  'tis  good  our  humble  hope  to  prove) 
That  thou  mayst  still  ask  something  from  above  ; 
Thy  pious  ofterings  to  the  temple  bear, 
And,  while  the  altars  blaze,  be  this  thy  prayer  : 
"  0  THOU,  who  know'st  the  wants  of  human  kind, 
Vouchsafe  me  health  of  body,  health  of  mind; 
A  soul  prepared  to  meet  the  frowns  of  Fate, 
And  look  undaunted  on  a  future  state  ; 
That  reckons  death  a  blessing,  yet  can  bear 
Existence  nobly,  with  its  weight  of  care: 
That  anger  and  desire  alike  restrains, 
And  counts  Alcides'  toils  and  cruel  pains, 
Superior  far  to  banquets,  wanton  nights, 
And  all  the  Assyrian  monarch's  soft  delights  !" 

Here  bound  at  length  thy  wishes.  I  but  teach 
What  blessings  man,  by  his  own  powers,  may 

reach. 

THE  PATH  TO  PEACE  is  VIRTUE.  We  should  see, 
If  wise,  0  Fortune,  nought  divine  in  thee  : 
But  we  have  deified  a  name  alone, 
Arid  fix'd  in  heaven  thy  visionary  throne  ! 

%*  I  should  have  given  longer  extracts  from 
this  noble  satire  —  (a  satire  which  Bishop  Burnet 
even  recommends  to  the  clergy  of  his  diocese)—— 
but  for  the  admirable  paraphrase  of  it  by  Dr. 
Johnson,  which  must  be  so  well  known  to  all 
English  readers. 

FROM   SATIRE  XI.  -  KNOW  THYSELF.* 

HEAVEN  sent  us  "KNOW  THYSELF!"  —  Be  this 

imprest, 

In  living  characters,  upon  thy  breast, 
And  still  resolv'd;  whether  a  wife  thou  choose, 
Or  to  the  SACRED  SENATE  point  thy  views.  — 
Or  seek'st  thou  rather,  in  some  doubtful  cause, 
To  vindicate  thy  country's  injured  laws  ? 
Knock  at  thy  bosom,  play  the  censor's  part, 
And  note,  with  caution,  what  and  who  thou  art, 
An  orator  offeree  and  skill  profound, 
Or  a  mere  Matho,  emptiness  and  sound  ! 
Yes,  KNOW  THYSELF  :  in  great  concerns  and  small, 
Be  this  thy  care,  for  this,  my  friend,  is  all  : 
Nor,  when  thy  purse  will  scarce  a  gudgeon  buy, 
With  fond  intemperance,  for  turbots  sigh. 


JEATTON.—  This  maxim  was  inscribed  in 
gold  letters  over  the  portico  of  the  temple  at  Delphi. 
Hence,  perhaps,  the  notion  in  after  times,  that  it  was  m- 
mediately  derived  from  heaven—  no  improbable  conjec- 
ture, if  we  consider  that  it  is  the  foundation  of  all  know- 
ledge, and  little  favourable  to  that  overweening  self-love, 
which  the  wisest  of  the  heathens  cherished  amidst  all 
their  professions  of  humility. 


JUVENAL. 


523 


INVITATION    TO     PKHSirrs.    WITH    A    PICTl'KE    OF 

THK  FOKT'S  OWN    IIUMK-IK    1:1  UVOMT. 

,  ii :  to-day   my  Persicus   shall  see 
ther  my  precepts  with  >ny  life  agree; 
Whether,  with  teign'd  aiir-terity,  I  prize 
The  spare  repast,  a  glutton  in  di-_ 
Bawl  for  coarse  pottage,  that  my  friends  may  hear, 
But  whisper  "turtle!"  in  my  servant's  ear. 
For  since,  by  promise,  you  are  now  my  guest, 
Know,  I  invite  you  to  no  sumptuous  feast, 
Biit  to  such  simple  fare,  as  long,  long  since, 
The  good  Evander  gave  the  Trojan  prince.* 
Come  then,  my  friend,  you  will  not,  sure,  despise 
The  food,  that  pleas'd  an  oiispring  of  the  skies; 
Come,  and,  while  fancy  brings  past  times  to  view, 
I'll  think  myself  the  king,  the  hero  you. 

Take  now  your  bill  of  fare :  my  simple  board 
Is  with  no  dainties  from  the  market  stor'd, 
But  dishes,  all  my  own.     From  Tibur's  stock, 
A  kid  shall  come,  the  fattest  of  the  flock, 
With  more  of  milk  than  blood;  and  pullets  drest 
With  new-laid  eggs,  yet  tepid  from  the  nest, 
And  sperage  wild,  which,  from  the  mountain's 

side, 

AFy  housemaid  left  her  spindle  to  provide  ; 
And  grapes  long  kept,  yet  pulpy  still,  and  fair, 
And  the  rich  Signian,  and  the  Syrian  pear; 
And  apples,  that,  in  flavour  and  in  smell, 
rl  he  l)o;i>ted  Picene  equal  or  excel; 
Nor  need  you  fear,  rny  friend,  their  liberal  use, 
For  age  has  mellow'd  and  improv'd  their  juice. 

How  homely  this !  and  yet  this  homely  fare 
A  senator  would  once  have  counted  rare; 
When  the  good  Curius  thought  it  no  disgrace 
O'er  ;i  tew  sticks  a  little  pot  to  place, 
With  herbs  by  his  small  garden-plot  supplied — 
Food  which  the  squalid  wretch  would  now  deride, 
Who  digs  in  tetters,  and.  with  fond  regret, 
The  tavern's  savoury  dish  remembers  yet. 

To  me  for  ever  be  the  guest  unknown, 
Who,  measuring  my  expenses  by  his  own, 

Remarks  the  ditlerence  with  a  scornful  leer, 
And  slights  my  humble  house  and  homely  cheer. 
Look  not  to  me  for  ivory ;  I  have  none : 
My  chess-board  and  my  men  are  all  of  bone ; 

my  knife-handles;  yet,  my  friend,  for  this, 
.My  pullets  neither  cut  nor  taste  amiss. 
I  boa>t  no  arti-t,  tutor'd  in  the  school 
Of  learned  Trypherus,  to  carve  by  rule  :f 
My  -imple  lad,  who-  :i..rts  rise 

To  broil  a  steak,  in  the  plain  country  guise. 
Knows  no  such  art;  humbly  content  to  serve, 
And  bring  the  di>hes  which  he  cannot  ]. 
Another  lad  (for  I  have  two  to-day) 
Clad,  like  the  lirst,  in  home-spun  russet  gray, 
Shall  till  our  earthen  bowls:  no  Phrygian  lie, 
No  pamper'd  attribute  of  luxury, 
But  a  rude  rustic; — when  you  want  him.  speak, 
And  speak  in  Latin,  for  he  knows  no  Greek. 
Both  go  alike,  with  close-cropp'd  hair,  u  ml  rest, 
But  spruced  to-day  in  honour  of  my  guest ; 

•  &  8  Vinril's  .Vnrirf,  viii. 

t  The  skilful  carvina  <>f  .lishcs  was  a  matter  of  so  much 
importance  at  Rome,  that  it  was  taught  by  professors  of 
the  science. 


And  both  were  born  on  my  estate,  and  one 

Is  my  rough  shepherd's,  one  my  neatherd's  son. 

Poor  youth!   he   mourns,  with  many  an  artless 

tear, 

His  long,  long  absence  from  his  mother  dear ; 
Sighs  for  his  little  cottage,  and  would  fain 
Meet  his  old  playfellows,  the  goats,  again. 
Though  humble  be  his  birth,  ingenuous  grace 
Beams  from  his  eye,  arid  flushes  in  his  face ; 
Charming  suffusion  !  that  would  well  become 
The  youthful  offspring  of  the  chiefs  of  Rome. — 
He,  Persicus,  shall  fill  us  wine,  that  grew 
Where  first  the  breath  of  life  the  stripling  drew, 
On  Tibur's  hills :  dear  hills,  that,  many  a  day, 
Witness'd  the  transports  of  his  infant  play. 

But  you,  perhaps,  expect  a  wanton  throng 
Of  Gaditanian  girls,  with  dance  and  song, 
To  kindle  loose  desire;  girls  that  now  bound 
Aloft,  with  active  grace,  now,  on  the  ground 
Quivering  alight,  while  peals  of  praise  go  round. — 
Such  vicious  fancies  are  too  great  for  me : 
Let  him  the  wanton  dance,  unblushing,  see, 
And  hear   the  immodest  terms,  which,  in   the 

stews, 

The  veriest  strumpet  would  disdain  to  use ; 
Whose  drunken  spawlings  roll,  tumultuous,  o'er 
The  proud  expansion  of  a  marble  floor : 
For  there  the  world  a  large  allowance  make, 
And  spare  the  folly  for  the  fortune's  sake. — 
Dice  and  adultery,  with  a  small  estate, 
Are  damning  crimes,  but  venial  with  a  great ; 
Venial?  nay,  graceful:  witty,  gallant,  brave, 
And    such   wild    tricks    "as    gentlemen    should 
have." 

My  feast,  to-day,  shall  other  joys  afford  : — 
Hu>li  (1,  as  we  sit  around  the  frugal  board, 
Great  Homer  shall  his  deep-toned  thunder  roll, 
And  mighty  Maro  elevate  the  soul ; 
Maro,  who,  warm'd  with  all  the  poet's  fire, 
Disputes  the  palm  of  victory  with  his  sire. 
Come  then,  my  friend,  an  hour  of  pleasure  spare, 
And  quit  awhile  your  business  and  your  care; 
The  day  is  all  our  own.* — 

FROM    SATIRE     XIII. ADVANTAGES     OF    WISDOM 

AND  EXPERIENCE. EXTHI.M  K   \v  I »  KKKN  liSS  OF 

THK 

WISDOM,  I  know,  contains  a  sovereign  charm, 
To  vanquish  Fortune,  or  at  least  disarm  : 
Blest  they  who  walk  by  her  unerring  rule! — 
Nor  those  unblest,  who,  tutor'd  in  life's  school, 
Have  learn'd  of  old  experience  to  submit, 
Anil  lightly  bear  the  yoke  they  cannot  quit. 

What  day  so  sacred,  which  no  guilt  profanes, 
No  secret  fraud,  no  open  rapine,  stains? 
What  hour,  in  which  no  dark  assassins  prowl, 
Nor  point  the  sword  for  hire,  nor  drug  the  bowl? 


*  In  a  similar  spirit,  our  Milton  addresses  his  friend, 
Henry  Lawrence  :— 

What  neat  repast  shall  feast  us,  light  and  choice, 
Of  Attic  taste,  with  wine,  whrnce  we  may  rise 
To  hear  the  lute  well  touch' rl.  or  artful  voice 
Warble  immortal  notes  and  Tuscan  airl 
]l>>,  who  of  those  delights  can  judge,  and  spare 
To  interpose  them  oft,  is  not  unwise. 


524 


JUVENAL. 


THE  GOOD,  ALAS,  ARE  FEW!  "The  valued  file," 
Less  than  the  gates  of  Thebes,  the  mouths  of 

Nile! 

For  now  an  age  is  come,  that  teems  with  crimes, 
Beyond,  all  precedent  of  former  times; 
An  age  so  bad,  that  Nature  cannot  frame 
A  metal  base  enough  to  give  it  name. 

ATHEISTS   AND    SCEPTICS. 

THERE  are,  who  think  that  chance  is  all  in  all, 
That  no  First  Cause  directs  the  eternal  ball ; 
But  that  brute  Nature,  in  her  blind  career, 
Varies  the  seasons,  and  brings  round  the  year : 
These  rush  to  every  shrine  with  equal  ease, 
And,  owning  none,  swear  by  what  Power  they 

please. 

Others  believe,  and  but  believe,  a  God, 
And  think  that  punishment  may  follow  fraud ; 
Yet  they  forswear,  and,  reasoning  on  the  deed, 
Thus  reconcile  their  actions  with  their  creed : 
"  Let  Isis  storm,  if  to  revenge  inclin'd, 
And,  with  her  angry  sistrum,  strike  me  blind,* 
So,  with  my  eyes,  she  ravish  not  my  ore, 
But  let  me  keep  the  pledge  that  I  forswore. 
Are  putrid  sores,  catarrhs  that  seldom  kill, 
And  crippled  lirnbs,  forsooth,  so  great  an  ill? 
Ladas,|  if  not  stark  mad,  would  change,  no  doubt, 
His  flying  feet  for  riches  and  the  gout ; 
For  what  do  those  procure  him  ?    Mere  renown, 
And  the  starv'd  honour  of  an  olive  crown. 

"But  grant  the  wrath  of  Heaven  be  great;  'tis 

slow, 
And  days,  and  months,  and  years  precede  the 

blow. 

If  then  to  punish  ALL  the  gods  decree, 
When,  in  their  vengeance,  will  they  come  to  me  ? 
But  I,  perhaps,  their  anger  may  appease — 
For  they  are  wont  to  pardon  faults  like  these: 
At  worst,  there's  hope;  since  every  age  and  clime 
See  different  fates  attend  the  self-same  crime ; 
Some  made  by  villainy,  and  some  undone, 
And  this  ascend  a  scaffold,  that  a  throne." 

HEVEJfGE. 

"  REVENGE— THEY    SAT  —  and   I   believe    their 

words, 

A  pleasure,  sweeter  far  than  life  affords." 
WHO  SAT?  the  fools,  whose  passions,  prone  to  ire, 
At  SLIGHTEST  causes,  or,  at  none,  take  FIRE  ; 
Whose  boiling  breasts,  at  every  turn,  o'erflow 
With  rancorous  gall :  Chrysippus  SAID  not  so ; 
Nor  Thales,  to  our  frailties  clement  still, 
Nor  that  old  man,  by  sweet  Hymettus'  hill, 
Who  drank  the  poison  with  unruffled  soul, 
And,  dying,  from  his  foes  withheld  the  bowl. 
Divine  Philosophy !  by  whose  pure  light 
We  first  distinguish,  then  pursue,  the  right, 
Thy  power  the  breast  from  every  error  frees, 
And  weeds  out  all  its  vices  by  degrees : — 


*  There  is  a  propriety  in  attributing  the  infliction  of 
this  punishment  to  an  Egyptian  deity,  blindness  being  a 
disease  more  frequent  in  that  country  than  elsewhere. 

t  A  celebrated  runner  of  antiquity.  Such  were  his  ve- 
locity and  lightness  of  foot,  (says  some  ancient  writer,) 
that  he  left  no  trace  of  his  steps  in  the  dust  behind  him. 


Illumin'd  by  thy  beam,  Revenge  we  find 
The  abject  pleasure  of  an  abject  mind, 
And  hence  so  dear  to  poor,  weak  womankind.* 
But  why  are  those,  Calvinus,  thought  to  scape 
Unpunish'd,  whom,  in  every  fearful  shape, 
Guilt  still  alarms,  and  conscience,  ne'er  asleep, 
Wounds  with  incessant  strokes,  "  not  loud,  but 

deep," 

While  the  vex'd  mind,  her  own  tormentor,  plies 
A  scorpion  scourge,  unmark'd  by  human  eyes. 
Trust  me,  no  tortures  which  the  poets  feign, 
Can  match  the  fierce,  the  unutterable  pain 
He  feels,  who  night  and  day,  devoid  of  rest, 
Carries  his  own  accuser  in  his  breast. 
A  Spartan  once  the  oracle  besought 
To  solve  a  scruple  which  perplex  d  his  thought, 
And  plainly  tell  him,  if  he  might  forswear 
A  purse,  of  old,  confided  to  his  care. 
Incens'd,  the  priestess  answer'd — "Waverer,  no! 
Nor  shalt  thou,  for  the  doubt,  unpunish'd  go."— 
With  that  he  haste n'd  to  restore  the  trust; 
But  fear  alone,  not  virtue,  made  him  just : 
Hence  he  soon  proved  the  oracle  divine. 
And  all  the  answer  worthy  of  the  shrine ; 
For  plagues  pursued  his  race  without  delay, 
And  swept  them  from  the  earth,  like  dust,  away. 
By  such  dire  sufferings  did  the  wretch  atone 
The  crime  of  meditated  fraud  alone ! 
For,  in  the  eye  of  Heaven,  a  wicked  deed 
Devised,  is  done  :f — what,  then,  if  we  proceed? 
Perpetual  fears  the  offender's  peace  destroy, 
And  rob  the  social  hour  of  all  its  joy : 
Feverish  and  parch'd,  he  chews,  with  many  a 

pause, 

The  tasteless  food  that  swells  beneath  his  jaws : 
Spits  out  the  produce  of  the  Albanian  hill, 
Mellow'd  by  age  ; — you  bring  him  mellower  still, 
And  lo,  such  wrinkles  on  his  brow  appear, 
As  if  you  brought  Falernian  vinegar ! 

These,  these  are  they,  who  tremble  and  turn  pale, 
At  the  first  mutterings  of  the  hollow  gale ! 
Who  sink  with  terror  at  the  transient  glare 
Of  meteors  glancing  through  the  turbid  air! 
Oh,  'tis  not  chance,  they  cry:  this  hideous  crash 
Is  not  the  war  of  winds ;  nor  this  dread  flash 
The  encounter  of  dark  clouds ;  but  blasting  fire, 
Charged  with  the  wrath  of  heaven's  insulted  sire ! 
That  dreaded  peal,  innoxious,  dies  away ; 
Shuddering,  they  wait  the  next  with  more  dismay, 
As  if  the  short  reprieve  were  only  sent 
To  add  new  horrors  to  their  punishment. 
Yet  more;  when  the  first  symptoms  of  disease, 
When  feverish  heats  their  restless  members  seize, 
They  think  the  plague  by  wrath  divine  bestow'd, 
And  feel  in  every  pang  the  avenging  god. 
Rack'd  at  the  thought,  in  hopeless  grief  they  lie, 
And  dare  not  tempt  the  mercy  of  the  sky : 


*  Whatever  may  have  been  the  belief  of  pagan  times, 
on  this  subject,  there  is  no  one,  I  am  sure,  who  will  ven- 
ture on  such  an  assertion  in  the  nineteenth  century. 
j  Neither  abject-mindedness,  nor  love  of  revenge,  (except 
i  in  eastern  harems,)  but  proneness  to  mercy,  and  forget- 
fulness  of  injury,  are  the  true  characteristics  of  civilized 
woman. 
1  f  The  tale  is  taken  from  Herodotus,  Erato  86. 


JUVENAL. 


525 


For  what  can  such  expect,  what  victim  slay, 

That  is  not  worthier  far  to  live  than  they? — 

With  what  a  rapid  change  of  fancy  roll 

The  varying  passions  of  the  guilty  soul ! 

Bold  to  offend,  they  scarce  commit  the  offence, 

Ere  the  mind  labours  with  an  innate  sense 

Of  right  and  wrong; — not  long,  for  Nature  still, 

Incapable  of  change,  and  fix'd  in  ill, 

Recurs  to  her  old  habits; — never  yet 

Could  sinner  to  his  sin  a  period  set. 

When  did  the  flush  of  modest  blood  inflame 

The  cheek,  once  harden'd  to  a  sense  of  shame? 

Or  when  the  offender,  since  the  birth  of  time, 

Retire,  contented  with  a  single  crime  ?* 

FROM    SATIRE    XIV. TRAIN   UP  A  CHILD    IK    THE 

WAY    HE   SHOULD   GO. 

YES,  there  are  faults,  Fuscinus,  that  disgrace 
The  noblest  qualities  of  birth  and  place; 
Which,  like  infectious  blood,  transmitted,  run 
In  one  eternal  stream  from  sire  to  son. 

If,  in  destructive  play,  the  senior  waste 
His  joyous  nights,  the  child,  with  kindred  taste, 
Repeats  in  miniature  the  darling  vice, 
Shakes  the  small  box,  and  cogs  the  little  dice. 

Nor  does  that  infant  fairer  hopes  inspire, 
Who,  train'd  by  the  gray  epicure,  his  sire, 
Has  learn'd  to  pickle  mushrooms,  and,  like  him, 
To  souse  the  beccaficos,  till  they  swim  ! 
For  take  him  thus  to  early  luxury  bred, 
Ere  twice  four  springs  have  blossom'd  o'er  his 

head, 

And  let  ten  thousand  teachers,  hoar  with  age, 
Inculcate  temperance  from  the  stoic  page ; 
His  wish  will  ever  be  in  state  to  dine, 
Aud  keep  his  kitchen's  honour  from  decline! 

So  Nature  prompts;  drawn  by  her  secret  tie, 
We  view  a  parent's  deeds  with  reverent  eye, 
With  fatal  haste,  alas !  the  example  take, 
And  love  the  sin  for  the  dear  sinner's  sake. 
One  youth,  perhaps,  form'd  of  superior  clay, 
And  warni'd  by  Titan  with  a  purer  ray, 
May  dare  to  slight  proximity  of  blood, 
And,  in  despite  of  Nature,  to  be  good  : 
One  youth — the  rest  the  beaten  pathway  tread, 
And  blindly  follow  where  their  fathers  led. 
O  fata)  guide-*!  this  reason  should  suffice, 
To  win  you  from  the  slippery  route  of  vice, 
This  powerful  reason;  lest  your  sons  pur-ue 
The  guilty  track,  thus  plainly  mark'd  by  you! 
For  youth  is  facile,  and  its  yielding  will 
Receives  with  fatal  ease  tin-  imprint  of  ill : 
Hence  Catilines  in  every  clime  abound  ; 
But  where  are  Cato  and  his  nephew  found  ? 

Swill   from   the  roof  where  youth,   Fuscinus, 

dwell, 

Immodest  sights,  immodest  sounds,  expel; 
THE  PLACE  is  SACRED  :  Far,  far  hence,  remove, 
Ye  venal  votaries  of  illicit  love! 


*  Heathenism  could  offer  no  sufficient  inducement  to 
repentance,  and  therefore,  the  mind  once  engaged  in  sin, 
\v.is  for  ever  enslaved  to  it.— Juvenal,  though  uninflu- 
enced by  the  faith  of  Christianity,  had  lieen  clearly, 
though  unconsciously,  benefited  by  its  precepts  and  ex- 
amples. 


Ye  dangerous  knaves,  who  pander  to  be  fed, 
And  sell  yourselves  to  infamy  for  bread, 
REVERENCE  TO  CHILDREN,  AS  TO  HEAVEN,  is  DUB  : 
When  you  would,  then,  some  darling  sin  pursue, 
Think  that  your  infant  offspring  eyes  the  deed, 
And  let  the  thought  abate  your  guilty  speed : 
Back  from  the  headlong  steep  your  steps  entice, 
And  check  you,  tottering  on  the  verge  of  vice. 
O  yet  reflect!  for  should  he  e'er  provoke, 
In  riper  age  the  law's  avenging  stroke, 
(Since  not  alone  in  person  and  in  face, 
But  e'en  in  morals  he  will  prove  his  race, 
And,  while  example  acts  with  fatal  force, 
Side,  nay,  outstrip  you,  in  the  vicious  course) 
Vex'd,  you  will  rave  and  storm :  perhaps  prepare, 
Should  threat'ning  fail,  to  name  another  heir ! 
— Audacious !  with  what  front  do  you  aspire 
To  exercise  the  license  of  a  sire, 
When  all  with  rising  indignation  view 
The  youth  in  turpitude  surpass'd  by  you? 

Is  there  a  guest  expected  ?  all  is  haste, 
All  hurry  in  the  house,  from  first  to  last. 
"  Sweep  the  dry  cobwebs  down !"  the  master  cries, 
Whips  in  his  hand,  and  fury  in  his  eyes — 
"Let  not  a  spot  the  clouded  columns  stain; 
Scour  you  the  figur'd  silver,  you  the  plain !" 

0,  inconsistent  wretch!  is  all  this  coil, 
Lest  the  front  hall  or  gallery,  daub'd  with  soil, 
(Which  yet  a  little  sand  removes,)  offend 
The  prying  eye  of  some  indifferent  friend? 
And  do  you  stir  not,  that  your  son  may  see 
The  house  from  moral  filth,  from  vices  free  ? 

True,  you  have  given  a  citizen  to  Rome ; 
And  she  shall  thank  you,  if  the  youth  become, 
By  your  o'er-ruling  care,  or  soon,  or  late, 
A  useful  member  of  the  parent  state  : 
For  all  depends  on  you;  the  stamp  he'll  take 
From  the  strong  impress  which  at  first  you  make ; 
And  prove,  as  vice  or  virtue  was  your  aim, 
His  country's  glory,  or  his  country's  shame. 

But  youth,  so  prone  to  follow  other  ills, 
And  driven  to  AVARICE,  against  their  wills, 
For  this  grave  vice  assuming  Virtue's  guise, 
Seems  Virtue's  self  to  undiscerning  eyes. 
The  miser,  hence,  a  frugal  man  they  name, 
And  hence  they  follow  with  their  whole  acclaim, 
The   griping  wretch,  who   strictlier  guards  his 

store, 

Than  if  the  Hesperian  dragon  kept  the  door. 
Add  that  the  vulgar,  still  a  slave  to  gold, 
The  worthy,  in  the  wealthy  man  behold; 
And.  reasoning  from  the  fortune  he  has  made, 
Hail  him  a  perfect  master  of  his  trade  ! 
And  true,  indeed,  it  is — such  MASTERS  raise 
Immense  estates;  no  matter  by  what  ways; 
But  raise  they  do,  with  brows  in  sweat  still  dyed, 
With  forge  still  glowing,  and  with  sledge  still 

plied. 

The  father,  by  the  love  of  wealth  possest, 
Convinced—the  covetous  alone  are  blest, 
And  that,  nor  past,  nor  present  times,  e'er  knew 
A  poor  man  happy. — bids  his  son  pursue 
The  paths  they  take,  the  courses  they  affect, 
And  follow,  at  the  heels,  this  thriving  sect. 


526 


JUVENAL. 


But  why  this  dire  avidity  of  gain  ? 

This  mass  collected  with  such  toil  and  pain? 

Since  'tis  the  veriest  madness  to  live  poor, 

And  die  with  bags  and  coffers  running  o'er. 

Besides,  while  thus  the  streams  of  affluence  roll, 

They  nurse  the  eternal  dropsy  of  the  soul. 

For  thirst  of  wealth  still  grows  with  wealth  in- 

creast, 
And  they  desire  it  less,  who  have  it  least. 

None  sin  by  rule :  none  heed  the  charge  precise, 

THUS,  AND  NO  FURTHER,  MAT    TE   STEP  IN  VICE  ; 

But  leap  the  bounds  prescribed,  and  with  free 

pace, 

Scour  far  and  wide  the  interdicted  space  ; 
So  when  you  tell  the  youth  that  FOOLS  alone 
Regard  a  friend's  distresses  as  their  own, 
You  bid  the  willing  hearer  riches  raise, 
By  fraud,  by  rapine,  by  the  worst  of  ways ; 
Riches,  whose  love  is  on  your  soul  imprest, 
Deep  as  their  country's  on  the  Decii's  breast. 
But  mark  the  end  !  the  fire,  derived  at  first 
From  a  small  sparkle,  by  your  folly  nurs'd, 
Blown  to  a  flame,  on  all  around  it  preys, 
And  wraps  you  in  the  universal  blaze. — 
So  the  young  lion  rent,  with  hideous  roar, 
His  keeper's  trembling  limbs,  and thank  his  gore. 

See  every  harbour  throng'd,  and  every  bay, 
And  half  mankind  upon  the  watery  way! 
For,  where  he  hears  the  attractive  voice  of  gain, 
The  merchant  hurries,  and  defies  the  main. — 
Nor  will  he  only  range  the  Libyan  shore, 
But,  passing  Calpe,  other  worlds  explore; 
And  all  for  what?  0  glorious  end  !  to  come, 
His  toils  o'erpast,  with  purse  replenish'd,  home, 
And,  with  a  traveller's  privilege,  vent  his  boasts 
Of  unknown  monsters  seen  on  unknown  coasts. 
What  varying  forms  in  madness  may  we  trace  ! 
Safe  in  his  lov'd  Electra's  fond  embrace, 
Orestes  sees  the  avenging  Furies  rise, 
And  flash  their  bloody  torches  in  his  eyes  ; 
While  Ajax  strikes  an  ox,  and,  at  the  blow, 
Hears  Agamemnon  or  Ulysses  low  : 
And  scarcely  he,  (though  haply  he  forbear, 
Like  these,  his  keeper  and  his  clothes  to  tear) 
Is  just  as  mad,  who,  to  the  water's  brim 
Loads  his  frail  bark — a  plank  'twixt  death  and 

him  ! 

When  all  this  risk  is  but  to  swell  his  store 
With  a  few  coins,  a  few  gold  pieces  more. 

Wealth  by  such  dangers  earu'd,  such  anxious 

pain, 

Requires  more  care  to  keep  it  than  to  gain : 
Whate'er  my  miseries,  make  me  not,  kind  Fate, 
The  sleepless  Argus  of  a  vast  estate  ! 
The  slaves  of  Licinus,  a  numerous  band, 
Watch  through  the  night,  with  buckets  in  their 

hand, 

While  their  rich  master  trembling  lies,  afraid 
Lest  fire  his  ivory,  amber,  gold,  invade. 
The  naked  Cynic  mocks  such  restless  cares, 
His  earthen  tub  no  conflagration  fears ; 
If  crack'd,  to-morrow  he  procures  a  new, 
Or  coarsely  soldering,  makes  the  old  one  do. 


Even  Philip's  son,  when  in  his  little  cell, 
Content,  he  saw  the  mighty  master  dwell  ; 
Own'd,  with  a  sigh,  that  he  who  nought  desired, 
Was  happier  far  than  he  who  worlds  required, 
And  whose  ambition  certain  dangers  brought, 
Vast  and  unbounded  as  the  object  sought. 
Fortune,  advanced  to  heaven  by  fools  alone, 
Would  lose,  were  wisdom  ours,  her   shadowy 

throne. 

"What  call  I,  then,  ENOUGH?"  What  will  afford 
A  decent  habit,  and  a  frugal  board ; 
What  Epicurus'  little  garden  bore, 
And  Socrates  sufficient  thought  before  : 
These  squared  by  Nature's  rules  their  blameless 

life- 
Nature  and  wisdom  never  are  at  strife. 

FROM  SATIRE  XV. THE  ORIGIN  OF  CIVIL  SOCIETY. 

NATURE,  who  gave  us  tears,  by  that  alone 
Proclaims  she  made  the  feeling  heart  our  own; 
And  'tis  her  noblest  boon  : — This  bids  us  fly 
To  wipe  the  drops  from  sorrowing  friendship's 

eye, 

Sorrowing  ourselves  ;  to  wail  the  prisoner's  state, 
And  sympathize  in  the  wrong'd  orphan's  fate, 
Compel) 'd  his  treacherous  guardian  to  accuse, 
While  many  a  shower  his  blooming  cheek  be- 
dews, 
And,   through   his    scatter'd    tresses    wet  with 

tears, 

A  doubtful  face,  or  boy's  or  girl's,  appears. 
As  Nature  bids,  we  sigh  when  some  bright  maid 
Is,  ere  her  spousals,  to  the  pyre  convey'd ; 
Some  babe,  by  fate's  inexorable  doom, 
Just  shown  on  earth,  and  hurried  to  the  tomb. 
For  who,  that  to  the  sanctity  aspires, 
Which  Ceres  for  her  mystic  torch  requires, 
Feels  not  another's  woes?   This  marks  our  birth, 
The  great  distinction  from  the  beasts  of  earth ! 
And,  therefore, — gifted  with  superior  powers, 
And  capable  of  things  divine, — 'tis  ours 
To  learn  and  practise  every  useful  art, 
And  from  high  heaven  deduce  that  better  part, 
That  moral  sense,  denied  to  creatures  prone, 
And  downward  bent,  and  found  with  Man  alone  ! 
For  He,  who  gave  this  vast  machine  to  roll, 
Breathed  LIFE  in  them,  in  us  a  REASONING  SOUL; 
That  kindred  feelings  might  our  state  improve, 
And  mutual  wants  conduct  to  mutual  love  ; 
Woo  to  one  spot  the  scatter'd  hordes  of  men 
From  their  old  forest  and  paternal  den  ; 
Raise  the  fair  dome,  extend  the  social  line, 
And  to  our  mansion  those  of  others  join, 
Join,  too,  our  faith,  our  confidence,  to  theirs, 
And  sleep,  relying  on  the  general  cares : — 
In  war,  that  each  to  each  support  might  lend, 
When  wounded,  succour,  and  when  fall'n,  de- 
fend; 

At  the  same  trumpet's  clangour  rush  to  arms, 
By  the  same  walls  be  shelter'd  from  alarms, 
Near  the  same  tower  the  foe's  incursions  wait, 
And  trust  their  safety  to  one  common  gate. 
— But  serpents  now  more  links  of  concord  bind; 
The  cruel  leopard  spares  the  spotted  kind  ; 
No  lion  spills  a  weaker  lion's  gore, 
No  boar  expires  beneath  a  stronger  boar ; 


CLAUDIAN. 


527 


In  leagues  of  friendship  tigers  roam  the  plain,      |  On  that  dire  anvil,  where  primeval  skill 


And  bears  with  bears  perpetual  peace  maintain. 
While  Man,  alas!  flesh'd  in  the  dreadful  trade, 
Forges  without  remorse  the  murderous  blade, 


As  yet  untaught  a  brother's  blood  to  spill, 
Wrought  only  what  meek  Nature  would  allow, 
Goads  for  the  ox,  and  coulters  for  the  plough. 


CLAUDIAN. 


[Born  about  363,  A.  D.] 


CLAUDIUS  CLAUDIAWUS  is  believed  to  have 
been  born  at  Alexandria,  in  Egypt.  He  came 
to  Rome  in  the  reign  of  Theodosius  the  Great, 
and  by  his  talents  and  accomplishments  quickly 
gained  admission  into  the  first  society  of  that 
mighty  metropolis.  From  the  inscription  on  a 
marble  pedestal  dug  up  near  Trajan's  forum,  in 
1493,  it  appears  that  he  was  a  military  tribune 
and  state  secretary  under  Arcadius  and  Hono- 
rius,  and  stood  so  high  in  their  favour  as  to  have 
had  a  statue  erected  to  his  honour  by  those 


princes.  By  the  good  offices  of  the  Princess  Se- 
rena, the  daughter  of  Theodosius  and  wife  of  his 
favourite  hero,  Stilicho,  the  Goth,  Claudian  was 
married  to  an  African  lady  of  distinction  and 
fortune. 

Though  deficient  in  judgment  and  taste,  Clau- 
dian was  undoubtedly  a  man  of  genius  ;  he  has 
a  gay  fancy,  shows  occasionally  a  command  of 
agreeable  imagery,  and,  had  he  lived  in  earlier 
and  better  times,  would,  in  all  probability,  have 
proved  a  greater  and  more  pleasing  poet. 


THE  PHCENIX. 

BEYOND  the  Ind  and  Orient  blooms  a  wood 
Wash'd  by  the  verge  of  ocean's  farthest  flood: 
On  the  green  grove  the  coursers  of  the  sun 
First  snorting  breathe,  or  on  their  race  they  run: 
There   first    his   golden  scourge  the   dew-drops 

flings 

When  to  the  pearly  car  the  portal  rings: 
Whence   Day  locks  blushing    forth;    and   wan- 
faced  Night 
Shrinks  from  the  whirling  wheels  that  blaze  with 

light  ; 

Feels  the  warm  breath  upon  her  visage  blow, 
And,  gathering  up  her  robe,  is  seen  to  vanish 

slo\V. 

Here,  far  too  blot,  the  <..|;ir  l.ird  sublime 
Dwells,  >:ife-i-iili.p-.iin'd  in  the  burning  clime : 
lli<  lonely  reign,  untoueh'd  by  birds  that  fly, 
Or  l»c;i>t.s  that  ereep  in  j'niil  mortality: 

iVoin  the  human  world's  contagious  breath, 
A  bird,  like  heavenly  l>eing<.  charm M  from  death. 
With  stars  endures  the  creature's  vivid  day  ; 
His  frame  renewM  ae6fl  Bgefl  wi-te  away. 
No  ripening  <laintie<  -ate  his  hungering  bill; 
Nor    with    slaked   thirst   In-    tastes    the    gushing 

rill: 

Nonrish'd  with  sunbeam?  and  the  ocean  spray, 
He  >ips  aerial  food,  and  drinks  the  day. 
Keen  from  his  eyes  the  secret  splendours  break: 
A  fiery  glory  reddens  round  his  beak  ; 
His  crested  head  a  sun-like  diadem  n 
Whose   plume's  red   light  the  parted  darkness 
clears : 


His  legs  are  ting'd  with  crimson's  Tyrian  dye, 
His  sweeping  wings  before  the  breezes  fly; 
Cerulean  colours  paint  their  feather'd  fold, 
Blue  as  a  flower,  and  rich  with  sprinkled  gold. 
From  no  seed  quieken'd.  no  conception's  fire, 
Son  to  himself,  and  of  himself  the  sire: 
His  life-worn  body  vegetates  in  death  : 
Alternate  funerals  teem  with  vital  breath. 
When    thousand    summers    have    their    circuit 

wound, 
Winters  rush'd  by,  and  springs  absolved  their 

round ; 

Restoring  to  the  culture-loving  swain 
The  foliage  strew'd  by  autumn  on  the  plain; 
Weigh'd  down  by  years,  the  Phoenix    feels  at 

length 

The  numerous  lustres  pressing  on  his  strength : 
So  the  tall  pine-tree,  rock'd  by  many  a  gale, 
Stoops  from  the  Scythian  mountains  to  the  vale: 
Drawn  by  its  headlong  weight,  still  downward 

bends, 

And  tottering  to  a  fall,  in  air  impends: 
Bow'd  by  strong  whirlwinds,  riven  with  eating 

rains, 
Hollow'd  with  cankering  age,  it  topples  on  the 

plains. 

Now  droop  the  flamy  splendours  of  his  beak  : 
His   star  of  sight  frozen,  languid,   glazed,  and 

weak : 

As  when  the  moon  is  wrapt  in  misty  shades, 
And  with  her  doubtful  crescent  glimmering  fades. 
Those  wings,  that  soaring  clear'd   the  clouds  of 

air, 
Scarce  from  the  dust  their  lifted  plumage  bear. 


528 


CLATJDIAN. 


Then,  conscious  of  his  age  expir'd,  he  rears 
The  teeming  nest  of  his  reviving  /ears; 
From  mountains,  basking  in  the  sunny  blaze, 
Culls  the  parch'd  grasses,  and  the  arid  sprays ; 
Heaps  Saba's  leaves  and  cinnamon's  perfume, 
And  weaves  in  one  his  cradle  and  his  tomb. 
On  this  he  brooding  sits  ;  salutes  the  sun  ; 
And  shrill  implores,  while  faint  his  moments 

run: 
And  asks  with  suppliant  song  the  quickening 

flame, 

Whose  vital  strength  may  renovate  his  frame. 
Phoebus  discerns  his  foster-child  from  far, 
Consoles  the  pious  bird,  and  stays  his  car. 
"  Oh  thou !  whose  age  the  death-pile  shall  con- 
sume ; 

Whose  birth  from  that  illusive  grave  shall  bloom  ; 
Whose  expiration  yields  reviving  breath  ; 
Whose  youth   still  blossoms  from  the    dust  of 

death  ; 

Receive  new  birth;  thy  bloodless  frame  resign  ; 
And  rise  transform'd   with  shape   more  bright 

than  thine." 

He  spoke :  and,  from  his  bending  neck,  in  air 
Shook  one  bright  ringlet  of  his  golden  hair; 
And  smote  the  bird,  that  gasp'd  in  faint  desire, 
With  vital  brightness  of  infusing  fire. 
The  willing  bird  in  conflagration  dies, 
Parts  to  return,  and  setting  hastes  to  rise. 
The  fragrant  pile,  beneath  heaven's  darted  rays, 
Smokes,  and  the  aged  bird  consumes  within  the 

blaze. 

The  Moon  her  shining  heifers  checks  on  high, 
And  moveless  hang  the  axles  of  the  sky. 
Nature  with  terror  views  the  teeming  pyre 
Lest  her  eternal  bird  be  lost  in  tire ; 
And  warns  the  faithful  flames  to  yield  again 
The  glory  of  the  world,  the  bird  of  deathless 

strain. 

Through  the  strewn  parts  a  rolling  vapour  glows  : 
Warm  through  the  veins  the  blood  relapsing  flows : 
The  ashes,  panting  into  life,  are  stirr'd, 
And  plumage  clothes  the  embers  of  the  bird. 
The  sire  springs  forth,  regenerate  in  the  flame, 
Himself  the  son:  another,  and  the  same. 
The  fire  with  slender  bound 'ry  waves  between 
The    life    which   is,  and    that  which   late   has 

been. 

Straight  joys  the  bird  to  consecrate  the  pile, 
And  bear  the  father-ashes  to  the  Nile. 
Depositing,  on  Egypt's  Pharian  earth, 
The  spicy  heap  that  warm'd  him  into  birth. 
Swift  to  the  foreign  hemisphere  he  glides, 
Bearing  the  dust  which  twisted  herbage  hides: 
Innumerable  birds  his  flight  attend  ; 
Or,  as  he  flies,  their  balanc'd  wings  suspend  : 
From. tracks  of  air  a  feather'd  army  springs, 
And  throng  his  passage  with  a  cloud  of  wings. 
Of  all  their  thousands  none  advance  before, 
But,  as  their  guide,  the  fragrant  king  adore. 
Him  e'en  the  thunder-clasping  eagle  spares ; 
Awed  into  peace,  the  hawk  his  prey  forbears. 
So  where  the  Tigris  chafes  his  yellow  sands, 
The  Parthian  marshals  his  barbaric  bands: 
Glorying  in  rich  array,  and  many  a  gem, 
He  binds  his  brow  with  regal  diadem : 


His  foaming  courser  champs  the  bit  of  gold  ; 
The  purple  stains  his  garment's  trailing  fold; 
Assyrian  needles  flower  the  broider'd  vest; 
Proud  o'er  the  slavish  troops  he  lifts  his  haughty 

crest. 

A  solar  city,  famed  for  placid  rite 
Through  Egypt's  borders,  hails  the  Power  of  light. 
On  hundred  columns  propt  the  fane  reclines, 
Hewn    from    the    Theban    mountain's    granite 

mines  : 

Thither  the  bird  is  borne,  as  fame  has  told  ; 
There  lays  the  father-dust  which  herbs  infold  ; 
Bends  on  the  visage  of  the  sun  his  gaze, 
And  in  the  flame  his  spicy  burthen  lays; 
There  in  the  solar  altar's  hallowing  fire 
The  relics  of  himself,  and  seeds  of  life,  expire. 
With  clouds  of  myrrh  the  glimmering  temple 

breathes, 

And  heavenly  smoke  the  curling  altar  wreathes. 
Far  as  Pelusium's  lakes,  the  human  sense 
Is  thrill'd  with  fumes  of  Indie  frankincense: 
In  vapour  of  salubrious  fragrance  drown'd, 
Men  bless  the  mist  that  wraps  their  spii'its  round  : 
The  sable  tribes,  where  Nile's  branch'd  waters 

flow, 
Feel  gales  more  sweet  than  nectar  round  them 

blow. 

Heir  of  thyself!  still  ever  blessed  be! 
What  snaps  our  mortal    thread    is   strength   to 

thee. 

Thy  being  springs  from  ashes  and  from  fires ; 
And  life  in  thee  survives,  while  age  expires. 
Whate'er  has  been  thou  saw'st ;  and  ages  fly 
For  ever  rolling  to  thy  conscious  eye. 
Thou  know'st  when  ocean  heav'd  its  bursting 

flood, 

And  floating  rocks  beneath  the  waters  stood : 
Thou  know'st  what  year  along  th'  ethereal  way, 
Saw  Phaeton  in  blazing  error  stray : 
But  thee  Destruction  claims  not  as  her  own  : 
Earth  is  a  grave,  but  thou  survivest  alone : 
The  Fates  in  vain  would  spin  thy  mortal  hour ; 
For  thou  art  harmless,  and  defiest  their  power. 

THE  OLD  MAN  OF  VERONA. 

HAPPY  the  man  who  his  whole  time  doth  bound 
Within  th'  enclosure  of  his  little  ground  : 
Happy  the  man  whom  the  same  humble  place 
(Th'  hereditary  cottage  of  his  race) 
From  his  first  rising  infancy  has  known, 
And  by  degrees  sees  gently  bending  down, 
With  natural  propension  to  that  earth 
Which  both  preserv'd    his    life  and   gave   him 

birth. 

Him  no  false  distant  lights,  by  Fortune  set, 
Could  ever  into  foolish  wand'rings  get; 
He  never  dangers  either  saw  or  fear'd  ; 
The  dreadful  storms  at  sea  he  never  heard  : 
He  never  heard  the  shrill  alarms  of  war, 
Or  the  worse  noises  of  the  lawyer's  bar  : 
No  change  of  Consuls  marks  to  him  the  year ; 
The  change  of  seasons  is  his  calendar  : 
The  cold  and  heat  winter  and  summer  shows, 
Autumn   by    fruits,  and    spring   by  flow'rs,    ie 

knows : 


AUSONIUS. 


529 


He  measures  time  by  landmarks,  and  has  found 
For  the  whole  day  the  dial  of  his  ground  : 
A  neighb'ring  wood,  born  with  himself,  he  sees, 
A  nd  loves  his  old  contemporary  trees ; 
He's  only  heard  of  near  Verona's  name, 
And  knows  it,  like  the  Indies,  but  by  fame ; 


Does  with  a  like  concernment  notice  take 

Of  the  Red  Sea,  and  of  Benacus'  lake. 

Thus  health  and  strength  he  to  a  third  age  enjoys, 

And  sees  a  long  posterity  of  boys. 

About  the  spacious  world  let  others  roam, 

The  voyage,  life,  is  longest  made  at  home. 


AUSONIUS. 


[Born  m  the  early  part,  died  about  the  close,  of  the  fourth  century.  J 


*DECIMUS  MAOXUS  Ausoxius  was  the  son  of 
Julius  Ausonius,  an  eminent  physician  of  Gaul. 
He  was  born  at  Burdigala,  (now  Bourdeaux)  and 
at  the  age  of  thirty  filled  the  chair  of  rhetorical 
professor  in  that  city.  He  was  afterwards  ap- 
pointed by  Valentinian  preceptor  to  his  son 


Gratian,  and  attended  that  emperor  in  his  Ger- 
man campaigns.  Under  Gratian  he  was  raised 
to  the  consular  dignity,  and,  after  his  death,  re- 
tired into  his  own  country,  where  he  ended  his 
days.  By  his  wife,  Attusia  Lucana  Sabina,  he 
left  two  sons. 


ROSES. 

Twas  spring;  the  morn  return'd  in  saffron  veil, 

And  breathed  a  nipping  coolness  in  the  gale. 

A  keener  air  had  harbinger'd  the  dawn, 

That  drove  her  coursers  o'er  the  eastern  lawn. 

The  breezy  cool  allured  my  feet  to  stray, 

Ami  thus  anticipate  the  fervid  day. 

Through    the    broad   walks  I   trod  the   garden 
bowers, 

And  roam'd,  refresh'd  against  the  noontide  hours. 

I  saw  the  hoary  dew's  congealing  drops 

.Bend  the  tall  grass  and  vegetable  tops; 

On  the  broad  leaves  play'd  bright  the  trembling 
gems, 

And  airy  waters  bow'd  the  laden  stems. 

There  Ptestan  roses  blush'd  before  my  \ 

Bedrop'd  with  early  morning's  freshening  dew; 

The  sprinkled  pearls  on  every  rose-bush  lay, 

Anon  to  melt  before  the  beams  of  d:i y. 

Twere  doubtful,  if  the  blossoms  of  the  rose 

robb'd  the  morning,  or  the  morning  those — 

In  dew,  in  tint,  the  same,  the  star  and  flowrr. 

For  both  confess  the  queen  of  !>••  ^er. 

Perchance  their  sweets  the  same  :  but  this  more 
nigh 

Exhales  its  breath  ;  arid  that  embalms  the  sky: 

Of  HnwtT  and  star  tin'  i^ddess  is  the  same, 

And  lx)th  she  tinged  with  hues  of  roseate  flame. 

I  saw  a  moment's  interval  divide 

The    rose  that   blossom'd,    from   the    rose   that 
died. 

This,  with  the  cap  of  tufted  moss  look'd  green; 

That,  tipp'd  with  reddening  purple  peep'd  be- 
tween : 

One  rear'd  its  obelisk  with  opening  swell, 

The  bud  unsheathed  its  crimson  pinnacle  ; 
67 


Another,  gathering  every  purfled  fold, 
Its  foliage  multiplied;  its  blooms  unrolTd; 
The  teeming  chives  shot  forth  ;  the  petals  spread, 
The  bow-pot's  gl^y  rear'd  its  smiling  head : 
While  this,  that  ere  the  passing  moment  flew, 
Flam'd  forth  one  blaze  of  scarlet  on  the  view ; 
Now  shook  from  withering  stalk  the  waste  per- 
fume, 

Its  verdure  stript,  and  pale  its  faded  bloom. 
I  marvell'd  at  the  spoiling  flight  of  time, 
That  roses  thus  grew  old  in  earliest  prime. 
E'en  while  I   speak,  the   crimson  leaves  drop 

round. 

And  a  red  brightness  veils  the  blushing  ground. 
These  forms,  these  births,  these  changes,  bloom, 

decay, 

Appear  and  vanish,  in  the  self-same  day. 
The  flower's  brief  grace,  oh  Nature !  moves  my 

sighs, 

Thy  gifts,  just  shown,  are  ravish  1d  from  our  eyes. 
One  day,  the  rose's  age;  and  while  it  blows 
In  dawn  of  youth,  it  withers  to  its  close. 
The  rose  the  glittering  sun  beheld,  at  morn, 
Spread  to  the  light  its  blossoms  newly  born, 
When  in  his  round  he  looks  from  evening  skies, 
Already  droops  in  age,  and  fades,  and  dies. 
Yet  blest,  that,  soon  to  fade,  the  numerous  flower 
Succeeds  herself,  and  still  prolongs  her  hour. 
Oh  virgins!  roses  cull,  while  yet  ye  may: 
So  bloom  your  hours,  and  so  shall  haste  away. 

ON  A  SHIPWRECKED  FRIEND. 

IP,  mouldering  far  o'er  distant  seas, 
The  unburied  corse  is  doomed  to  lie, 

Yet  may  some  pious  rites  appease 
The  spirit  sadly  wandering  by. 
2U 


530 


AVIENUS. 


Call'd  by  a  friend's  or  brother's  voice, 
And  honour'd  with  an  empty  pile, 

Yet  may  the  weary  ghost  rejoice, 
And  grace  our  orgies  with  a  smile. 


Though  to  the  funeral  urn  denied, 
Thus  shall  his  ashes  rest  in  peace ; 

"And  every  sad  complaint  subside, 
And  every  mournful  murmur  cease." 


AVIENUS. 


[Flourished  380,  A.  D.] 


OF  RUFUS  FESTTTS  AVIENUS  we  know  little 
more  than  that  he  translated  Aratus  and  Diony- 
sius  Periegetes,  paraphrased  the  decads  of  Livy, 


and  was  the  author  of  some  Apologues,  dedi- 
cated to  Theodosius  the  elder,  the  father  of  Ho- 
norius. 


THE  OAK  AND  THE  REED. 
FROM  mountain  summits,  by  the  roots  uptorn, 
Down  rush'd  an  oak,  on  madding  whirlwind 

borne ; 

A  stream,  that  wound  beneath  its  swelling  course, 
Receiv'd,  and,  hurrying,  snatch'd  with  eddying 

force. 

Impell'd  from  bank  to  bank,  the  ponderous  freight 
Now  on  a  bed  of  reeds  repos'<Pits  weight ; 
And,  clinging  to  a  turf  that  edged  the  flood, 
Admired,  how  firm  the  watery  bulrush  stood: 
That  his  vast  trunk  should  topple  from  its  height, 
And  the  slim  stem  resist  the  tempest's  might. 
The  reed  with  slender  whisperings  bland  replies, 
"In  this  my  weakness,  know,  my  safety  lies. 
Thou  scorn'st  the  storm  and  buffetest  the  blast, 
And  thy  whole  strength  to  earth  is  prostrate  cast ; 
I,  soft  and  slow,  the  rising  gusts  delay, 
And,  provident,  give  every  gale  its  way. 
The  blast,  that  smites  thy  gnarled  strength,  but 

plies 

With  my  light  motions,  dallies,  sports,  and  dies." 
Brunt  not  events,  these  whispered  warnings  say, 
Stern  Fortune's  threats  shall  soften  from  delay. 


ON  A  QUIET  LIFE. 

SMALL  fields  are  mine ;  a  small  and  guiltless  rent ; 
In  both  I  prize  the  quiet  of  content. 


My  mind  maintains   its  peace  ;    from  feverish 

dread 

Secure,  and  fear  of  crimes,  that  sloth  has  bred. 
Others  let  toilsome  camps  or  curule  chairs 
Invite,  and  joys  which  vain  ambition  shares. 
May  I,  my  lot  among  the  people  thrown, 
The  badge  of  rank  unsought  for  and  unknown, 
Live  to  myself,  and  call  my  time  mine  own. 


COUNTRY  RETIREMENT. 

SAFE-BOOF'D   my  cottage ;    swelling  rich   with 

wine 

Hangs  from  the  twisted  elm  my  cluster'd  vine. 
Boughs   glow  with   cherries,  apples   bend  my 

wood; 

And  the  crush'd  olive  foams  with  juicy  flood. 
Where  my  light  beds  the  scattering  rivulet  drink, 
My  simple  pot-herbs  flourish  on  the  brink  ; 
And  poppies  smiling  wave  the  rosy  head, 
That  yield  no  opiate  to  a  restless  bed. 
If  for  the  birds  I  weave  the  limed  snare, 
Or  for  the  startlish  deer  the  net  prepare, 
Or  with  a  slender  thread  the  fish  delude, 
No  other  wiles  disturb  these  woodlands  rude. 
Go  now,  and  barter  life's  calm  stealing  days 
For  pompous  suppers,  that  with  luxury  blaze : 
Pray  Heaven !  for  me  the  lot  may  thus  be  cast, 
And  future  time  glide  peaceful  as  the  past. 


THE  END. 


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• 

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JAN  9     961 

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MAR  11  194 

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$7    '^ 

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FEB  12    1943 

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FEB     10  1945 
^ 

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2iNoV48  EC 

.26Feb'5IWFC 

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